A week. That was all it took for chaos to descend upon Faymere.
Being a border village, Faymere was no stranger to tension. Its defenses were solid with high stone walls, fortified gates, and a watch rotation tighter than a miser's purse. It was enough to stop a small fleet of soldiers.
But this time, the threat wasn't carrying swords. It was dragging itself on trembling legs, coughing blood, and begging for mercy.
The very gates that once welcomed merchants and wandering monks now stood locked.
On the other side were the desperate sick with purple veins curling beneath their skin like a curse.
No one knew where the rumor had started.
Maybe it was because of Lord Varnehold, who had taken extra medicine and left with his family that very night. People mistakenly thought that the young master was cured.
But like all good rumors, it had fire for a spine and wings for legs.
The healing house had found a cure for the Purple Plague.
