"Right now, we've seen heightened activity in all the patches, and several are beginning to expand. Slowly. We've only had reports of the water being infected form one though, and that is the biggest risk. It seems to be moving slowly, then dissipating out into the water." He looked around the table, face solemn. "But make not mistake, it is spreading through every waterway it can find leading out and away from Duncell."

"Our main concern right now," Dothwin said, touching his map again. "Is that it makes it to here, and meets up with the Elanya river..."

"The Elanya is a short, and very direct vein to the coast," the younger man said. "We don't know what it will do once there. Maybe nothing. Maybe the salt water would kill it. No one knows. But what seems more likely is that it will spread over the whole Eastern coast... and everything in its path."

A chill crawled up Anril's spine, settling into the back of his neck like an icy hand gripped it.

"So you're saying we're fucked?" A man's shrill voice shattered the silence.

Dothwin turned, giving him a withering look. "Restrain the urge to piss yourself, Martin. We have more important things to do than panic."

"Speak for yourself!" He roared. "My family lives in an unshielded city only a few leagues from a patch."

"Be. Calm." A dangerous quiet hung off Dothwin's words. Anril knew it meant he'd reached the end of his patience. "It isn't spreading that rapidly. New shields will be constructed, or people will be moved."

"Moved?" Martin said, spittle flew as he sputtered. "Moved! You can't just uproot noble houses like that! You can't make us move, abandon lands we've had for centuries. We are the backbone of this bloody empire!"

"I would argue that the backbone of this empire is the common folk," Vilia snapped. "Rather adamantly."

"Well it's fortunate no one considers your opinion anymore than the whispering of the winds—"

"Be. Calm." Dothwin's voice rose in a whip sharp crack that somehow wasn't a shout. "That is an order. You will all be silent and listen."

Tension enveloped the room like an invisible smoke, choking out their words. Martin opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it and let it close.

"Good," Dothwin said. "We have one solution to the spread, at least considering the sea. At least for the moment."

"What?" Vilia eyed him, the word begrudging.

"We have to place a wall. The same principals as a shield, but straight and tall, and very, very long to cut off all the waterways leading from the Elanya into the Shade."

"So we build a wall."

An older woman shifted from foot to foot. "How many mages do we have willing to give themselves into the making of shields?" Her voice creaked with age. The same question did a silent dance over his lips. Older mages often put themselves into it when they were growing unstable and didn't want to die with the sickness eating them out.

"Enough." Dothwin drummed his fingers against the table in a looping pattern. "The main issue is this wall. I've been informed that it will require a much stronger than normal mage to make it."

"What about many?" someone asked.

"No, we can't risk their being seams in the wall for it to work through. Not on something as important at this." Dothwin stared down at his map, gaze cold.

"So what exactly are you suggesting then?" Vilia said. "The stronger mages within the Order are too important to be sacrificed for this, and good luck finding a rogue who gives a shit."

"I am aware." Dothwin didn't look up at her. "I have another course of action in mind."

"What?" Lord Balis asked.

"My son."

The icy fingers at the back of his neck sharpened, wrapping their way around to clench his throat and slide down into the pit of his stomach.

"Your son?" Disgust slowly spread over Vilia's elven features.

A woman stepped back from the table, a looked to mirror Vilia's covering her face. "He's only a boy," she whispered.

Anril's fingers squeezed into the fabric in his hand. It tore with a soft sound, a slow shaking working up his arm. He took a step back, the drape coming with him before he remembered to release it. It floated back into place as he took another step away, eyes fixed on the obscured table.

"I am aware," Dothwin said. His voice was so flat. Almost empty. Could he really not care so much? So much he could talk about killing him without losing his cool edge. The floor tilted under Anril's feet. "I'm also aware that there are very few choices and even less resources."

"How could you ask your son this?" The woman demanded, taking a step further from him. "Have you told his mother?"

"I see no reason for her to know," Dothwin said. He straightened from the table, folding his hands in front of himself. "She would only worry and grieve." Anril swallowed, the tightness in his throat turning thick and sickening. Everything spun to the left as he edged away. "Besides," Dothwin continued, "It's not like she carried the boy."

"She loves him as her son," the woman whispered. "You know she does."

Her soft words slid straight into his belly, curdling there. Anril swayed. His hands fumbled for the pillar, feet jerking a step forwards as he used it to catch himself. The muscles in his legs shook. He lowered himself to his knees before they could buckle under him. Cold seeped up from the stones and through his robe into them. His teeth clicked together and he clenched his jaw to stop it.

The floor tipped under his palms like the deck of a storm tossed ship.

''...Cannot believe you," he heard the woman say, her voice farther away than before and echoey.

"He won't even know what is going to happen. Do you think I would leave a choice like this up to a boy? He will be there and in place and before he understands what's happening it will be over. Painless."

"Your son." The voice rose with fury, growing tinny at the edges of the words, as if they spoke into a metal cup.

"I'm aware of what he is, I am aware of all these things," Dothwin said, muffled and barely audible. "More importantly, I'm aware of the importance of making choices in power. And this is one of the only ones we can afford. He is stronger than the others. Strong enough to make a hundred miles of wall, and not vital to us as someone higher in the Order and better trained. Hard choices are easier if you can be pragmatic about them."

Their voices blurred together, the stone tiles under his fingers losing their shape. They turned in a slow circle from beneath his hands. Faster. Faster.

He's going to kill me.

Most older mages gave themselves into strengthening the shielded cities. Mages who's lives were ending. Mages who'd lived.

Not children.

Not him.

It all washed up over him in a sharp wave. Anril curled forwards, gagging.

She loves him as a son.

He pressed a hand over his mouth around another retch. A sob caught against his palm with a muted sound.

She loves him as a son.

Anril's sides heaved inwards with another gag. Vomit dribbled out from between his fingers, hitting the floor in a noisy splatter.

His hand slapped into the floor again to catch him as everything tipped. The stones shook.

He shook.

Silence filled the counsel room. He could feel the absence of everyone now. When had the meeting ended?

She loves him as a son.

Anril vomited again. His palms dug into the tiles, fingers curling to catch their groove as his stomach emptied itself. Panting, he drew a leg up, struggling to get it under himself. Nausea gripped him like a fist.

The room danced around him, his feet unsteady beneath him. Standing still, he stared at the floor, body shaking. Sharp, sob cut breaths sliced over him, making it impossible to get his breathing back.

He had to run. Leave the capital. Where? A sob shook his whole body, catching itself up in a burning cough.

To his mother. If he made it to Towerwatch somehow she'd protect him. She would send Dothwin into a fiery grave if she had to. He knew she would.

Anril backed away from the mess on the floor. Turning, he fled the way he'd come. She would protect him.

Fumbling, he pawed his belt pouch open, fingers digging into the second pocket. The dull silver metal pinched between his fingers pressed into itself and made an awkward leaf from the soft shavings. Anril dropped it into his mouth. Swallowed.

The nausea turned into a knife. He swallowed again, fighting back the urge to be sick again. Anril leaned the side of his head into the wall, forcing a longer breath as he waited for it to pass. Icy pressure built in his stomach, slowly spreading. It moved through him, consuming the nausea with a hungry greed. Leaking into his fingers, it turned them cold.

Anril pushed off the wall, shaking hand tracing a quick symbol across the stones of the corner. Wavering green lines followed his fingers. They lingered in the air, then the stone sucked them in sharply and they vanished with a flash.

He stepped through the wall.

I hope you've enjoyed this chapter! If you have questions or want to rant about how mean I am to my characters (or give me mean ideas for them, mwa haha) the comments are always open. Tell me what you think :3