The jungle silence bore down oppressively. Vaaro moved between the trunks, and each step resounded with hollow echoes in the dead air. The leaves underfoot didn't rustle—they crunched, broke, crumbled to dust. As though life had abandoned the vegetation, leaving behind only desiccated remains.

  The caster stopped and closed his eyes. He listened not to sounds but to magic. Nemira's blood thread still pulsed somewhere ahead, but no longer with that furious force that had crashed over the vicinity several minutes before. Now it burnt steadily, calmly. Flame that had ceased raging and transformed into a smouldering ember.

  Alive. She was still alive.

  Vaaro exhaled, not realising he'd been holding his breath. His shoulders relaxed for a fraction of a second. Alive—meaning there was still time. Meaning he might make it.

  He stepped forward, reached for the thread with his perception.

  And froze.

  The distance between himself and the girl had changed. Not shortened, as it should have—increased. Only slightly, a few hundred metres at most, but enough to notice.

  Vaaro tilted his head and squinted. The blood thread had shifted. Slightly left of where it had been a second before. Further from Ver'nala. Further from the cursed village.

  She was moving.

  Not simply stirring in place—walking somewhere. Not quickly, but steadily, without deviating from her course. As though she knew precisely where she was heading.

  "Away from the village. That's what matters most now." He whispered.

  The caster ran his palm down his face, smearing dried blood across his cheek. Something stirred in his chest—relief mixed with wariness. Nemira was leaving Ver'nala. On her own, on her own two feet. Alive and healthy enough to move.

  But what had she taken from there? What price had she paid for awakening her blood?

  Vaaro wheeled, adjusting his direction. Running to the village no longer made sense. He needed to intercept her before she went too far. Before the trail went cold.

  He tore from his position, and the jungle silence shattered beneath his heavy steps. His long legs devoured distance, leapt over fallen trees, skirted dense growths of fern. Vaaro didn't weave, didn't seek easy paths—he went straight, forcing his way through the thickets by brute force.

  Branches lashed his face, caught at his clothing, left scratches on his skin. He ignored them. Focused only on the thread ahead.

  Nemira continued moving away. Not quickly—roughly at the pace that tired legs and uneven terrain allowed. But steadily, without stopping.

  Vaaro delved deeper into magic, expanded his perception. Blood in his veins responded, reached for that distant point of light. He felt her more distinctly—exhaustion saturating every muscle, dull pain in her limbs, burning in her lungs.

  "Worn out." He noted to himself.

  But she was still walking. Kept walking, despite everything. Either fleeing from something or striving towards something.

  The caster ducked, slipped beneath low-hanging vines. Burst onto a small clearing, crossed it in three bounds. Vanished into the undergrowth on the opposite side.

  The distance between them began to close. Steadily. Vaaro moved faster than the girl. Far faster.

  The blood thread flickered in his perception, jerked sideways. Nemira had turned, changed course. Vaaro corrected his own, not slowing. He tracked her like a hunter tracking prey.

  The ground underfoot grew more rocky. Soft soil gave way to outcrops of stone covered with moss. Trees thinned, opening a strip of sky between the crowns. Ahead rose another hill—low, gentle, densely overgrown with bushes.

  Vaaro raced up the slope, scrambled over rocks. Stopped at the summit, surveyed his surroundings.

  The jungle stretched in all directions—a sea of greenery, broken by scattered rocks and the channels of small streams. The sun had set completely, leaving only a dying crimson glow on the horizon. Twilight thickened swiftly, transforming familiar outlines into blurred shadows.

  The caster half-closed his eyes, focused on the thread. It stretched somewhere north-west, skirting the hills. Nemira was heading for the river—the only relatively level path through the jungle in this area.

  "Clever girl!" He praised her.

  Or simply lucky. Vaaro didn't know for certain. But she'd chosen her route correctly—the riverbed would halve the journey time, provided she didn't run into predators.

  He leapt from the hilltop, rolled in a tumble down the slope. Rose to his feet already at the bottom, brushed the fallen earth from his shoulders. Turned left, heading to intercept.

  If Nemira was heading for the river, he'd intercept her before she got there. Cut the corner, gain time.

  The caster accelerated. His leg muscles burnt, demanded rest. He gave them none. Drove his body forward, forced it to move through pain and exhaustion.

  Nemira's blood thread grew brighter with each minute. Distance closed. Half an hour's running. Slightly less.

  Vaaro wiped sweat from his brow, leaving fresh dirty streaks. His breathing quickened, faltered from its rhythm. He slowed his pace, unwilling to expend his final reserves before time.

  Now the main thing—not to spook her. Approach close enough to see with his own eyes what had become of her. Understand what price she'd paid for awakening the Ancients' blood.

  And only then decide what to do next.

  The undergrowth parted and Vaaro froze.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Nemira walked along the ravine's edge, bent beneath a burden. Each step came with difficulty—her legs buckled, barely found purchase on the slippery stones. She dragged on herself the body of an orc woman, thrown across her shoulder. Massive arms hung lifelessly, trailed along the ground.

  Banarka. Vaaro recognised the intricate scars on the ash-grey skin even in the twilight.

  The troll woman stepped forward, stumbled. Fell to one knee but held her burden. Exhaled hoarsely, with strain. Rose, swaying. Walked on.

  The caster crouched behind a wide trunk, shielded himself with branches. He squinted, watching. Nemira's blood pulsed in his perception with bright fire—weary, dimmed, but still alive. It burnt.

  But the orc woman's blood...

  Vaaro expanded his magical sight, touched Banarka's thread. And immediately felt cold.

  Not the ordinary cold of a body cooling after a long journey. Different. Sticky, dead, permeating blood from within. Hlad. He couldn't mistake it. The undead plague flowed through the orc woman's veins like slow poison, corroding everything living in its path.

  Vaaro clenched his teeth, pulled his perception closer. Touched Nemira's blood again, more attentively.

  And there—the same vileness.

  The plague of Ver'nala clung to the troll woman, ate into her flesh. Not deeply yet—superficially, uncertainly, as though only beginning its feast. But it was already there. Had already penetrated within.

  Nemira walked several more steps, dropped to her knees. She let Banarka down onto the grass, collapsed beside her. Her chest heaved heavily, unevenly. Her fingers dug into earth, scraped across stones.

  Vaaro didn't stir. His hand settled on his staff, gripped the shaft till his knuckles whitened. The caster pulled it from his ring so habitually, so casually, it seemed he'd always held it in his hands.

  He didn't emerge from cover. First he needed to be certain.

  The caster concentrated, discarding all else. He ignored exhaustion, pain in his legs, burning in his lungs. He immersed himself in magic completely, dissolved in the threads of blood.

  Nemira lay before him like an open book—every cell, every drop of blood responded to his touch. The plague crept slowly, cautiously, like a stalking beast. It wasn't yet attacking directly—simply taking root, preparing to strike.

  Vaaro passed his perception deeper. He wasn't seeking disease. He was seeking the trace of the Primordials.

  The Cursed Crown imposed a seal on the soul. A mark that couldn't be washed away with blood or burnt away with flame. It left a scar, woven into the very essence of the bearer.

  He searched every facet of Nemira's aura. Touched the base of her skull, where the Crown usually fastened. Probed the shadows in the depths of consciousness, there where traces of foreign will hid.

  Nothing.

  No chains. No seals. Only the blood of the Ancients, pulsing in the girl's veins with steady flame. Strong, untamed, wild. As it should be in a free being.

  Vaaro slowly exhaled. He switched to the orc woman.

  Banarka barely breathed. Her blood almost stood still—the plague had climbed deep, squeezed her heart with cold fingers. A little more, and it would stop beating.

  The caster passed his perception across her soul. Checked the back of her skull, her temples, the base of her spine. Sought the slightest hint of the Crown.

  Also clean.

  Both untouched by the curse. Both still didn't belong to the dead.

  Vaaro unclenched his fingers on the staff. His shoulders dropped. Tension drained from his muscles, leaving behind dull exhaustion.

  The girls were infected, but not lost. Plague in the blood—that was treatable. Long, agonising, but possible. The main thing—the Crown hadn't touched their souls. Meaning they could still be pulled out.

  Nemira groaned, rolled onto her side. Her arm reached for the orc woman, found her wrist. Checked her pulse. Froze for a second, then relaxed.

  Alive. Banarka was still alive.

  Vaaro rose from behind the tree. He stepped towards the girls, parting branches with his staff. Nemira jerked at the sound, tried to rise. Couldn't—her legs buckled, and she crashed onto the grass again.

  Yellow eyes stared at him. Wide, full of fear and despair. The moment they made him out, fear shifted to hope, but despair went nowhere.

  Nemira's voice sounded hoarse, barely audible. Words stuck in her throat, broke into a rasp.

  "Help... please..."

  She tried to raise herself on her elbow, but her arm buckled. Nemira crashed back down, groaned. Her fingers dug into earth, sought purchase where there was none.

  "We... we're infected. In the village. Undead..."

  Vaaro approached closer, crouched beside her. He laid his staff on the grass. The troll woman's yellow eyes tracked his every movement—wary, frightened, but hopeful.

  "We were heading to you. To your hut. Banarka... we didn't know where else to go."

  Nemira coughed, doubled over. Blood appeared on her lips—dark, almost black in the twilight. She wiped it with the back of her hand, leaving a dirty trail on her blue skin.

  "Banarka... she's worse. She was bitten first. I thought... thought I'd manage to get her to you. You can... you can cure her, can't you?"

  Her voice trembled on the final words. Broke. Nemira dropped her head onto the grass, closed her eyes. Breathed raggedly, unevenly.

  "Please. I'll do anything. Pay whatever you want. Just... just don't let her die."

  Vaaro watched her silently. He studied her. Memorised every detail—cracks on her lips, scratches on her arms, dirt beneath her nails. The blood of the Ancients pulsed in her veins with a weak flame, barely visible.

  Nemira opened her eyes, met his gaze.

  "She... she saved me. Shielded me when the skeletons attacked. If not for Bana, I wouldn't have got out of there. And she came there because of me... I... I fled from the sigkhun straight into the village..."

  Tears rolled down her cheeks, mixed with dirt and blood. Nemira didn't wipe them away. Simply lay and looked at the caster, awaiting his verdict.

  "We were heading to you... the whole way... I dragged her because I knew—you're the only one who can help. You... you know how to cure this plague?"

  Vaaro raised his hand, stopping her torrent of words.

  "Enough."

  His voice sounded hollow, emotionless. Nemira froze, not taking her eyes from him.

  The caster extended his palm above her chest, not touching her skin. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Blood magic responded instantly—reached for his will, coiled round his fingers in invisible threads.

  "Don't move."

  He immersed his perception in Nemira's blood. He found the focus of infection—there, where Hlad had eaten deepest. He touched it cautiously, passed magic along the border of affliction.

  The plague recoiled, contracted. Vaaro pressed harder. He forced it to the periphery, drove it into a corner. The troll woman's blood flared with heat—resisted, fought, rejected the foreign presence.

  Nemira arched, dug her fingers into grass. Her mouth gaped in a soundless scream.

  "Endure."

  Vaaro didn't slacken his grip. He continued pressing, burning out the plague from within. Magic gathered speed, built momentum. Nemira's blood boiled, flowed faster. Hlad retreated slowly, resisting every inch of reclaimed territory.

  The caster gathered his will in a fist. He jerked magic sharply, mercilessly.

  The plague burst. Dissolved in the stream of blood, swept away by the force of the ritual. Nemira choked, shook. From her nose flowed dark liquid—remnants of Hlad, driven from her body.

  Vaaro switched to Banarka. He laid his palm on the orc woman's chest, felt the barely distinguishable beat of her heart. The plague sat deeper here. Far deeper.

  Unlike the troll woman, who had at least the elemental protection of her blood, nothing shielded Banarka from the plague.

  He clenched his teeth and pressed with magic.

  Banarka's body shuddered. Her arms jerked but didn't rise. Too weak. The caster didn't stand on ceremony—he drove magic into her blood, burnt out Hlad without mercy. The orc woman rasped, choked, but he didn't stop.

  He needed to cleanse her enough to get her to the hut. Full treatment could wait. Right now the main thing—not let them die on the road.

  Magic passed through in a final wave. Vaaro exhaled and unclenched his fingers. He stepped back, examined the result.

  Both were breathing. Heavily, raggedly, but breathing. Their skin colour had evened somewhat—the blueness retreated, yielding to natural tones. The plague remained, but there was less of it. Enough to buy time.

  Nemira turned her head, looked at him with a clouded gaze.

  "What... what did you do?"

  "Primary cleansing." Vaaro rose to his feet and put away his staff in his inventory. "This will give you strength to reach my hut. We'll continue treatment there."

  He bent down, caught Banarka beneath her arms. He threw the orc woman over his shoulder in one movement. Nemira tried to stand, swayed.

  "Follow me. You won't manage to fall behind for long."