In the stillness of the town square, even the birds had stopped singing their songs, feeling the tension in the air. They crouched in clusters on the houses along the street, peering intently at the town square behind shuttered windows and closed doors. The moment the first glimmer of torchlight showed on the horizon, they would scatter into concealment with hardly a whisper of feathers, never letting out another sound until dawn. Their absence today was almost reassuring. At least this uncanny silence was pierced only by the distant cries of the cicadas. This town's citizens needed no other noise at the time, nothing except their own frantic breaths.
A man stood alone at the gate to the town hall, leaning on his spear and staring into space. His eyes were wide open and unblinking. He wasn’t looking at anything, just staring blankly, as if he could see through the gates into the darkness beyond. His face was serious and hard to read. The night wind blew by, messing with his hair, and the air carried a strong, unpleasant smell of death that anyone nearby could smell. Then, he heard something and turned his head toward the noise.
Down the winding cobblestone street, a group of black-clad figures, their faces concealed behind gruesome beaked plague masks, walked with deliberate care. Their billowing long robes flowed behind them, and their gloved hands clutched the limbs of a body between them. The body was dead, its pale and mottled skin bearing the unmistakable marks of the sickness. It had been left on the ground like all the rest that had died from the illness. Their trip had served no other function but to guarantee that the body would be disposed of in the same manner as all bodies from the diseased—destroyed. One of the men gazed up unexpectedly, focusing their gaze on that of the sentinel, and he cringed, moving back involuntarily a pace.
He didn't know who or what they were, but he knew he better not interfere with them. Swishing their dark robes aside, the men proceeded past, heading on down the road. They left nothing behind but the smell of the rotten body. The silence on the street was almost suffocating, broken only by the soft yet unsettling sounds of the footsteps. The cobblestones beneath their feet seemed to hum, the noise of every step magnified as if the ground itself grieved for what had happened to the village.
They approached the old warehouse, a dilapidated building that had originally been used as a grain and tool storage facility but had been out of use for years. Now, it was a death place—a place where bodies could be dumped without the public being able to view the carnage. The door creaked as they opened it, the noise harsh and biting in the dead of night. Inside, the air was heavy with dust and the residue of old, forgotten work. The air was filled with the scent of mildew, but also another one—something that had become increasingly common in the village. The smell of death. The scent of bodies. This lingered here as well, the reek so thick it was hard to breathe.
With grim determination, the two figures pulled the body in. They laid it down with professional ease, without hesitation. They had done it so many times before, and it had become a routine. The death of the infected, the disposal of their bodies, all part of the cycle that had become endless now. The two figures stood there, looking over the body and the rest of the room in silence. The only light remaining came from the torches on the wall, lighting up every nook and cranny of the room.
One of the men went to a barrel that was centered in the warehouse, a barrel that contained the oil that would soon be used to burn the body. The fluid sloshed as it was poured onto the dead body, and the bitter smell of burning oil combined with the putrid smell of disease. There was no time for ritual, no time for mourning. The plague had taken too many lives to waste anything other than speed.
With a flick of a match, the body was set alight.
Flames leapt up, wanting to devour the flesh, tasting the air with hungry licks. The noise of burning skin crackled out into the space, and heat from the blaze soon filled the room. The figures remained motionless, their masked faces reflecting the flickering orange glow of the flames. The corpse burned gradually in the beginning, but soon enough the fire gained a fierce grip, and within seconds it was just a pile of burned-up remains. When the flames consumed the very last vestige of life within the corpse, both of them sighed with relief. The final evidence of the plague had been taken care of. The smell was overwhelming—blood, charred flesh, and the acrid taste of rot hung in the air, blending with the reek of the smoke. It was nauseating, intolerable. Even the smell of death could never compare to the reek of rotting human flesh.
The figures didn't blink. They were used to all of it. The dead bodies of the infected—those who had died and were left behind—were no longer human. They were mere fuel for fire, their very existence reduced to cinders.
When the body had burned, the figures moved back into the shadows, their eyes concealed behind the dark lenses of their masks. They did not speak, nor did they glance back. The fire was their last performance for this evening. The warehouse, already thick with smoke, appeared to engulf the figures as they moved and disappeared into the darkness.
Outside, the wind was picking up, blowing the scent of the fire through the deserted streets. The city, dead as it was alive, was caught up in some deeper, darker destiny. As the fire consumed and the body turned to ash, it reminded one how far the village had sunk, how close it was to the brink of total collapse.
[Inside the Hall: The Council]
Deep in the walls of the village's great hall, where a previously merry din of voices and movement had now grown quiet, a council of people gathered. The hall was lit by the faint light of candles, their flames licking at the stagnant, heavy air. The dense stone walls exuded an oppressive stillness, the gravity of the situation weighing upon all those seated at the table. All members of the council appeared to be exhausted and haggard, as if they had gone months without sleep. But their eyes, dark and deep as they scanned their environment, showed some level of alertness to them. They were holding their breaths, as if they feared one misplaced action would break the tenuous peace that surrounded them.
Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.
The air in the room was thick, the burden of a millennium pressing down upon these five aged men. In a corner of the room, an old man sat hunched over, elbows on the table in front of him, fingers laced together. As if sensing someone watching him, he raised his eyes to gaze out the window to his left. Outside was the night sky, filled with a million shining stars, a field of stars spread out across infinity and darkness. The old man looked at them with great attention as if trying to find something, as if trying to find something that had been lost for eternity.
"Chief Arlen?" one of them called him, and he swiveled his head in their direction. He sat at the far end of the long, heavy wood table. His face was etched with the weight of leadership. His eyes were weary, shadowed from sleepless nights spent poring over maps and records, trying to find a solution to a problem that had no answer. His hair was as white as snow, but still grew far back of his ears. A smile crossed his lips for an instant, then vanished as soon as it appeared, replaced by a serious expression.
He glanced over at his side. Before them, in a semi-circle, sat five of his most reliable members—men and women who had been at his side from the earliest days of the epidemic. hey were the only ones left who still had the strength to continue. Among them, in the farthest corners of the table, sat two students—young and inexperienced but selected for their sharp minds and for being willing to attempt the impossible. The atmosphere in the room was tense with a sense of grim resignation, as if all of them understood that whatever was being planned this evening would be their final opportunity.
Arlen's voice cut through the silence, and its low pitch conveyed the seriousness of things.
"We are all aware of how bad things have gotten," he started, his eyes scanning the room. "The plague is not merely a sickness—it is a pestilence. And it moves more quickly than we can keep up with it. Entire families, entire districts have been wiped out. Next, the last of us will be dead. It's already too late for the majority of the town."
Helena, a woman of quick mind and the best one to discern the truth in a given situation, nodded. "We've witnessed the death toll mount in all directions. We can no longer hold it back, Chief. The quarantine efforts, the isolation—it all proves futile. People keep getting ill even before we can give them our cures."
Arlen's fingers clamped down on the tabletop. "But what if we can stop it? What if there's something out there, something we just haven't found?"
The others looked at each other nervously, their own faces reflecting the same fatigue. One of his most experienced and faithful members, Kora, leaned forward. "What are you saying, Chief? That there's some sort of miracle cure? After all we've attempted, you really believe we can find it?"
A silence filled the room, thick and heavy, as everyone waited for Arlen’s answer.
“I’m not suggesting miracles,” he said finally, his voice lowering. “I’m suggesting that there is one last hope. A cure so powerful, it can stop the plague in its tracks. It's called the Exilium Pill.”
The name of the Exilium Pill seemed to hang in the air, like a distant dream that no one had ever truly believed in. Everyone was quiet for a moment; the words had been thrown in the face of despair, and they found themselves unwilling to believe the news.
The Exilium Pill is a cryptic and nearly mythological medicine, rumored to possess the ability to heal the most devastating plague humanity has ever known. This tiny, glowing, rainbow-colored pill is rumored to be crafted using scarce alchemical materials that may be obtained only in the deepest, most secluded recesses of the world. Its outer coat emits a soft, otherworldly glow, as if containing the very essence of life and death within. The pill emits a soft, ethereal thrum in one's hand, like a pulse that seems to vibrate in the soul.
The Exilium Pill holds a nearly mythical legend: it is the only remedy to an epidemic that wreaks havoc among the population, inflicting unthinkably immense suffering. The plague itself does not relent, infecting with fever, rot, and insanity. The Exilium Pill promises a swift and complete recovery, stopping the illness in its tracks and restoring health to the infected.
It is said that the creator of it—an unknown man of unparalleled brilliance—never wrote down the formula, choosing instead to lock it away within his own mind. The man himself has disappeared long ago, leaving behind only the pill and no other record of his existence. And now, with the plague running wild, the Exilium Pill is the world's only savior.
The formula, which is claimed to be so complex that it cannot be understood, exists only in the alchemist's mind. Anyone who will try to replicate the cure has to pull out the formula out of his memory—a feat impossible to do, for the man is elusive and perhaps even lost in time. So the only way to be saved is to take hold of the Exilium Pill itself. It is the only and last dose, and it is certain that there is only one in the world.
The youngest of the group, Finn, the first student, looked up with wide eyes. “The Exilium Pill? But that’s just a legend, isn’t it? We’ve heard the stories....that it was created by alchemists long ago, but no one has ever found it.”
“There are whispers,” Arlen continued, his gaze hardening. “Whispers that it's real. We’ve spent months searching the records, but they’re incomplete. People who might know about it are too terrified to speak.”
Chief Arlen got up, went to the shelf, took the scroll down, and laid it on the table. There was a picture of the pill, with a prophecy inscribed, although it had faded over time.
"In the time when all hope has bled dry, when the plague consumes the hearts of men, one shall arise from the ashes to seek salvation. The cure shall lie in a pill, forged in secrecy, guarded by the mind of its maker. The world shall search far and wide, yet none shall find the formula, for it rests only in the brain of the one who created it. To save humanity, one must find the pill—its creation forever a mystery, its promise of life a fragile thread. There is but one, and it shall not be found again. The hour is near, and the time of reckoning will soon be at hand. Choose wisely, for the future of all rests upon the hands that claim it."
"But if it's true," Helena said, her tone crisp, "then why haven't we heard anything about it? Why isn't it common knowledge?"
"Because the Exilium Pill is lethal," Arlen said. "Its components are rare and hard to find. Some say it’s made from the blood of the plague itself, others claim it's made with things no one has ever dared to handle. But what we know for certain is that it's the only remedy. And it's our last hope."
The students glanced at each other. Enzo, the second student, spoke up hesitantly. "So, how do we even start looking for it? Where do we go? What if we don't find it?"
Arlen's eyes went soft as he faced them. "That is why I'm sending you two. You are young, clever. You can go where the rest of us cannot. This may be our only hope to end the plague."
Enzo clenched his fists in determination. "We will find it. We won't let the village die."
Finn, who had always seemed frail and unassuming, nodded heartily in agreement. "Right. We'll save the village. No matter how long it takes!"
A fleeting hint of a smile crossed Arlen's face for an instant. The room was quiet once again, the burden of their mission weighing heavy on their shoulders. The Exilium Pill—quite possibly the only cure remaining in a world that was fast losing time. With the city near the point of collapse, the search for the cure was their last hope to shift the balance.
"We depart at dawn," Arlen replied, his tone stern. "Get ready. Time's running out."
As the council members rose and dispersed, each one of them knew that the path ahead was uncertain, filled with danger and the very real possibility of failure. But it was a path they had no choice but to walk. The Exilium Pill—if it existed—was their last hope. And the fate of the village rested on their shoulders.