Veylin sat silently before the microscope, examining the tiny black insect and the curse runes over and over.
This was a man-made disaster.
That conclusion deepened the chill in the laboratory.
They could do nothing about a natural disaster, but a man-made one meant that a pair of eyes was watching everything from behind the scenes, perhaps ready to deal a Deadly Strike when they were most helpless.
"My lord Count." Tristan's voice broke through their brooding. He handed over a fresh report, his eyes unusually grave.
"This is the latest summary. Over the past twelve hours, four new infections have been recorded in Quarantine Camp Three in Zone A and Quarantine Camp One in Zone B."
Veylin took the report. The pages listed the infected patients' basic information: name, age, and occupation.
[Eli, apprentice blacksmith, twenty-one.] [Reed, dockworker, twenty-eight.] [John, reserve soldier, nineteen.]
Veylin scanned the names and occupations.
Apprentice blacksmith, dockworker, reserve soldier... Gradually, his brow furrowed. Without exception, these were young and middle-aged adults who performed heavy manual labor. An unsettling thought surfaced in his mind.
"Tristan," he said, raising his head, "raise the territory's plague defense level. And compile more detailed statistics. Sort all the infected patients' records by age, including the deaths reported through outside intelligence, then assess and mark their physical robustness based on their occupations."
Tristan did not ask why. He simply nodded and left. He understood that his lord might have discovered a pattern.
At Veylin's command, the entire territory raised its plague containment level another notch. People began limiting their travel, police patrols grew more frequent, and orders restricting the residents' movements were issued one after another.
Panic still did not spread.
Their lord had long since proven through his actions that the order he had established could