Delford

The trail led Cyrus and Sylven through the field for the next three days, until they spotted a small village, picketed with fences and pens. The houses themselves were built from stone, and mud, with thatch roofs, and short chimneys. 

As they approached, a low horn resounded through the air, followed by shouts and slamming doors. Startled, the two stopped, and looked around. All of the villagers had vanished from view, their tools and supplies left scattered on the ground.

Cyrus frowned. "Did we do something wrong?"

Sylven shrugged. "It's possible. Let's wait here, and see what happens."

They removed their packs, and set them off to the side. A minute later, the thump of hooves shook the ground as a group of men rode out, and encircled them. They're gazes were wary, and a few carried bows, with quivers draped over their shoulders. The youngest aged roughly around sixteen, while the oldest appeared to be in his sixties. He appeared to lead the group, as the others would glance at him from time to time.

Finally, the old man spoke, his voice calm, but firm. "Travelers. My name is Levent, and the village behind me is Delford. What brings you here?"

"We're looking for food, shelter, horses, and directions to Phislock," Sylven said. "Can you help us?"

"Perhaps, but times are dangerous, and we'll need to examine you for signs of black magic before letting you in," Levent said. He urged his black steed forward a few steps, and shifted his cold eyes between Sylven and Cyrus. "Forgive my rudeness, but would you mind showing me the skin beneath your nails?"

Sylven stretched out his hands, and Levent examined them before nodding and turning to Cyrus. "And you?"

Cyrus pulled back his cloak, revealing the pale grey skin of his right arm, which had hardened into stone. When he tried to move it, the muscles grinded against one another, like two whetstone being rubbed together.

The men gasped, and backed off, their horses nickering and shaking their heads. A young man raised his bow, notching an arrow, and glancing around nervously. Cyrus froze, staring at the tip of the arrow pointed towards his chest. 

"Falmyn. Lower your arrow," Levent said. He glared at the young man, until he released the tension of the string, and set the bow on his legs, then turned back to Cyrus and Sylven. "Apologies. We're a bit on edge at the moment. Those cursed with stone skin usually lose their minds, and attack others. We've dealt with three cases so far, and we'd rather not have another."

"Wait, there have been more like me?" Cyrus asked, furrowing his brow. "What happened to them?"

"The first case we had was four months ago, when one of our children stumbled across a stone turtle along the river bank. After bringing it back, he became sick, with bloodshot eyes, and black tar beneath his nails." 

Levent ran a wrinkled hand through his hair. "We sent word to Phislock, hoping to acquire the aid of the alchemist, but it seems we're not the only ones dealing with this. In the end, the boy attacked his mother, before running off into the fields. We found him a few days later, petrified in a similar way as your arm is."

"We came across a stone woman three days south from here. Was she also from your village?" Sylven asked. 

Levent nodded. "Indeed. She was the daughter of our blacksmith, and left of her own will. She hoped to escape before the madness took her, so I'm glad to learn she succeeded."

"What about us? What will happen to us now?" Cyrus asked.

Levent studied him, then sighed. "I'm afraid we can't allow you into the village, but you're welcome to spend the night here, along the edge. We'll bring you firewood and supper, but if you need anything else, you'll need to let one of us know, and pay for it as you normally would."

"What about the horses?" Sylven asked. He retrieved his coin purse. "I'm certain we have enough to purchase them as well."

Levent shook his head. "We can't afford to sell them. In times like this, we need to be ready to leave at any moment. I hope you understand."

"We do," Sylven said. He crossed his arms. "And the directions to Phislock? Can you at least provide those?"

"We can, but…" Levent scratched the stubble along his chin. "I'm certain they wouldn't allow you to enter either. The kingdom has been on high alert ever since this curse began to spread. You can't even get past the front gate without being thoroughly examined."

"We'll take our chances," Cyrus said. "There's someone there we need to meet."

Levent furrowed his brow. "Very well. I'll have one of my men draw up a map over the night. For now, why don't you get situated, and we'll bring you some supper."

"Thank you," Cyrus said. 

The men pulled back, returning to the village. As they slipped through the buildings, a few of the men split off, and remained near the outskirts, keeping an eye on Cyrus and Sylven. Overhead, the sky turned a bright red and pink as the sun set on the horizon, its final rays streaming through the clouds.

"I suppose that could have gone worse," Cyrus said. He sat next to his pack, and retrieved his water skin. "But say, has petrification always been a widespread curse?"

Sylven stared up at the sky. "No. This is the first I'm hearing of it, though I fear it won't be the last. I'll need to send word to Master Myrel as soon as we arrive in Phislock. He'll be interested to hear about it."

…

When morning came, Levent, and a few others emerged from the village, and dropped off the items and supplies they requested. They were also given a crude map, which revealed the kingdom of Phislock two days to the north, along with several other small villages nearby.

Cyrus stood back as Sylven handled the payment, aware of the villagers watching him. Their wariness had persisted throughout the night, and at least one carried a bow at all times. Fortunately, no one besides the young man from the previous day had notched an arrow, but he knew it would only take one wrong move.

"I apologize for sending you on your way like this, but I trust you can understand," Levent said. He climbed back into his saddle, and gripped the reins. "When you reach Phislock, be careful of the guards. They've been known to be harsh to outsiders, long before this mess even started."

"We'll keep our guards up," Sylven said. He hoisted their packs onto his shoulder, and motioned for Cyrus to follow. 

Cyrus waved farewell as they left, but only Levent waved back. Sighing, he pulled back his gaze.

"Let's hope we have better luck in Phislock," Cyrus said. "I'd rather not be turned away there as well."

"If it comes down to it, we'll sneak you in," Sylven said. He glanced worriedly at Cyrus. "How does your arm feel anyway?"

Cyrus grinned. "To be honest, I can't feel it anymore. No pain, nothing. It's only a bit of weight, barely noticeable."

"I see…" Sylven furrowed his brow. "Let me know if anything changes."

Cyrus nodded, and the two continued on their way, now following a worn dirt road, across the seemingly endless sea of plains. Far off in the distance, the sun peeked over the mountain tops, its light glistening off the dew coated wheat.

Over the next two days, Cyrus and Sylven walked from dawn to dusk, stopping only to rest their legs here and there. Despite their continuous push onwards, their journey was slowed by Cyrus's condition, which worsened each hour.

His movement became sluggish, and his skin burned, as though he had stood too close to the fire. Both his vision and sense of hearing began to fail him as well, as the world became blurry, and sounds were muffled. 

The only way he knew he was going forward was because Sylven guided him onwards, leading him to some distant destination as his thoughts darted in and out of focus. Before he knew it, the third day had come, but by then he could see no more than a pale grey wall built before him.

"Cyrus… Can you hear me?"

Sylven's voice brushed against his ears, but it sounded as though there was a door between them, dampening his voice. Cyrus tried to speak, but his dry mouth and lead tongue made it difficult to form the words. 

"It's alright. You don't need to respond. Here, why don't you sit down for a moment," Sylven said. A dark shadow passed before Cyrus, and he felt himself being guided to the ground. "Listen. We made it to Phislock, but at our pace, it'll take us several more hours to get there. By the time we do, it'll be too late, and the gates will have been shut."

Sylven paused, and his shadow leaned back. "I think I should go on alone. I can make it in time, and when I get there, I'll find Lewn, and figure out a way to come back for you. Do you think you can last a few more hours, and wait for me?"

"If you must…" Cyrus finally said, his voice hoarse, and scraping against his throat. His head pounded as he spoke, pulsing with each word. Still, he pressed on. "But… be quick. I'm not certain… how much longer…"

"I'll do what I can," Sylven said.

Cyrus felt Sylven squeeze his shoulder, then a gust of wind wrapped around them, and the young man was gone. To ease his wait, Cyrus leaned back, falling into the lush grass beside the road. 

The sun warmed his skin, and he spread his arms out as far as they could go, allowing the soft summer breeze to slip through his tunic. His mind weighed heavily under the lull of rustling leaves and chirping nest nellows, whose bright orange feathers shone through the thick grey mist obscuring his gaze.

Then even that faded, dropping him into a cold and deep darkness, with no end in sight.