The first symptom was silence.
That morning, the children who usually filled the square with laughter never came out to play. One by one, windows were shut tight, mothers moving quietly behind them. Some of the elders didn't wake at dawn, and those who did found their bodies trembling, consumed by fever.
There was no panic.Because it wasn't the first time.
—It's the outbreak —Melyra said in a low voice as she arranged jars of herbs across the table—. It returns every few cycles. The air carries it. Or the earth.
—What is it? —I asked.
She glanced at me briefly, as if measuring how much truth I could handle.
—It's this world. Its reaction. Our bodies… don't always know how to exist in it.
—And how do you stop it?
She didn't answer. Instead, her gaze drifted toward the hill, where Declan was already descending with steady purpose, his sleeve rolled up to his elbow.
By the time we reached the temple, it was already overflowing.
Children burned with fever, their cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. Young men sat slumped against the walls, hollow-eyed. Women clutched nearly unconscious loved ones, whispering prayers that seemed to dissolve into the heavy air.
Declan said nothing.
He washed his hands with deliberate care, then knelt before the central altar and asked for the bowl.
A deep, suffocating silence fell over the room.
I stepped forward without thinking. No one stopped me.
I watched as he drew the dagger from his waist—not just any blade, but the one he had carried since the first day. It was made of bone, etched with ancient symbols that seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light.
Without hesitation, he sliced his palm.
He didn't flinch.
His blood fell into the bowl with a thick, almost living sound. It shimmered unnaturally—darker than any blood I had ever seen, threaded with a soft glow, as if faint lightning flickered beneath its surface.
When the bowl was filled, he pressed his other hand over the wound and drew in a slow breath.
That was when I saw it.
The tremor in his body.The cold sheen of sweat across his brow.
—What is he doing? —I whispered to Melyra, who stood beside me.
—He's giving them life —she replied softly—. His life.
—Why does it affect him like that?
—Because every drop he gives… is like liters for any of us. And that's not all.
I turned to her.
—What else?
—His blood has memory. When he cuts himself… he feels the pain of everyone who came before him.
My gaze returned to Declan. He remained kneeling, his breathing uneven now, yet he didn't stop.
—That's why he's the last one —Melyra added, almost inaudibly—. Because no one else was willing to carry that price.
I found him that night in the upper hall.
He hadn't eaten. He hadn't spoken since the ritual ended.
He sat before the fireplace, elbows resting on his knees, staring into the flames as if he could disappear inside them.
I approached quietly and sat beside him without a word.
He didn't acknowledge me at first. Several minutes passed before he finally spoke.
—The first time I used my blood to heal… it was for a little girl.
His voice was low, roughened by something deeper than exhaustion.
—She was dying. Her parents begged me. I didn't know if it would work. I just… did it.
—And did it? —I asked softly.
—Yes. But ever since… every time I do it, it feels like I'm being torn open from the inside. Like part of my soul leaves with it.
I studied him as he stared into the fire, his eyes distant, lost somewhere far beyond the room.
—Do you regret it?
—Sometimes —he admitted—. Not the sacrifice… but what it awakens.
—What does it awaken?
—Memories. Of everyone who came before. Ancient pain. Wars. Farewells. An entire history living inside my blood that won't let me forget who I am.
The fire crackled between us, and my throat tightened.
—Was it always like this? —I asked.
—No. There was a time when I thought it made me strong. Invincible. Until I met someone of my kind who believed she understood what we were.
—Was she important to you?
—She tried to be. She said she was the one—that our energies aligned. And in some ways… they did. But it wasn't love.
—What happened?
—She got sick. Like humans do. I wasn't there. I didn't make it in time.
His eyes glistened, but not from the fire.
—I never forgave myself.
Silence settled between us again.
—But with you… it's different —he continued—. You don't come from my world. And still… you're the only thing anchoring me to this one.
I looked at him differently then.
Not as someone guarded or wounded or uncertain, but simply as what he was in that moment:
A man.
—Your blood is what heals this world —I said quietly—. But it feels like it's killing you.
—That's why you matter so much —he whispered—. Because with you… it could be different. I could live. Truly.
He paused, longer this time, as if what came next carried more weight than everything before it.
—But there's something else. Something I can't stop thinking about.
I turned toward him, waiting.
—My blood cannot be lost. I was taught that long before I understood what it meant. Not for me… but for those who will come after. Because there's no one else like me.
I swallowed.
—Is that why you need a child?
He nodded slowly, not with longing, but with burden.
—Yes. A child is the only way for the lineage to survive… for the world to have one last defense if everything collapses again.
—But… you don't want that, do you?
—Not like that. Who would want their child to feel this? To carry centuries of pain in their blood, the voices of the dead, the weight of a history they never chose?
I remained silent.
—That's why I looked for another way.
—Another way?
—There's a man in the village. He's not like the others. He studies plants, roots, poison, the body. A botanist. A healer who doesn't realize how close he is to discovering something impossible.
I turned to him fully.
—What have you done?
—I've been working with him in secret. I've given him small doses… fragments to study. We're trying to create a formula—something that replicates my blood. A synthetic antidote. One that no longer needs me… or anyone.
A flicker of something crossed his eyes.
—If it works… no one will have to cut themselves again. No one will have to feel what I feel.
—And if it doesn't?
He looked at me then—really looked at me.
—Then I'll give this world the only thing I have left. You… and a child. But only if you want that too.
I held his gaze for a long moment.
And for the first time…
I couldn't tell whether the fire was burning in front of us—
or inside me.