8: The Village, Part 3

"My spoon! I need my spoon!"

The man’s friends looked at each other, uncertain, their laughter thinning out as they noticed the red streaks crawling over his skin. The lines spread like veins of lava beneath the surface, darkening until they seemed to pulse with each beat of his heart.

"I need my spoon!" the man repeated, but his tone had shifted. It was no longer a casual complaint. His voice held a raw edge, as if the lack of a simple utensil had triggered something far deeper. His fists clenched, nails digging into his reddened palms, and his gaze darted between the fallen spoons and Henry.

"Uh, maybe we should all just... cool it for a second?" Henry suggested, hands raised. But his words barely registered; the man’s eyes were wide, glassy, as though he couldn’t see Henry—or anyone else—anymore.

Elara, floating above them, chuckled softly. "Cool it? Oh, darling, where’s the fun in that?” She twirled in the air, tossing a spoon his way. It bounced off his chest, but he didn’t react. Instead, his breaths grew ragged, shoulders shaking with an intensity that bordered on feral.

A friend of his took a cautious step back. "Mate, maybe you just need a rest. It’s just a spoon, after all," he offered, though his voice wavered.

The man whipped around, his feverish eyes narrowing. "Just a spoon? You don’t get it!" His voice was raw, trembling with suppressed rage. "Nothing tastes right without it. Nothing feels right!"

Henry’s pulse quickened, a prickle of worry seeping through him. He could feel the tension in the room thickening like smoke. Glancing up, he shot Elara a pleading look, hoping she’d see the seriousness of the moment.

But Elara only grinned wider, as if relishing the growing chaos. "Oh, Henry, don't go all hero-mode on me now. This place could use a little spice, don't you think?" She wagged her finger at him. "Besides, who’s to say Mr. Spoon-man here isn’t just hangry?”

"Elara," Henry muttered under his breath, feeling his stomach twist. "Maybe we should—"

Before he could finish, the man let out a guttural yell, his friends stumbling backward as he swiped at the empty air, his eyes rolling like he was trapped in some fever dream. Red streaks now marred his face, tendrils creeping up his neck, as if something within him was struggling to break free.

"Hey, hey!" Henry tried to approach, but the man recoiled, a look of pure terror flashing in his eyes. "I just want to help."

Elara hummed, clearly unfazed. "Help, he says. How gallant!" She flitted down, hovering between them, her blue curls bouncing. "If he’s too much trouble, Zayiera Jr., why not just—oh, I don’t know—knight him? Give him the Spoon of Glory or some nonsense."

"Elara!" Henry’s voice held an edge, surprising himself. He took a step back, his thoughts racing. The faint smell of decay lingered in the air, almost imperceptible at first but growing stronger with each moment.

"Sir," one of the man's friends stammered, looking desperately at Henry, "maybe... maybe it’s the plague."

Henry’s heart sank. The plague. He'd only heard rumors, vague descriptions of red markings, feverish behavior, and the dreadful, inevitable descent into madness. He hadn't seen it himself—not until now.

The man staggered back, his limbs jerking as if invisible strings controlled him. His gaze flickered, landing on Henry with sudden clarity, a spark of anger igniting his red-rimmed eyes. "You… you took my spoon." His voice was no longer his own; it was rough, animalistic, choked with something dark and unhinged.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

"I didn’t—" Henry barely managed to respond before the man lunged at him, hands outstretched, fingers clawing. Henry stumbled backward, heart pounding, while Elara hovered, watching with a look of intrigued amusement.

"Elara, do something!" he shouted, his voice tinged with panic.

Elara raised an eyebrow, as though considering it. "Fine, fine. What a party pooper." She snapped her fingers, and in an instant, a swarm of sparkling lights surrounded the man, briefly halting him in his tracks.

The man blinked, dazed, looking around as though he’d just awoken from a dream. But the red marks remained, spread like fire across his skin. His friends huddled together, eyes wide with horror, as whispers passed among the other patrons.

"Plague-bearer."

"Don’t go near him."

"Someone get the elder!" one of the men ran out of the inn, presumably leaving in search of the aforementioned elder.

The man’s breaths came in heaves, each one louder and more desperate. He looked down at his own hands, the once-familiar flesh now marred and foreign, before his gaze found Henry again. The anger returned, twisted by something beyond rage—a hunger.

Henry took a step back, throat dry. He glanced at Elara, who merely shrugged.

"That only made him angrier!"

"Well, I'm sorry! I'm a faerie, not a medicine woman!"

Henry's eyes darted around the room, his heart thundering as the man—possessed, wild-eyed, and twisted by whatever darkness the mists had unleashed—staggered closer. That gaze, hollowed and hungry, tugged at Henry’s memory, sending a jolt through him. This wasn’t some random monster. It was the same man who’d attacked him the previous day, now reduced to something inhuman, like a puppet controlled by something sinister.

A glint of silver flickered nearby, and he noticed Elara, apparently oblivious, examining a spoon in her hand as if it were the most fascinating object in the world.

“Elara!” Henry snapped, reaching for it. She blinked, eyes wide and gleeful.

“Oh, Henry!” she exclaimed, holding the spoon just out of reach. “Did you know, if you squint, this spoon looks exactly like a little spoony bard? I’ve named it Edward. Isn’t that splendid?”

"Isn't that the one you knighted me with?-- wait, I don't care."

Without waiting for her to finish her musings, Henry snatched the spoon, gripping its cool metal handle tightly.

“Hey!” Elara protested, watching him as if he’d just interrupted her grand adventure. “Edward was about to perform the Theme of Love.”

He didn’t answer, his focus narrowing onto the advancing man. A flicker of recognition and anger surged within him.

The man lunged, and Henry met him, the spoon held out like a makeshift dagger. For a split second, their eyes met, the man’s gaze narrowing on the utensil. The grotesque sneer on his face faltered, a hint of confusion breaking through his feral stare.

“You wanted a spoon?” Henry hissed, anger bubbling up hotter and sharper than he’d expected. “Fine. Take it.”

With a swift, desperate motion, he drove the spoon forward, aiming for the man’s shoulder. The strike didn’t break skin, but he put his full weight into it. The man let out a guttural growl, stumbling back.

“Edward! Oh, how brave!” Elara gasped, clasping her hands in mock horror. “My little silver friend, off to battle!”

The man barely seemed to register the pain, his hunger for Henry undimmed. It wasn’t about the spoon. It never had been. That ravenous look was aimed directly at him, something dark and twisted seeping from the man’s hollowed eyes.

Henry felt something within him shift, a dark anger rising up. A feeling that he was done waiting to be saved. No more helplessness.

With a fierce shout, he gripped the spoon tightly and struck again, driving it into the man’s shoulder. The man’s gaze flickered with doubt, a brief flash of something human in the monstrous stare, and he staggered back. Henry pressed forward, each jab a beat of his own defiance.

As the man slumped to the ground, dazed, Elara let out a delighted cheer. “Yes, yes! Go, Edward! The Prince of Damcyan triumphs again!”

Henry glanced back, breathing hard, the spoon still clutched in his hand. Elara’s eyes sparkled as she twirled in place, clearly thrilled by the absurdity of it all.

“Who knew you had such a flair for culinary weaponry?” she exclaimed, looking at him with pure, unfiltered excitement. “Henry, I think Edward has found his knight.”

He almost rolled his eyes, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, the bards will have a field day with this one,” she said, spinning on her heels. “They’ll call it…Edward’s Defiance Against the Shadowed Beast!”

Henry snorted, glancing down at the spoon. “Hope they skip the part where I had to wrestle it out of your hands first.”

Just then the Elder came into the room, with a pair of guards flanking him on both sides.