Veracity

As the mysterious sickness slowly dies down across Ivras, Basileios finds himself alone again. The darkness is hungry and relentless as it sweeps across the countryside, the last rays of the sun blinking out of existence as night takes hold over day. He always looks forward to these moments, a cool calm washing through his veins as he lets down his disguise. His fingers brush the scars on his face ever so gently, his reflection rippling in the sink as water drip drip drips down his cheeks and his chin from when he had splashed it clean only seconds before.

He had found his scars running black before, now oh so obvious against his pale skin. He briefly wondered if he was sick, the affliction merely delayed in taking hold- but as the days went on, he notes that he feels fine… He is not hungry for flesh nor going mad. The bite on his arm is healed, though the marks are black, too.

His fingers grip into the edges of the sink, and his breath breaks between his gritted teeth. Magic is the only true explanation. Corruption, to be more specific.

There is a soft knock at the door that draws his attention away, and he takes in a steadying breath as he pushes himself from the sink. The edges of his cloak play at the heels of his dirtied boots as he moves smoothly across the rickety floor. He knows who it is before he opens it, the worn hinges creaking under the strain. The shadows speak to him, and he has been learning how to listen.