Chapter 12.Death Drifts Ashore

My P.O.V - Lion's Crest

Three days had passed.

I dreamt of Alverton again. The screams echoed through my skull, as vivid as the day it happened. Soldiers writhed in the mud, clutching at wounds that would never heal. Friends, brothers-in-arms, trampled beneath hooves, their skulls cracked open like ripe fruit. The Sami warriors swept through the battlefield like a tide of death, their curved blades glinting in the fading light. The stench of rotting flesh, the copper tang of blood in the air—I could feel it all as if I were still there.

I was suffocating.

I tried to move, to scream, but my body refused. My lungs burned, and my vision blurred.

Why can’t I just die?

Why do I deserve to live when they don’t?

Why am I cursed to remember?

I woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat, my chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. My fingers trembled as I reached for the cup of water beside my bed, downing it in one gulp. The room was dark, save for the faint moonlight slipping through the narrow window slits. My hands clenched into fists.

Enough.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood. Sleep would not come again—not tonight. I reached for my battle gear, pulling on my boots, buckling my sword belt. The cool leather against my skin was grounding, a familiar weight.

The fortress felt alive, even in the stillness of night. The distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed from the lower yards—repairs never ceased, even at this hour. I strode through the dim corridors, my footsteps light against the worn stone. Soldiers patrolled the halls, their armor clinking softly with each movement. Some straightened at my presence, offering respectful nods.

I returned their gestures in kind and made my way toward the outer walls.

Lion’s Crest stood like a guardian amidst the Drowning River, its foundations rooted deep in the rock beneath the rushing waters. The fortress was a marvel of both nature and engineering—a massive stronghold built atop a central island where the river forked. Thick stone walls rose high, wrapping around the stronghold like the coils of a serpent. The fort had endured countless battles, its scars evident in the jagged cracks along the parapets, the mismatched stone where repairs had been hastily made.

The river surrounding it was both a blessing and a curse. While it made the fortress nearly impossible to assault without boats or siege towers, it also limited our access to outside reinforcements. The only way in or out was by the great bridge leading to the western gate, a formidable structure reinforced with heavy chains and thick oak beams. If Eadric wanted to take Lion’s Crest, he would need to cross that bridge—or find another way to breach our defenses.

I ascended the ramparts, the night air crisp against my skin. From up here, I could see the surrounding landscape—the dark silhouettes of distant trees, the faint glow of torchlight flickering miles away.

My stomach twisted.

Eadric was out there. I knew it.

But where?

A sentry approached, bow in hand. "Milord," he said, saluting. "Still no sign of movement."

I nodded. "That doesn't mean they aren’t watching."

The soldier swallowed and turned back to his post, eyes scanning the darkness beyond the river.

I leaned against the battlements, my fingers curling around the cold stone. The waiting was the worst part. Battle, I could handle. War, I understood. But the silence? The unknown? It gnawed at my mind like a festering wound.

A gust of wind carried the scent of damp earth and steel. My gaze drifted to the river below. The waters rushed past the fortress in an endless current, their depths concealing whatever secrets lay beneath.

Somewhere in the night, an owl hooted. A distant wolf howled.

But no sign of Eadric’s army.

Not yet.

I turned to the gatehouse. The iron reinforcements had been checked and rechecked. Wooden barricades were stacked inside the gates, ready to be set ablaze if the enemy broke through. Along the walls, barrels of oil and crates of arrows were stocked, ready for what was to come.

It wouldn’t be enough.

I exhaled through my nose, my breath fogging in the chill air.

He’ s coming.

And when he did, there would be no turning back.

The cold night air settled over Lion’s Crest, its towering walls standing defiant against the encroaching darkness. The fortress had been my home for days, yet sleep still eluded me. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in Alverton—back among the dying. The screams, the scent of rotting flesh, the weight of failure pressing down on me like an iron gauntlet.

I shook the thought away and focused on the present. Standing atop the ramparts, I gazed out over the Drowning River, its inky waters reflecting the torchlight in jagged, restless patterns. Somewhere beyond those trees, beyond that river, Eadric and his forces were waiting.

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A sudden burst of hurried footsteps echoed behind me. I turned to see a guard approaching, breathless and tense. He saluted quickly, eyes shifting with unease.

“My lord,” he began, his voice hushed, as if afraid to disturb the night. “A body has been found. The river dragged it to the western wall.”

I frowned. A corpse? That meant someone had drowned upriver—or been thrown in. But from where? And why?

“Show me.”

The guard nodded and led the way down the stone steps. As I followed, a cold knot formed in my stomach. This could be anything—a lost scout, a deserter, or something far worse.

By the time we reached the western riverbank, a group of soldiers had already gathered, whispering among themselves. A small wooden boat was being prepared, its oars set in place, while two heavy knights stood watch, their massive steel-plated forms reflecting the firelight.

The body floated near the rocks, caught in a tangle of reeds, its armor barely visible beneath the filth. The water had bloated the corpse, distorting its features, making it something grotesque and unfamiliar.

I gestured toward the waiting soldiers. “Retrieve it.

They hesitated. One of the younger men, barely past twenty, shifted uncomfortably. His fingers tightened around the rope in his hands, but his feet remained planted where he stood. Another muttered a curse, eyeing the body like it might rise from the river at any moment.

“What are you waiting for?” I asked, my voice sharp.

The younger soldier swallowed hard before stepping forward, gripping the hooked pole with hesitant hands. He extended it toward the corpse, the tip barely brushing the bloated flesh. A shudder ran through him, and he recoiled.

“It’s... it’s not right, my lord,” he stammered. “Something’s wrong with it.”

I didn’t have patience for fear—not now. I strode forward, snatching the pole from his hands and hooking it beneath the body’s arm, pulling it toward the shore. The others flinched as the corpse lurched forward, waterlogged limbs dragging against the boat’s edge.

Then the stench hit us.

A thick, suffocating wave of rot and sickness, far worse than simple decay. I clenched my jaw as the men behind me gagged, one turning away to retch into the grass. Even the knights, hardened as they were, shifted uncomfortably.

We dragged the body aboard, the wooden planks creaking under the weight. In the flickering torchlight, I got my first proper look at the dead man’s face. His skin was sallow, stretched thin over his bones, his lips cracked and blackened. His eyes—those that remained—were sunken deep, rimmed with dried blood. His chest, where his armor had been loosened, revealed dark, weeping sores.

Realization hit me like a blade to the gut.

Consumption.

“Gods,” one of the soldiers whispered. “It’s the wasting sickness.”

I stood still, my thoughts racing. If this man had been sick before he died, how long had he been floating in the river? How far had the disease spread through the water?

And worse—was this a coincidence, or had someone sent him here on purpose

“Burn it,” I ordered, my voice firm. “Immediately. And get the men to wash their hands with whatever clean water we have left.”

The knights hesitated. One of them, a grizzled veteran, spoke. “And if it’s already in the river, my lord?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.

The real battle had already begun—and it wasn’t one we could fight with swords.

My P.O.V - Lion's Crest

The morning sun bathed Lion’s Crest in a false sense of peace, its golden light glistening off the Drowning River. But I knew better. The weight of the night’s discovery pressed against my chest like a vice.

I made my way toward Devran’s pavilion, my boots dragging slightly over the dirt. The guards outside nodded as I passed, though their gazes lingered on me with unease. News traveled fast in the fortress, and while I doubted they knew the full extent of the situation, they could sense something was wrong.

Inside the pavilion, the council had already gathered.

Devran sat at the head of the long table, his fingers drumming against the wood. His golden mane of hair, much like our father’s in his youth, looked more unkempt than usual. A sign of sleepless nights. Ser Lanselot stood beside him, silent and alert as always, his hand resting near the pommel of his sword. Across from them sat Prince Leo, lounging in his chair with an air of indifference, his fine velvet tunic unblemished, his boots kicked up against the edge of the table. Standing beside him was Ser Midryn, his sworn sword, mirroring his arrogance.

They turned as I entered. I took a steady breath.

“I found a body in the river last night,” I began, keeping my voice measured.

Leo scoffed, rolling his eyes. “And? Men die every day. We’re at war, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Ser Midryn let out a quiet chuckle. “Perhaps you want us to hold a funeral for the poor bastard? Shall we all weep for him?”

I ignored them, keeping my gaze locked on Devran. He at least would listen. “The body was infected.”

That caught his attention. His fingers stopped drumming. “Infected?” His brows furrowed. “With what?”

I swallowed. “Consumption.”

The room went deathly silent.

Even Leo’s smirk faltered. He sat up straighter, though he tried to mask his unease. “That’s not possible.” He waved a hand dismissively, though I noticed the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “It could have been anything. You’re not a healer.”

Ser Lanselot, ever the pragmatist, spoke next. “Are you certain?”

I nodded. “The body was pale, sunken. The lips blackened, the fingers stiff as stone. I’ve seen it before… in Alverton.” I clenched my fists as the memories clawed at me. “The river brought it here. That means more could come. That means it’s near.”

Devran ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Damn it.”

Leo crossed his arms. “So what? We burn the body and move on? This isn’t our concern.”

I turned to him, my voice calm but firm. “Not our concern? Do you think sickness respects walls? It will creep into the fortress, into our men. And when it does, no amount of steel will save you.”

Ser Midryn scoffed. “Then we keep the sick locked away. We are knights, not old women frightened of a cough.”

Ser Lanselot’s voice was cold. “You’ve never seen what consumption does, have you?”

Midryn hesitated for a half-second before sneering. “I don’t need to.”

Leo exhaled sharply. “So what do you suggest? That we flee the fortress over a single corpse?”

“No,” Devran interjected before I could respond. “But we take precautions. We burn the body immediately, and no one touches it directly. We make sure no one drinks from the river.”

I folded my arms. “I already burned the body.”

Devran gave a small nod of approval, but Leo let out an exasperated breath. “A little sickness won’t win Eadric the war.”

I turned to him, my voice low. “You’ll change your mind when your lungs start drowning you from the inside.”

Silence hung between us for a long moment. Leo, for once, had no retort.

Devran spoke next. “We can’t afford to take risks. What else?”

I hesitated, then stepped forward. “We need to send scouts. Not just any scouts—light and fast riders dressed as commoners. If this disease is spreading, we need to know how far it’s reached.”

Devran considered it. “And where do you propose we send them?”

“To the villages along the Drowning River. If the sickness is there, we’ll know soon enough.”

Ser Lanselot nodded in agreement. “A wise precaution. I’ll select the riders myself.”

Devran sighed. “Make it quick. I want reports within three days.”

I nodded, then another thought struck me—one I couldn’t ignore. Aria.

She needed to know.

But I wouldn’t scare her. I wouldn’t tell her the full details. Just enough to let her know something was wrong.

That night, as the fortress settled into uneasy silence, I sat at my desk, quill in hand, and wrote to my sister.

To My Dearest Sister,

I pray this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. It has been too long since I last wrote, and for that, I must apologize. Time is not something I have had much of lately, and even now, I write this in haste. But do not think, even for a moment, that I have forgotten you.

How are you, Aria? I trust you are safe within the walls of the capital, though I know how restless you must feel, kept away from all that unfolds beyond the city’s gates. I wish I could tell you more, but I do not want to trouble you with the weight of it. Just know that I am well, or as well as one can be in these times.

There is something I must tell you, though I do not wish to alarm you. A troubling matter has come to my attention, one not of swords and sieges but of something more insidious. I will not go into details—not yet—but I want you to be cautious. Take care of yourself, be mindful of those who fall ill, and, if you can, avoid those beyond the palace walls for the time being. I do not say this to frighten you, only to keep you aware.

You know I would not say such things lightly.

I hope Anna and the court is treating you well. I do not ask about her because I already know the answer. But you—you must keep your head high. Do not let her or anyone else dim the light in you.

I will write again when I can. Until then, take care of yourself, Aria. And if you ever find yourself standing by your window, looking toward the east, know that I am looking toward the west, and in that moment, we are not so far apart.

Your Brother,

Alaric

I then handed the letter to George, Aria’s and my personal rider, trusting him to deliver my words safely. He took it with a firm nod, his weathered hands steady despite the long road ahead of him.

“Ride swiftly, George,” I said, meeting his gaze. “But don’t push the horse too hard. I need you to reach her, not fall dead on the road.”

He smirked, tucking the letter into his satchel. “You doubt me, my lord? I’ve been riding these roads longer than you’ve held a sword.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “Then I trust this will be an easy task for you.”

He bowed slightly, tightening the straps on his horse. “I’ll see it done. And if the princess sends a reply?”

“Bring it to me at once,” I said. “No matter the hour.”

George climbed onto his horse, adjusting his cloak before looking back at me. “Then I take my leave, my lord. May the road be kind.”

“And may the gods watch over you,” I replied.

With a final nod, he nudged his horse forward, disappearing into the morning mist beyond the gates. I stood there for a moment, watching until he was nothing but a distant figure on the road. Then, with a deep breath, I turned back toward the camp. There was still much to do.

"A lion’s roar is loudest when it stands alone."

-Gulvian Proverbs