Chapter Six: Chasing Shadows

The search for a cure began the way all impossible quests do—with lies, dead ends, and empty promises.

I scoured the streets of every city I passed, listening to the whispers of desperate men and arrogant scholars. They all claimed to know something, to have heard of a legendary herb, a lost ritual, or a potion that could heal any affliction. But when pressed, their knowledge crumbled like ash in my hands.

"My grandmother once spoke of a flower that blooms only under a blood moon!""I heard of a healer deep in the mountains—he never fails!""The old alchemist in the south... they say he has the knowledge of the ancients!"

Lies. Folktales. Worthless.

The alchemists I visited demanded coin I didn't have. The healers scoffed at me, claiming the queen's illness was beyond their reach. Even the street witches—those who dabbled in magic best left alone—had nothing but superstition to offer.

No leads. No answers. No progress.

And worse than that, I was running out of time. I hadn't eaten in two days. My body ached from the cold. The streets were no place for someone with nothing, and I had nothing.

By nightfall, I found myself outside a tavern, watching as the last of the drunks stumbled out, the doors locking behind them. The warmth of the hearth called to me, but coinless beggars don't get warm beds.

So, I did what I had to.

I waited. Watched. And when the last lanterns were snuffed out and the innkeeper disappeared upstairs, I slipped through the side door, pressing myself into the shadows. The scent of ale and roasted meat still lingered in the air, mocking me. But hunger was nothing new.

I curled up behind a stack of barrels, hidden from sight. The tavern was silent, save for the occasional creak of wood settling in the night.

I would sleep here. Just for tonight. Just long enough to gather my strength.

Tomorrow, I would start again.