Two swift ships slipped silently out of Minas Tirith Port, one heading south and the other east, each bound for an allied territory shrouded in the shadow of the plague.
A seagull spread its wings from the top of a mast and flew into the distance.
Below it, only a scattering of lights remained along the coastline where fishing villages had once stood in dense rows.
It swept over town after town.
Some had already fallen to the plague, with nothing left but wind stirring the dust; others still clung to life, but bodies already lay piled along their stark white quarantine lines; some seemed to have weathered it, with a handful of survivors heaping the dead into small mountains and lighting enormous bonfires that blazed skyward, becoming beacons in the night.
At last, it landed atop a city's bell tower.
In the noble district within the city walls, the roads were still reasonably clean, and patrols appeared from time to time. Oppression hung in the air, but order remained intact. The seagull preened its feathers and rested briefly.
Its gaze passed beyond that invisible boundary, turning toward the much larger area beyond.
That was the true hell. Vast stretches of streets lay silent, as though an immense gray curtain had covered them entirely, leaving no sign of life.
The seagull seemed to sense some unease. It took flight again, heading north.
Dawn Territory, the count's castle.
Cold seeped from the stone walls of the meeting hall, beyond even the dancing flames in the fireplace to dispel. Outside, cold rain tapped against the glass in a monotonous patter, as though counting down the territory's fate.
On either side of the long table, the vassals of Dawn Territory wore different expressions, but the fear in their eyes was identical.
At the