Dawn's pale fingers had barely begun to warm the horizon when Roland heard the soft scrape of leather against stone—a subtle, familiar rhythm that made his heart skip. He straightened in the command tent, the Codex of Shadows open before him, runes glowing faintly in the flickering lantern light. Talia and Lira exchanged curious looks as a cloak‐hooded figure slipped in, shoulders tense, eyes bright with urgency.
"Ronan?" Roland whispered, disbelief choking his voice. It was the face he thought he'd left behind in his previous life, the boy who'd laughed under midnight streetlamps beside him. Ronan's hair was streaked with dust and fear, but those irises—emerald flames of stubborn defiance—were unmistakable.
Roland leaped forward, heart pounding. "You survived." Relief and shock tangled in his chest as he embraced his old friend. Ronan's ragged breath tickled Roland's ear. "Barely," he admitted, voice low. He pulled back, face haunted. "I had to find you. I had to warn you."
Talia and Lira watched in silence as Ronan stepped back, lowering his hood. Bren leaned forward, crutch clattering. "Ronan… how?"
Ronan's gaze flicked to the war maps on the table, then back to Roland. His lips trembled. "The Dark Lord's shadow reaches further than we thought," he said. "I fled the capital when Rilara's Guard—your corrupt palace knights—unleashed the Black Thorn Plague. It spreads through villages like wildfire, turning hope into despair." He sank onto a stool, face in his hands. "They blamed innocent travelers. They blamed me. I escaped by the skin of my teeth."
Anger flared in Roland's chest—images of burning hamlets, families in plague tents, memories of helpless scribbles in deserted alleys. He touched Ronan's arm. "You warned us just in time."
Ronan's eyes met his. "Fenwood is next. The Black Thorn grows in the marshes, drifting on night winds. By the full moon, half the border villages will be stricken. I carried this"—he produced a single vial of sickly green liquid—"stolen from the guard's infirmary. It's a sample. We must stop the spread."
Silence fell, heavier than any battlefield hush. Lira's staff tapped the earthen floor. "We'll quarantine the villages—block the roads."
Talia pressed a hand to her lips. "But with our armies focused on the Dark Lord's front, who will tend the sick?"
Bren's eyes glistened. "We will." His crutch clattered as he stood. "I know the first aid chants—let me speak to Sister Corinne."
Ronan swallowed hard. "And I'll go with you. I know the marsh paths—old smugglers' trails where the plague's mist gathers."
Roland closed the Codex, heart racing with both dread and determination. "Then we move at once. Sir Alaric, Princess, this threat…" He held up the vial. "…demands our immediate attention."
Alaric's stern gaze softened. "Your friend brings dire news. We cannot ignore this. Send your teams. I will hold the front until you return."
Althea placed a hand on Roland's shoulder. Her eyes were fierce. "Go with all our blessings—and our prayers."
As the four of them assembled under grey dawn skies—Ronan's cough rattling, Bren's limp steady, Talia's crossbow loaded, and Lira's staff gleaming—Roland felt the full weight of their world on his shoulders. Yet hope stirred in him, as it always did when friends stood together.
They set out toward the eastern marsh, hearts pounding with urgency and fear, knowing that this battle would not be won with sword and magic alone. Compassion, courage, and the bonds of friendship would be their greatest weapons against the gathering shadow of the Black Thorn Plague—and whatever horrors lay beyond.