They reached the marsh's edge just as mist curled over soggy reeds, each tendril shimmering with a sickly green hue. Ronan paused, voice trembling. "This way—follow the old sluice path." His feet sank into muck, but he pressed on, leading them between dark pools that reflected the dawn's false promise.
Bren limped beside Sister Corinne, who'd insisted on joining them with bandages and healing balms. She knelt beside a collapsed villager, humming a soft prayer as she applied a salve that hissed on contact. "We must set up a triage camp here," she murmured. "Stabilize the sick before they spread it further." Bren drew a circle of salt around the patient, warding off contagion.
Talia and Lira patrolled the perimeter, crossbow and staff at the ready, quelling panic among fearful farmers desperate for aid. Lira knelt to comfort a wide-eyed child. "You'll be safe," she promised, smoothing tangled hair. Talia's bolt drilled a snarling rat back into the reeds—another carrier.
Roland spread out the vial's sample on a silver plate and studied it under a hooded lantern. The liquid writhed as if alive. Master Cedric's counsel echoed in his mind: knowledge is power, but also a curse. He gathered a handful of gathered reeds and carried them to the makeshift furnace they'd built. With a steady hand, he burned the sample, inhaling the acrid smoke. As it clouded his vision, he saw runes forming in the haze—an antidote's pattern.
He stumbled back to the camp, voice hoarse. "Cedric's antidote—must distill from marsh root, silverleaf, and nightshade blossom." Bren sprang forward, unwrapping his satchel to reveal pressed botanicals. Together they ground, boiled, and filtered, tension crackling with each minute.
At last, a pale gold liquid filled a vial. Roland handed doses to Sister Corinne, who administered it to the feverish villagers. Their coughs eased, eyes clearing. Hope stirred among the crowd.
Above, clouds parted to allow a shaft of sunlight. Althea, astride her steed, rode in with fresh supplies—bread, blankets, and a contingent of healers. Relief washed over Roland as she dismounted. "You saved them," she said softly, embracing Ronan.
He nodded, tears shining. "We saved each other."
Across the marsh, distant horns signaled Alaric's return—victory at the front. Their combined efforts, in battle and in healing, had turned the tide on two terrors at once: the Dark Lord's army and the plague that threatened Ardenia's heart.
As they packed the last of the cure and prepared to ride home, Roland looked at his ragged companions—each marked by exhaustion, each shining with purpose. Emotion swelled within him: pride, relief, and a fierce love for this world he'd once deemed unworthy of saving.
They mounted under a sky blazing with dawn's promise. Together, they would return to Fenwood—united by magic's trial, the Codex's weight, and now this victory of compassion over calamity. Their story would carry on, woven with every emotion they'd dared to feel—and every bond they'd forged in the fires of war and healing.