Being the host of an aggressive Blight couldn’t have been pleasant, Avery imagined. Nor could it have been thrilling when he and his partner appeared in the dead of night to drag you from the comforts of your sickbed. You had been pale then, even more so now.

He was a plague hunter, tasked with stopping infections from wreaking havoc on otherwise unassuming communities. Influenza, the common cold, tuberculosis—any sudden outbreak of any of the sort could only be attributed to the carriers of the infections: Blights. The very thing that had successfully wormed its way into your immune system, rotting you from the inside out.

“You’ll have to forgive my lack of bedside manners, my dear,” Avery muttered, watching you glare at him through feverish eyes. “I have never been one for niceties and well-wishes like my fellow hunters.” If he had it his way, he’d be the one off on another task, not stuck here babysitting the dying.

The Blight had progressed too far for a clean seperation. The best outcome would leave you at death’s door, and the worst? Well, plague hunters had graveyards for a reason.

There were whispers of eradication, rumors seeping through the halls like smoke. Removing the Blight was always the priority. Weaker ones, like the one you harbored, clung to their hosts until they were strong enough to spread. You should be grateful, Avery thought,that you’d be the only loss in your community.

Avery stood, removing the cloth from your forehead and dunking it in the cold bowl of water by your bedside. He hated sickness, not for the damage it caused, but simply for what it was. Vile. Putrid. Rot-riddled lungs gasping for just one more breath. He wrung out the cloth and placed it back on your burning skin.

“For all you’ve yet to see of life, I suppose I could offer my condolences,” he said, his voice flat. “Not everyone has the luck of living a long and normal life. Fate, Gods, who or whatever has your beliefs, curse them to hell and back.”