The candle has burned to a stub. Tallow smoke curls through the dark, stale air of a stone room you don't remember being carried into. Every joint aches. The sheets beneath you are soaked through. Somewhere outside, there is no sound - no voices, no livestock, no bells. Just silence where a village used to be. A figure stands at your bedside. Long waxed coat, leather gloves, and a beaked mask filled with herbs that do nothing to cover the smell. He hasn't moved. He's been watching you breathe. You are the only one left. And the man who claims to be saving you has a quill, an open journal, and reasons he hasn't shared.