The northern kingdom of Avelmere stood on the edge of collapse. Once a land of resilient villages and ironclad alliances, Avelmere was now shadowed by despair. Ravaged not by any blade, but a sickness instead, the kingdom began to become miserly. They were unwilling to even interact with one another anymore. Because of the lack of trade, starvation loomed over the people as food stores dwindled, and the coming winter promised to be long and unforgiving.

Rumors never had the same originating place of a deadly sickness that spared neither the young nor the strong. Not long after the rumors began, fields were left untended, livestock abandoned as entire families succumbed to the wasting illness, which withered its victims to pale shadows of themselves before the end.

With each passing day, the sickness crept further along the land, claiming villages and emptying once-thriving towns. Fear gripped the people as winter approached, and Avelmeres resources only continued to dwindle. The kings forces were helpless to stop the spread, spread thinly across a dying land where survival had become a matter of barricading doors and rationing food. For the people of Avelmere, the question was no longer how to fight but how to endure this dark winter without hope.

With each passing day, hope grew dimmer.

~~~

Caelan halted his steed atop a hill overlooking the valley below, his gaze fixed on the small village lying silent. No fires burned in the hearths, and no smoke drifted from chimneys; the sickness likely had taken them all. A wind swept through the desolate landscape, biting into his armor. He could almost feel the sickness lurking in the air, unseen yet unmistakable.

Beside him, one of his scouts approached, his face drawn with worry. "They say there's been another outbreak in the southern pass," he reported, voice hushed as if the sickness might hear. "The villagers barricaded themselves inside, but supplies are scarce, and they sent word to the capital for help. I don't know if they'll last the coming winter."

Caelan clenched his jaw, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders. "Then we'll reach them first."

He looked over the weary men who had accompanied him this far. Faces pale and gaunt, they had seen the devastation and felt the fear clawing at the kingdom's heart. Yet they were here, standing firm beside him, even in the face of this invisible enemy.

"Stay close," he commanded, his voice steady. "This sickness won't take us. Well move swiftly and keep to the path. We've lost enough to it already, and we won't lose more."

The wind carried with it the scent of ash and decay, reminders of the illness that had claimed so many already.

Beside him, one of his men shifted uncomfortably. "Sir, should we camp here? The village is empty; there's no one left to aid us or hinder us."

Caelan swallowed and gave a sharp nod. "We move on. If we linger, the cold will take us, or worse." He met his men's tired gazes, their faces pale in the fading light. "We'll ration our supplies, and no one drinks from the streams until Ive given the command. This sickness travels unseen, but we'll not make it easy for it to find us."

With that, he spurred his horse on, down the hill with his men in tow. He began to think about why he was risking so much to help those who had been struck down by this merciless plague. It was something he had wrestled with since he volunteered for this grim duty, stepping forward when others hesitated. The king had called for brave souls to assist in the rescue of survivors. While many felt overwhelmed by the devastation, Caelan had felt a fire ignite within him. He couldn't sit idle while others suffered. He remembered his mother's gentle hands tending to the sick in their own little mountain village, her compassion an unwavering light even in their darkest hours. It was a lesson ingrained in him: to care for others was to honor the bonds that tied them all together in this unforgiving world.