Cassian's eyes darkened as he watched the man's veins twist and blacken beneath his skin. The yellow glow had almost completely vanished, replaced by threads of ink crawling through his arms like serpents.
Without hesitation, Cassian reached for a small wooden drawer and pulled out a vial sealed with red wax. Inside was a clear liquid that shimmered faintly with silver light. He snapped the seal and tilted the man's head gently.
"Drink," he commanded softly.
The man coughed, sputtering as the liquid slid down his throat. His body convulsed once—twice—and then stilled. The black veins began to fade, slowly receding under the skin, until only the faint trace of yellow remained.
Cassian sighed quietly. "Another near turn."
He placed a hand on the man's chest. His pulse was weak but steady. Satisfied, Cassian pulled a blanket over him and turned to the rest of the room.
"Everyone leave for now," he said, his voice calm but firm. "He needs rest—and silence.....I shall attend to everyone tomorrow."
The murmurs died instantly. The patients exchanged hesitant looks but obeyed, shuffling toward the door one by one. Only the girl from earlier lingered at the doorway, clutching the edge of her apron.
"Master Cassian," she whispered. "Will he… turn?"
Cassian didn't look up from the bedside. "Not tonight."
Her lips pressed together in worry, but she nodded and left, closing the door softly behind her.
When the room finally fell silent, Cassian stood still for a long moment, listening to the faint rasp of the man's breath. Then he turned toward the shelf, his eyes drifting over the vials lined up neatly in rows....herbal tinctures, tonics, healing brews, and finally stopping on one small, unlabeled bottle.
The liquid inside was colorless.
Still.
Deceptively harmless.
He stared at it for several seconds, his jaw tightening. Then he whispered under his breath, "Why now?"
Outside, the city's bells tolled the sixth hour of dusk.
By the next morning, Ardentis was alive with rumors.
From the narrow alleys of the Yellow Wards to the marble corridors of the Red Quarter, people whispered about strange deaths—men and women found lifeless, their veins turned pitch black as if swallowed by ink.
At first, they said it was poison.
Then, a curse.
But soon, the whispers sharpened into one word spoken with fear and fascination alike
Corruption.
And in hushed tones, the people began to say that The Blacker had returned.
At the palace gates, armored guards stood tense as a courier rushed through the marble archway, his cloak fluttering behind him. He fell to one knee before the throne dais, sweat streaking his brow.
"Your Majesty," he gasped, "another body was found this dawn, Lord Verdan of the Red Quarter. His veins—blackened, the same as the others."
The throne room fell into murmurs.
King Aldric leaned forward, his gold crown glinting in the light filtering through stained glass. His expression was grave, but his eyes,sharp and cold as amber....betrayed no surprise.
"How many does that make?" he asked.
The courier hesitated. "Six, sire. All nobles of the upper quarters. Each death the same. No wound, no mark, only… the black veins."
A heavy silence settled. Then a voice broke it, measured, low, and edged with disdain.
"It is a disease of decadence," said Lord Remir, the Duke of the White Spire, rising from his seat. His robe gleamed pale silver, the veins along his neck faintly luminous. "Corruption comes to those who defy purity. Perhaps the gods have decided to remind us of our boundaries."
Another lord scoffed. "Boundaries? Six nobles dead, and you speak of divine punishment? If this spreads, it will reach the court itself. We need action, not scripture."
The King lifted his hand, and silence fell again.
"What of the reports from the healers?" he asked.
A palace physician stepped forward, bowing deeply. "Your Majesty, we have found… traces of an unknown substance in the blood of the victims. A compound we've never seen before. It appears to heighten the flow of magic in the veins, before consuming it entirely."
The King's gaze sharpened. "A poison?"
"Perhaps," the physician said, hesitating. "But unlike any natural concoction. Some say it was brewed in the outer districts, by black market alchemists. They call it…"
He faltered, lowering his voice. "…Noctis Draught."
The name lingered in the air like smoke.
Lord Remir frowned. "A street drug? You expect us to believe this plague among nobles comes from gutter peddlers?"
But the King's eyes had darkened. "Noctis," he repeated softly. "The drink of night."
Another advisor stepped forward. "Your Majesty, there are claims that some of the infected were seen taking it willingly. They said it unlocked dormant power—let them touch forbidden elements beyond their color."
Murmurs spread again, louder this time.
"Blasphemy."
"Impossible."
"Power beyond one's color? That's death."
The King rose slowly from his throne. "Then it seems death is what they've found."
He turned to his captain of guards. "Seal the gates of the Red Quarter. No one enters or leaves until this poison is traced. And find whoever spreads this 'Noctis Draught.' Burn their trade to ash."
The captain bowed sharply. "At once, Your Majesty."
Outside the palace, the city buzzed with fear. Posters appeared at street corners, warning of darkened veins and offering rewards for any information about The Blacker or the creators of Noctis Draught.
Merchants spoke of the cursed drink in whispers.
Soldiers muttered of vengeance.
And in the taverns of the Blue Ring, the stories grew wilder with every retelling.
Some said The Blacker was a ghost, a spirit born from the blood of sinners.
Others swore he was a man, a shadow with no color in his veins, walking among them unseen.
Back in the Green Quarter, Cassian Veyne stood by the window of his infirmary, gazing at the crowd gathering outside. The morning light glinted off the bottles on his shelves, casting fractured colors across the floor.
The man with yellow veins still slept in the corner, his breathing shallow but steady. Cassian watched him for a long time, then turned away, reaching for a quill. He began to write in a small leather-bound journal—each entry neat, precise, and quiet.
"Noctis Draught."
A compound that amplifies the chromatic current in blood.
Draws power, then devours it. Perhaps deliberate.
Origin: unknown.
He paused, tapping the quill lightly against the page. Then he wrote one last line:
Connection to corruption: undeniable.
Closing the book, Cassian exhaled slowly.
Through the thin walls of his infirmary, he could hear the city's pulse—a rhythm of fear, rumor, and suspicion.
When he finally stepped outside, the morning had already dimmed beneath gathering clouds. The scent of rain and smoke hung heavy in the air.
Somewhere beyond the rooftops, a bell tolled for another dead noble.
Cassian tilted his head slightly, watching the gray horizon.
His eyes reflected nothing—not grief, not relief, only the cold stillness of knowing.
He whispered to himself, so softly no one could hear—
"Night falls early in Ardentis."