Chapter 31: The Direwolf Disease

The sound of metal being hammered rang out across the workshop as three people worked tirelessly, shaping white-hot steel.

At the center stood Velga, hammering a sword into shape for Druth's new prosthetic. It was one of the most challenging commissions she had ever accepted—the intricate internal gyroscope had consumed most of her time.

Suddenly, a scratch burned in her throat, and she coughed. Her hands kept striking the sword, but her grip faltered slightly.

A drop of red liquid splattered onto the heated metal, sizzling into steam. She blinked, her vision growing hazy, and instinctively wiped her mouth with her backside of the hand. Her eyes widened in confusion as she stared at her hand.

"Blo—Blood," she muttered weakly before her knees buckled falling to the ground. The heavy hammer slipped from her grip, landing on her palm and crushing her finger.

"Master! What happened?" one of the blacksmiths shouted, rushing to her side. He lifted her trembling form, panic etched into his face.

"Master, wake up!" he yelled, shaking her lightly.

"Lift her, Rundar!" the other blacksmith cried, helping his companion place Velga over his shoulder.

"Let's go to the Elixir Pavilion, Thragg," Rundar said, adjusting her limp body on his shoulder.

Without wasting time, they left the smithy. Thragg quickly grabbed a pouch of gold coins from the safe before following.

The streets of Brethus were bathed in the fading glow of sunset. The two blacksmiths hurried through the eastern district toward the pavilion—a three-story building run by three mages specializing in alchemy and physiology.

When they arrived, Rundar shoved the door open and placed Velga on one of the examination beds.

"Mage Fulcrum! Our master was working when she suddenly started coughing blood!" Thragg gasped, struggling to catch his breath.

The human mage, a man of around fifty-four years, wore a dark grey robe with silver lining. His sharp eyes widened in concern as he approached.

He placed his ear over Velga's chest, listening calmly to her weakening heartbeat.

"It's weak, but stable," he muttered.

Laying his fingers on her palm, Fulcrum released a weak current into her body. The magic spread through her nervous system, allowing him to visualize her internal state.

"Bad… very bad," the mage muttered, his expression grim.

He withdrew his hand, eyes narrowing.

"There's a growth in her lungs," Fulcrum explained. "It's preventing her from absorbing enough air, and it's also rupturing blood vessels, which caused the coughing."

Thragg's hands clenched into fists.

"So, what's the cure?" he demanded.

Fulcrum exhaled sharply.

"It's Direwolf Disease," he said grimly. "The growth feeds on healthy tissue, weakening the body over time. There is… no cure."

"There has to be something!" Rundar barked, his voice filled with desperation.

Fulcrum's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"There is no cure," he snapped. "I will prepare a tonic to ease her breathing, but it will only slow the symptoms, not cure them. And never—ever—raise your voice at me again."

Without another word, he turned and walked toward his alchemical room, leaving the blacksmiths trembling with frustration and fear.

"What should we tell Master when she wakes up?" Thragg asked as he slumped to the floor.

"There are other healers… they should be able to do something," Rundar said, sitting on the bed near Velga.

"No, no," Thragg shook his head. "None of them are as good as the mages of the Elixir Pavilion," he said, silently wiping a tear from his face.

"What about the ork? He told Master to come to him if she got worse. Maybe he can do something," Rundar said, thinking about Ghaz when he had come to their smithy to order alchemy items and prosthetics.

"An ork? You think an ork can heal her?" Thragg scoffed.

Rundar didn't reply and simply stayed quiet, waiting for Mage Fulcrum to return with the tonic.

Thragg and Rundar were just teenagers once, making common wares in their village and selling them to other tribes—humans, elves, orks, and beastkin alike.

It was Velga who had recognized their talent and brought them to Brethus City, helping them refine their craft.

New ores, new weapons, new techniques—even the clothes on their backs had been gifts from Velga.

Without her, they would have still been making shovels and pans in the village, oblivious to the outside world—like frogs at the bottom of a well.

Mage Fulcrum finally returned, carrying a vial of tonic and a bundle of bandages.

"Open her mouth," he instructed, setting the bandages down and holding the vial carefully with both hands.

Thragg held Velga's head steady while Rundar gently pried her mouth open.

Fulcrum slowly poured the tonic drop by drop, making sure she didn't suffocate on it.

He continued until the vial was empty.

"Lie her flat. She will wake up in around fifteen minutes," he said.

Thragg slowly lowered her onto the bed, arranging her comfortably.

Mage Fulcrum took her injured palm and inspected it.

"This would have been painful if she were awake, but since she's sleeping, it won't be an issue," Fulcrum said as he carefully arranged her hand.

He wrapped it with bandages soaked in a special herbal solution, ensuring the wound was properly dressed.

"She can work at the smithy… right?" Thragg asked nervously.

"Yes, but not until her palm properly heals," Mage Fulcrum replied as he packed the remaining bandages.

"Make sure she doesn't get the bandages wet and avoids turning her wrist or fingers too much."

"Yes, yes, Mage. What's the cost?" Thragg asked, reaching into his pocket.

"One silver coin for the diagnostic, two silver coins for the tonic, and two more silver coins for the herbal bandage," Fulcrum said, silently calculating the total.

"Yes, Mage," Thragg replied, pulling out six silver coins from his pouch.

He handed them to Fulcrum.

"For your troubles," he added softly.

Fulcrum gave a small, satisfied smile.

"Come back tomorrow. I'll give her something for the pain," he said, tucking the coins away.

"Will do," Thragg said with a low bow as Fulcrum left the room.

Now, Thragg and Rundar were left alone, sitting in tense silence.

Both of them were thinking the same thing—

Who would give her the bad news when she woke up?