He drew in a deep breath, and let it go, weakened hands hard at work weaving magic to light a new set of memorials in the Chantry garden. There was getting to be far too many, the Venatori hunting Minrathous' own citizens like trapped hares. It was cruelty beyond words, all at the behest of so-called gods that did not deserve the title of godhood. All for power while the world died a slow death.

He coughed. The blood from his lungs was acrid and thick. His breath wheezed as he drew in more air to sate his need for it, but it wasn't enough.

Getting out of bed anymore was becoming a chore, almost insurmountable, almost spirit-crushing. Were it not for Tarquin's aid, he was certain he'd be a few breaths closer to the grave. It was more than most people got. Most suffered with barely a hand to hold as they passed, the blight eating them alive from the inside out.

That would be his fate, eventually. He only hoped to go down fighting rather than wasting away in bed.