(As recounted by Aurelio)
The old man stared into the fire for a long time before speaking. The flames had been rebuilt, and they cast dancing shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own. The Scholar noticed that Aurelio's hands, usually so still, were gripping the arms of his chair with a quiet intensity.
"Donata," he said finally, the name emerging like a prayer. "She was the blacksmith at the Anvil. A woman carved from granite and tempered steel. When Giovanni fell, we assumed she had fallen with him. But the Cabal had not bothered with the forge; they had no use for a smith who could not make weapons for their Echo Walkers. So she survived. And she waited."
He shook his head slowly.
"She had turned the fortress into a hospital. A prison. A morgue. All at once. The plague had reached the Anvil's gates weeks before we did, and she had done what she could. Which was not much."
— Memory —
The Anvil looked different in the grey light of a plague winter. The great iron gate, once a symbol of Giovanni's unyielding authority, was now barricaded with timber and overturned carts. No banners flew from the walls. No sentries called out challenges. The only sound was the low, constant moan of the wind, and beneath it, the faint, terrible sound of coughing.
Aurelio approached the gate with his hand raised, empty. Behind him, the column waited; the Norsemen, the survivors of the Grove, Cecilia, Philippe, Riccio, Liam, and Gerald. They were a ragged company, their clothes stained with salt and ash, their eyes hollow with exhaustion.
"Who goes there?" a voice called from the battlements. It was a woman's voice, rough as a file.
"Survivors," Aurelio called back. "From the Grove. From the Anvil. From the road."
A pause. Then the voice spoke again, softer. "Aurelio? Is that you, grove-rat?"
"It is, Donata. And I have brought company."
The barricade was pulled back, and the gate groaned open. Donata stood in the gap, her arms crossed over her chest, her face a mask of grim welcome. She was thinner than Aurelio remembered, and there were new scars on her hands, and her eyes held a weariness that went deeper than any wound.
"You look like hell," she said.
"You look like you have been fighting it," he replied.
She almost smiled. "Come in. And bring your people. There is not much left, but what is here is yours."
The interior of the Anvil was a different world from the one Aurelio had left. The training yard, where he had learned to fight, was now a makeshift infirmary. Rows of cots lined the walls, each one occupied by a coughing, feverish figure. The great anvil at the center, once a symbol of the fortress's purpose, was now covered with bandages and surgical tools.
"How many?" Gerald asked, his voice low.
"Too many," Donata said. "The plague came with the refugees. They fled the cities, thinking the mountains would be safe. But they brought the sickness with them. We have been burning bodies for a week, and still they come."
"Is there no cure?"
Donata's face hardened. "There is a treatment. Herbs, poultices, bleeding. It helps some. Not enough. The Cabal did not design this plague to be cured; they designed it to kill. Slowly."
Aurelio watched a young woman across the yard, no older than sixteen, tend to an old man who was clearly dying. She held his hand, wiped his brow, spoke to him in a soft, steady voice. There was no fear in her face; only a terrible, quiet acceptance.
"Who is that?" he asked.
"That is Elena. She was a novice at the convent down the road. When the sisters died, she walked here. Alone. Through the plague. She has been nursing the sick ever since."
"She is a child."
"She is a survivor. Like the rest of us."
That night, Aurelio met with Donata in Giovanni's old war room. The map was still on the table, but it had been marked with new symbols; red X's for plague outbreaks, black circles for abandoned towns, green stars for the few places that still held out.
"The Cabal has retreated," Donata said. "Adrien is in the north, consolidating what is left of his power. Vittorio is dead; you know that. The Shade is dormant, maybe destroyed. But the plague is still here. And it is spreading."
"Can we stop it?"
"I do not know. The only thing that seems to slow it is isolation. Sealing off the infected. Burning the bodies. Waiting."
"How long?"
"Until the sickness runs out of people to kill. Or until we find a cure."
Aurelio looked at the map, at the sea of red X's spreading across the continent like a rash. "We cannot just wait. People are dying."
"Then what do you suggest? March on the Cabal's citadels? They are empty. They have fled to their own isolated strongholds, waiting for the plague to do their work for them."
"We find a cure," Gerald said from the doorway. He had been listening, his broad frame filling the frame. "We find the Cabal's records. Their research. Their experiments. Somewhere, there is a formula. A treatment. A way to stop this."
"The Cabal's records are in the Sunken Cathedral," Donata said. "Or what is left of it. You saw the place; you know what it cost to get in and out."
"Then we go back," Gerald said. "We go back, and we burn it to the ground. And we take everything that is not nailed down."
Donata looked at Aurelio. "He is as stubborn as you said."
"He has his moments."
The decision was made. They would return to the Sunken Cathedral. Not for vengeance this time, but for knowledge. The plague was the real enemy now, and the only way to defeat it was to understand it.
But first, there was something else Aurelio needed to do.
He found Elena in the infirmary, still tending to the old man. The man's breathing was shallow, his skin a mottled green. He would not last the night.
"You should rest," Aurelio said.
Elena looked up at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but her voice was steady. "There will be time to rest when they are all dead. Or when they are all healed."
"And which do you think it will be?"
She did not answer. She simply turned back to the old man and continued her work.
Aurelio watched her for a long moment. Then he knelt beside her and picked up a cloth.
"Show me what to do."
She looked at him, surprised. Then she nodded.
"Start with the fever. Keep his head cool. Talk to him. Even if he cannot hear you, talk to him. The dying need to know they are not alone."
Aurelio dipped the cloth in a bowl of water and pressed it to the old man's forehead. The skin was hot; too hot. He began to speak, softly, telling the man about the Grove, about the olive trees, about the smell of thyme and crushed leaves. He did not know if the man could hear him. He did not know if it mattered.
But he kept talking.
And as he talked, he felt something shift inside him. Not hope; not yet. But a purpose. A reason to keep going beyond the next battle, the next march, the next death.
He was not just a soldier anymore. He was a caretaker. A healer. A man who had seen the worst of the world and had chosen, despite everything, to keep fighting for the best of it.
— Present —
The old man's voice had dropped to a whisper. The fire had burned low again, and the room was filled with shadows.
"Elena died three days later," he said. "Not from the plague; from exhaustion. She gave everything she had to the sick, and when there was nothing left, she simply stopped. We buried her in the courtyard, under the shadow of the anvil."
He looked at the Scholar, his eyes wet.
"That was the first time I understood that the war was not about winning. It was about holding on. Holding on to each other. Holding on to the memory of who we were before the darkness came."
He closed the journal.
"The Sunken Cathedral was next. But that is a story for another night. For now, let us remember Elena. Let us remember all of them. The ones who fought, and the ones who simply... cared."
The Scholar nodded, his quill silent.
The room was quiet. And the darkness, patient and slow, waited for the next chapter.