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A MOST DEADLY CURE - Free short story
A twist in the road, a terrifying dead end. Taryn Cardel visits Sunhollow Citadel for the first time; not to explore the riches and soak up the grandeur, but to heal the sick and treat the wounded.
Taryn is a herbalist fae, one who has been guided by one of the best apothecaries in Jarethsia. But she quickly discovers the training she received is nothing against the Archfell plague.
Will she be able to save the remaining residences? or will the plague claim more victims?
This story takes place ahead of the Between Shadows and Suns series.
A MOST
DEADLY
CURE
A free
BETWEEN SHADOWS AND SUNS
short story
by Sophie M. King
Copyright © 2026 by Sophie M. King
All rights reserved.
No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except for brief quotes used in reviews or articles.
No generative Artificial Intelligence (AI) was used in the writing of this work. The author expressly prohibits any entity from using this publication to train AI technologies to generate text, including, without limitation, technologies capable of generating works in the same style or genre as this publication.
This is a work of fiction, Any similarities to actual persons, living or dead, or real events are purely coincidental.
Beta read by: Ty King, William Lee, Kiran Sundal
Formatted by: Sophie M. King
Cover art by: Sophie M. King
Published by: Focus Bound Press
THE SICK
•
Cobbled stones clip the horse’s hooves as we approach the glorious towering citadel of Sunhollow. I’ve been to many towns and cities during my time as an apothecary but never a place of such magnitude and grandeur. Neither have I ever met somebody with as much importance as Lord Solstice. I know I’m here to treat the sick, but I can't help but feel a little bit giddy at how my ability to heal has brought me to such an incredible place.
The walls of the citadel gleam brilliant white and yellow as though even the sun can’t penetrate its walls; bouncing off it, radiating a warm glow. The main building is busy, a hive of activity, but everyone seems to know exactly what they should be doing and precisely where. We move past a group of guards, each standing in shining white armour, just as lustrous as the walls of the citadel itself. One of them nods towards me and the coach driver as we press forward past the immaculate gardens and courtyards.
There’s little in the way of flowers, but the lack of colour from petals is replaced with vibrant, luscious foliage in various shapes and hues that dance in the day's breeze. I could see myself living here—if only I were to be offered the chance.
We roll on, under pale brick archways that lead to a sunkissed outdoor seating area. Ahead of us the path splits in two, the left leading further into the highly esteemed upper district of Sunhollow; Marelith. The right heading toward Archfell, Sunhollow’s poorer district. I can barely steel my excitement at the luxuries I may experience, I have heard so many charming details and wonderful shops within the district. Imagining the chambers, the dinners, the shops, all put a huge child-like grin on my face. That is, until the cart pivots right.
“Miss Cardel, we should put our masks on now, we’re nearly there,” explains the coach driver as he shifts the reins under one knee to pull a leather face covering over his head—complete with a prepared packet containing a concoction of herbs, citrus rinds and spices. He rests the packet between his nose and lips as the crown-to-chin face covering rolls past his ears.
“But what of Marelith?” I ask, my heart already sinking.
“We must report here first, mask on please.”
I waste no time, fitting the mask to my face quickly, ensuring the circular lenses on the front are smear-free before I pull it over my head, smothering my long brown hair—it could be hours before I am able to remove it again. It's tight and uncomfortable, compressing against every part of my face and head, forcing reality to set in as nerves bubble in my gut at the prospect of Archfell. I've treated many sick people, but none have required this level of protection.
"State your business," speaks a glistening guard standing in front of a tall double-width metal gate. I can't see past him and the rest of his troop who command the gate.
"I am here to escort Miss Cardel. It won't take long," my driver says, his voice firm and calm—he's done this countless times before.
The guard nods once, then the gate is unlocked with a clank but remains closed. Two guards' approach from either side, with little consideration they begin rifling through my bags, boxes, and cases.
"Do you mind?" I ask disgustedly, pawing at my belongings to protect them as they begin throwing my clothing and tools across the cart's seating. "What is it you are looking for?"
"People try to sneak unlawful goods through all the time. You're not special, Miss." His voice is unamused as he throws my hand off my bag.
I scoff, which earns me a glare from his shadowed grey eyes. His brow twitches, and he returns to upending my carefully organised luggage.
"Clear. Move on!" He says abruptly.
"Satisfied?" I sneer, collecting my bottles, rolled up notes, and wrapped ingredients before shoving them into the packs frantically, desperate to prevent them rolling or smashing.
He grunts, then swirls his finger in a circle. The gate creaks open as it swings on its slightly rusted hinges. I take another look back at the beautiful, evenly cut lawns and bubbling water fountains of Sunhollow’s gardens. My eyes trace the path toward the upper district of Marelith, before I can finish imagining a relaxed morning stroll through the thoroughfare, the cart's wheels churn into motion, rocking me with unease through the gates and onto the main road of Archfell.
I can finally see in; take in the state of the buildings, the ruin that should be a comfortable district, the dying people staggering the streets.
"Wait, I was never told it would be—"
The gate slams shut behind me. I startle, dropping a pot of ink. The lock mechanism clanks the moment the two metal doors touch.
"Driver? They will let us out, won't they? I didn’t anticipate Archfell to be in such a state."
"I hope so, Miss Cardel. I never signed up to such hostility!" His voice is muffled, and I wonder if mine sounds the same. My hot heavy breath has already started to steam up the lenses, but I don't dare to wipe it free.
"Help me... please help me..." A man staggers over, clawing at the edge of the cart, his face more boils than skin. His tongue is grey and his eyes pitted. He also must not have washed this month—the shirt he's wearing has huge crescents of sweat under each arm. "Please..." He breaks into a cough that doubles him over, eyes bulging and shoulders jerking.
Before I can respond, the cart's driver sets the dapple-grey horse into a trot.
"Miss Cardel, you may be used to this sort of thing—but I'm not. I need to drop you off and insist on my leave. I didn't agree to this as part of my transport services."
It pains me to move away from someone begging for my aid, but I know I need help shifting my bags and cases, so I nod.
Based on the sight of that man, I already begin looking through my notes, correlating them with the extensive inventory list I prepared—I grit my teeth. Every item was listed by the vessel it was contained in, the guard made quick work of ensuring that system would be of no use now.
I hear people gasping, children crying, rattling coughs, groans of agony. I must ignore it, just for the moment. Knowingly forcing myself to turn a blind eye only makes my hearing keener. I hear a child, a boy, calling for me to check his mother. I bite my lip before I look up, squinting as though it will lessen the guilt.
"Are you a doctor?" The boy calls, "Please... My mother... She's dying." He's standing under the house's porch next to a puddle of brown-green sludge, and a younger girl—probably his sister—appears from behind him. The girl looks well, albeit a little malnourished, with a fair complexion and fine blond ringlets of hair. The boy's hair is brown and unkempt, and his cheeks are flushed with a rash. His slender legs are almost as thin as his arms.
"What's your name?" I call out as the horse continues to trot.
"Wesner... Please help us!"
"I will Wesner, I'll be back, I promise."
"Be careful!" He steps away from the wall of his house to run beside me, "My Dadda's brain has been affected. He's not himself... He's turned scary."
"Thank you, Wesner." I overpronounce my words, aware that the mask is making my voice distorted. "Get back to your mother, make sure she's drinking."
Stunned, I'm unable to return my concentration back to research. My stomach twists in knots, my heart thumps. I force myself to look at what it is I now must tackle. The streets are filthy; covered in discarded rubbish, potential bodily fluids, and mud. There are people stumbling and swaying as they walk the streets like I’ve entered some sort of reanimated crypt. Every house we pass is in a state of disrepair, windows smashed—if the home even had them, walls covered in moss and grime, dead plants, piles of ash and coal, and soiled fabric.
We turn down a narrow road, the houses are much the same, but the walkway is sparse of life. At the end I see what I suspect is the allocated place for treating the Archfell plague. I try to focus on the bright white that covers part of the floor up ahead. The lightness of it dazzles my eyes against the brown, green, and grey of the district. We press forward until I see some men dressed in deep brown wearing masks similar to my own. They are carrying a white sheet as though it had a thin table under it. They place it on the ground. That's when I notice the sheet clinging to the motionless form of a human.
THE TRUTH
• •
My heart stops. The cart driver lets a wail slip from his mouth before he can muffle it. One of the masked individuals looks up to me before walking over, patting the grey horse on its neck with their leather-gloved hand as they get closer. I feel nauseous.
"Ah, finally. You must be the apothecary Lord Solstice requested?" His voice sounds like a muffled combination of surprise and relief as he offers the coach driver an acquainted nod.
“Uh, yes…” My voice is a whisper, "There were no mentions of people dying in the notes I received."
"Indeed, it was Lord's decision, he has the final say in what gets passed forward."
I ask the question I don't feel prepared to hear the answer to as I look down to the sheet-covered bodies. "How many?"
"This month?"
My mind instantly voids itself of thoughts at his response—I didn't expect it. "No... uh—total."
"We didn't count at the beginning, but this is number 287 from when we began counting during..."
My ears ring, drowning out the remainder of his words. At least 287 people have died, and I have been sent to try and prevent more.
"Where do they go?" My voice is flat; I can't bring myself to feel anything.
"There are multiple pits, we cycle through them. It's the safest way."
"You 'cycle through them'?"
"Yes, when they are burnt. It's the only way we've found to prevent the spread from the dead to the living."
I hold my stomach, begging it to keep hold of its contents.
"May I?" The man asks, holding out his arm to offer me assistance with disembarking.
I shake my head; I don't want to touch his hand. I push to stand, but my legs have the stability of ribbon and I stumble. I catch myself and turn, climbing off the cart.
"The infected..." I ask, trying my best to stop staring at the shape of someone who was living but now isn't under a veil of white fabric, "Where are they? Do they all stay in their homes?"
"Most of them. We are overrun in the infirmary, in fact, the severely ill are—"
He stops talking, interrupting his own train of thought. "Sorry, I never told you my name. I am Doctor Ruddel."
"Taryn Cardel." There's an accidental cheeriness to my voice—instinctive politeness. I instantly grimace, worrying that I come across unaffected by the grave situation we’re in.
"Please, Come Miss Taryn, I'll have someone grab your things."
I nod and follow Doctor Ruddel into the infirmary like a well-trained, terrified dog.
• • • • •
The only noise louder than the doctors and apothecaries charging around frantically in the infirmary is the guttural groans and rattling shrieks of the patients.
A nurse approaches me with an open-backed leather coat the same as the doctors; sliding the sleeves over my hands and arms before twirling behind me to tighten it from the back.
"Pull this taught enough that you can't get a finger through, but you can still breathe," she commands as she slips a wide leather collar around my neck and across my shoulders—I assume it's to seal the gap between the leather back-laced buff coat and the mask. She's wearing the same attire with paled grey hair protruding from below the mask's ties, and a weathered look in her eyes that tells me she has seen too much foulness to carry a natural smile.
I ask her name. She looks to Doctor Ruddel before whispering, "Nurse Sander." She lifts a finger to her lips as though encouraging me to be silent.
I wait for the doctor to finish talking with another nurse before I step over to him. "Doctor Ruddel, you were speaking about the seriously ill patients, and the over-occupied infirmary."
"Ahh, yes, we are facing terrible times here, but it's important to remember that we can only do so much. Even if it's just keeping someone comfortable in their final days."
I nod. I hate that it makes sense.
"Keep your head down, Miss Taryn, and your mind focused. We are desperate for fresh ideas. I'll take you through the east wing. They are... the least sick of the people here."
I wish he hadn't told me that; 'the least sick'.
The first patient I see is so badly inflicted by the plague that their skin sags between protruding bones. I gasp. I didn't expect it, and I wonder just how sick people can become before the relief of death graces them. Looking at the person before me laying still on the cot, I assume based on height and hair length alone that it must be a man, his face is so contorted with pain and his features disfigured by pustules. It's hard to tell if he is still alive, patches of skin have become slick, sliding off his arms. Pus and gunk ooze from the flesh that has managed to stay attached, and his eyes are pale milky blue.
"Is he..."
"Alive? Yes, but barely," Doctor Ruddel says with a heavy sigh, "He entered a state of catalepsy a few days ago, he's not moved since. Tell me, Miss Taryn, what do you notice?"
I stare at the Doctor, attempting to come up with an answer to his question. My thoughts increasingly distracted by the horrifying sights and harrowing sounds, forgetting that I am in fact here to somehow treat the patients. I shake my head, trying to bring myself back into focus.
Taking a reserved step closer, I investigate around his wrists, his neck, his temples. Scanning the areas where veins are more visible. Bright purple and red lines of ruptured vessels bloom over most parts of his skin where rashes and boils are not residing.
"Inflamed lymph nodes? Swollen glands?" I ask, letting the apothecary in me take over.
The doctor nods.
"Vomiting?"
"Green and black bile. Some streaks of fresh blood."
"When did he come in? His condition on being admitted?"
The doctor looks to Nurse Sander. She steps forward to answer, "He arrived two weeks ago. Unable to stand, heaving for breath, a constant feeling of dread, and vomiting blood clots. Poor soul."
She sounds honestly sad for him. I'm glad, but it surprises me, given how distanced Doctor Ruddel seems.
"What about the west wing? If this is mild… what of the patients there?"
"Not part of your obligation here. You have no reason or authority to go down that hall."
"But I—"
"Head down, Miss Cardel."
I swallow, accepting his response, but the words don't sit right with me. 'No reason or authority.'
We walk along the rows of beds, discussing lumps, rashes, fevers, stools, and hysteria—all of which are symptoms the patients share between them. A woman is crying so hard she vomits, nothing the nurses do seems to ease her suffering at all. Her husband died of a ruptured spleen shortly after having feverish symptoms.
"Next we have..." He looks for the name tag on the man's ankle, "Ah... Edmund."
"What are his symptoms?"
"Uh, err, terribly sorry, Miss Taryn." He says, placing a hand on Edmund's neck. "We—we can't save them all."
"You mean he's—" My chest heaves looking at the man's face. His lips have turned a purplish-blue and his cheeks are sunken in.
Doctor Ruddel nods as he pulls the bed sheet up and over Edmund's face before tearing the ankle name tag from his leg.
"Assistant, if you please."
Three men hurry over to Edmund, helping Doctor Ruddel lift the sheet he lay on as they carry his body toward the door.
"Nurse... show Miss Taryn... her room," he says between strained grunts.
He doesn't seem bothered at all. Perhaps I need to give him more credit, maybe he has forced himself to detach.
Doctor Ruddel stumbles on a pile of stained sheets in the doorway, a fabric pouch slips from his leather belt. Nobody else notices, busy either carrying Edmund out or refreshing the bedding. I pick up the pouch; a corner has slipped loose from the leather strap. I nearly drop it upon seeing its contents. There are three dried flowerheads and a collection of tiny, pitted seeds. The flowers are pitcher-shaped, with five, pointed petals that have gone rigid, almost woody. I would recognise this fatal flower anywhere. Henbane. I look around me, checking that nobody saw me pick it up before I place it back on the floor.
"Everything alright, Miss Taryn?" Doctor Ruddel is behind me.
Startled, I turn quickly, nodding. "Fine. I'm fine, Doctor."
He cocks his head. "It's okay to be affected by their passing, it's an incredibly traumatic time." His plain expression doesn't match his sentiment.
I nod again.
"Your things have been taken to your room."
“My room?” Until now I had assumed I would be sleeping elsewhere, but I suppose sleeping where I am to perform research and tests makes the most sense.
• • • • •
I’m greeted by all my bags and belongings when I arrive at my room. I have the sleeping quarters on the furthest left-hand side of the corridor after walking up the tired-looking spiral staircase. I try to stifle my surprise that the walls, carpets, and wooden features could do with some maintenance, there is an entire plague going on just outside—and inside—these walls after all. I scan the room, unsurprised by its contents; a small, single-occupancy bed pushed to one corner next to a nightstand with a sleeping candle, a dark-wood desk and stall under a wide window, a large chest of drawers, and an alchemist workbench which looks misaligned as though it were placed last minute.
“Miss Taryn, is everything in order?” Doctor Ruddel’s deep voice cuts through to my spine, pulling me up straight.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t hear you come up the stairs. Uh... I'm fine. I do appear to be missing my—”
“This?” He asks, handing over my canvas satchel.
I’m confused as to why he’s holding it, how it failed to arrive with the rest of my belongings, but he quickly explains what happened.
“It fell off the wagon when we were all rallying around to organise Edmund’s removal. I’ll leave you to settle, and if there’s anything else, don’t hesitate to say.”
I smile, thanking Doctor Ruddel as he closes the door on his way out. I waste no time checking the contents of the satchel, there's something about Doctor Ruddel that feels off. I can’t place why, but his presence makes me uneasy.
My notes, diagrams, ingredient lists, recipes, and even my writing equipment is all in the satchel as it should be. But I can’t find my diary. Tightness creeps across my chest. I’ve kept a diary and written in it every day since my father passed. It was one of the last things he gifted me—I’m sure he didn't know at the time just how valuable of a present it would become.
I can’t help but feel foolish that I didn’t bring a spare but then I didn’t think I would need one. Writing in my diary has become something that feels like I’m talking directly to my father. It helps me feel like he’s still here, and in a district greyed with plague and distorted by wildly unconventional practices, I feel like this is the perfect time to use it.
A thought flashes through my memory; the guards ransacking my belongings. I begin methodically unpacking every bag, sack, and chest in the hopes the diary has ended up in there. In the second from last sack, I find it; the dog-eared, well-thumbed diary that has become a pillar for my mind's health. I flick to the last entry:
Dearest Father,
In just one day's time I will be arriving at Sunhollow! I can hardly believe it. I would suggest it's hard for you to believe too, but you always told me that I was capable of the unthinkable when I dared to imagine it.
I really think I can make a difference, and the training I've received at home has me more excited than nervous to visit such a prominent place. I just hope I do everything Elder Marqui taught me justice. She said I had the most promise out of any herbalist fairy that she has seen in many-dozen winters.
The next time I write to you, I will have arrived. I can't wait!
With love,
Your Tary
A bitter-sweet smile I can't shift takes over my lips. I really have made it. If only my father had been here to see it.
Flicking through the pages, I go past various notes and information I felt were important to share with my father, and every address to him at the top picks up my heart a little. I feel his pride wrap around me. Walking over to the desk with a feathered quill and inkpot from my bag, I moisten the tip with black ink before filling in today's entry:
Dearest Father,
I made it! I finally did it. I must admit things aren't as I expected. In fact, the prognosis is rather horrifying of this plague I am here to treat—I've already had to witness somebody who has passed, and I fear he won't be the last, but I know with Elder Marqui's guidance, and your protection, I will be okay.
I didn't get to enter the citadel, or Marelith for that matter, though they both look incredible from my window. I am fortunate enough at least to be positioned in a way that I get to see them from my writing desk. Perhaps when the threat has decreased, they will invite me to dinner. How thrilling would that be?
The doctor I am stationed with; Doctor Ruddel also has this air about him that has the hairs on the back of my neck crawling every time he looks at me, but I have put it down to my first-day dreads.
Most of all, I'm hoping to make a difference here, and save some very unfortunate, desperate people.
With love,
Tary
My throat grows stricken, this venture isn't what I had hoped it would be so far, and the idea of going downstairs again has my nerves in tatters. But I must swallow that fear. I can't help if I am on the wrong side of hope.
• • • • •
Over the following days, I have been stunned and horrified to see the treatment issued and approved toward the sick and infirm.
A few were covered in boiling cloth in an attempt to shrink the pustules. Others screamed until their lungs collapsed inside their ribs as doctors watched. Some even had limbs removed with bone saws whilst awake and unmedicated—and that was just the ones they tried to save, most were left to die. Alone, and in agonising pain.
Unable to assist the patients as I still learn their specific practices, a selfish kind of pain creeps over my skin from having to witness their distress. As though I was being punished and forced to take in all of their suffering. I attempted to step in when a woman inflicted by delirium was slapped across the face by Doctor Ruddel, but he swiftly turned the back of his hand toward me. I quickly learnt then to scream on the inside, and show no emotion on my face.
All of this I’ve been forced to stand by and watch without ever being asked for my expertise or input. There have been a select few patients who appear mostly well, save for the delirium stripping them of their wits, and I am most surprised by the fact those very patients are all taken straight to the west wing.
I look at Doctor Ruddel with a perplexed expression as he approves the transport of yet another comparatively well patient. She is only running a slight fever and showing the onset of delirium, nothing that would have been viewed as more than a urine infection, and certainly nothing when compared to the condition of the plague-stricken patients.
"Why is she going?" I steel the nerves to ask.
"She won't make it." Doctor Ruddel responds, looking down to check something on his notes.
"These other patients seem far more unwell than she is—you said the west wing was for the worst of the ill. I don't—"
"I never said that. I said it was not your obligation. It would do you well not to ask questions. They will lead to answers you don’t need, Miss Taryn."
"But why her?"
"She will need different treatment; she will change, become less... predictable. Now, go see if Mrs Liber's bedpan needs emptying, will you?"
In my mind I scoff, externally however I comply. My diary digs into my hip as I bend over to collect the bedpan. Ever since I thought I lost it a few days ago, I haven't let it leave my person. I have found out more horrors from examining the medicinal workers here than I could have done watching the sick.
I can hear the young female patient being dragged through the doors to the west wing, her screams and punches as she hits at the walls, then an almighty thud as her feet slip away, causing her skull to collide with the floor. The assistants don't stop, dragging her motionless body along and out of sight. That's when I decide, I can't ignore it, at the next opportunity, I must find out what occurs in the west wing for myself. It's not like my training has been needed here beyond cleaning out bedpans and vomit buckets.
• • • • •
A few days turn into two weeks, and I am still trying to find my feet here. My supplies remain unused, my notes still not explored. I have begun to wonder why I am still here. I think of the boy I rode past when I first arrived, Wesner. I hope he is okay, and his sister, that they are eating and not in pain, or worse: having to hand over the lifeless bodies of their parents. I shake my head in an attempt to shift those thoughts; they won't help me here. Before I head down for the morning shift, I write another page in my diary.
Dear Father,
Things are worse than I feared. These people have such little hope, and what's worse is the blind faith they place upon the doctors and nurses. I am yet to find one that seems decent, except for Nurse Sander.
She has been nothing but kind, at times she seems as distressed as I am by the state of some of the patients. She said it was sweet that I keep this diary and write to you, which was nice to hear—she said she may start doing the same for her deceased husband.
I presume she is having a few days off from the infirmary, I've not seen her since the crazed female patient was dragged into the west wing. She looked just as displeased as I felt. I wonder if she said something to Doctor Ruddel and he asked for her to see over the woman's care.
I hope today is finally the day I get to start putting my own experience into the patient's recovery.
With love,
Your Tary
• • • • •
Something defiant comes over me and I can't ignore the curiosity any longer. Before I can stop myself, I'm down the stairs and checking around me before opening the doors to the west wing. The fact it's not locked surprises me, making me take pause, but I push on regardless.
My heart hammers in my chest as the door softly closes behind me and I am met with a dimly lit corridor. Someone has already been here this morning; the torches are already lit. Perhaps rounds begin early in the west wing. The checks performed during the night in the other areas are done solely under candlelight.
I hear someone screeching, their voice a demented, desperate howl in the echoey corridor. There are multiple doors either side, but there's one which has been left ajar about halfway down. My breath fogs the lenses of my mask far quicker than upstairs as each ragged breath mists them in crescents of white.
Pushing the door, the sound of it creaking makes my eyes widen, before my view lands on the young woman I watched being dragged down here. She's whimpering, shivering. She turns to look at me, her eyes bloodshot and full of terror. I step forward, shushing her as I hold up my hands to show I mean no harm—a commonly needed approach when dealing with patients of delirium—she shakes her head, the movements becoming more rapid with every step I take. There are notes next to her on a table. I glance over them:
Test 1:
The patient's heart rhythm is stable. Fever is still present, but blood pressure is within an acceptable range. Increase dosage of bacterium by one unit and temper with one poppy milk draught.
Test 2:
The patient was violently sick after consuming poppy milk, seek out alternatives. Fever has worsened, and the patient is now showing signs of involuntary movement. Facial tremor also present. No sign of severe adverse effects from bacterium. Continue to monitor.
Test 3:
The patient has begun to complain of pains in her legs. A dose of mandrake has been provided along with another unit of bacterium. Watch for increased pain and the arrival of the first pustules near lymph nodes.
My stomach twists. I scan frantically over the pages as I try to process each horrifying detail quickly. Suddenly, the word 'Successful' brings my vision back into focus. With seeping dread I continue reading the rest of the note:
Test 17:
The patient has begun to exhibit the full effects of the bacterium's infection. Continue to treat pain with dwale. The pustules have almost entirely stopped spreading; the patient is uncomfortable but compliant. Her skin is yellowing and vessels have started to bloom. Continue to monitor before attempting cross-contamination effects. Intentional infection without accidental death is finally successful.
My heart stops under the weight of the situation. The beats halt entirely for a few moments before returning at a rib-pounding speed, pulsating within my ears. They are intentionally making the patients sicker. Testing them. Destroying them. I grab the notes, folding them and placing them into my diary. I jot down a few notes before the gasps from the woman sends a shockwave of panic through me and I stop writing mid-sentence. "I'll be back," I whisper as I slip the diary back into my waistband and turn toward the door.
"Miss Taryn," Doctor Ruddel’s voice hits me with a cold slickness as he shakes his head, "I had so hoped you would have had better self-control than this." He grabs me; the arms that have helped carry countless dead bodies are stronger than I anticipate.
Twisting, I try to break myself free. Our legs fold into one another as we wrestle. Squirming in an attempt to fall free, his knee strikes my chest. Air escapes my lungs, every breath I try to draw in is empty. He stays firm, silent as I whimper.
I can't break free of his grip.
"You know too much, Taryn. Pity. We were starting to enjoy having you work with us."
Before I can respond, he's shushing me while rifling behind him in a cabinet. I twist and jerk, screaming out, but I can't get out of his hold. Our feet shuffle along the stone floor. The patient in front of me shakes her head and clamps her eyes shut just as I see the glint of a needle next to my arm. I flick out of the clutches of his hand just as the shaft of the needle pricks into my skin.
THE CURE
• • •
My muscles quake. I can't fight the chill as it freezes my bones, even as my skin feels set ablaze. My teeth are in agony, and I want to rip them from my gums. I wonder if this could be what delirium feels like.
I have started to realise there is no cure, no help that I have seen. I am visited daily—sometimes twice a day—by Doctor Ruddel. That man ignites a fear in me that I have never experienced in my life. He insists that he had no choice in infecting me, though I can tell from the hostility of the man that there’s no guilt about what he did.
"Why?" I whisper to him on his latest of many 'test' visits—I have counted six so far.
He laughs, before appearing to ponder the question, placing the quill onto the table, "With a plague like this, there is a great responsibility to control it, master it, be one with it. Tell me, Taryn, do you feel in control of it?"
I don't know what's come over me, I spit at him without a second's thought. He lurches forward, punching me in the face. The hit makes my head spin, pain seers up over my crown and down toward my chin, but the pressure gives relief to my aching teeth.
The taste of iron laces my tongue as I dribble blood from the corner of my mouth. Rolling my head to the side, I see hope, safety. My Diary stuck out of a pile of notes on the table next to me. I still have it; the connection to my father, and the proof of Doctor Ruddel’s crimes.
• • • • •
He's been gone for a while. The sky beyond the window has darkened—it's turning to night. With both hands restrained at my waist offering only a foot-or-so of give in the bindings, I wince, shifting over to reach for it. My fingertips barely touch the leg of the table before the bindings dig into my wrist, sending a hum of heat across them. “Please,” I whimper, a tear rolling from my eye and down toward my ear. My chest heaves as I try again, wrist extended so far it could dislocate.
“Oh, Miss Taryn, what are we doing now?”
I gasp. I didn't hear Doctor Ruddel enter. My breath rattles in my throat, terror vibrating my muscles.
He tuts, “Those notes won't help you now. Let’s see, what do we have here…”
He thumbs the pages, pulling out a chair from the table to sit at head height with me. His eyes are black, like evil is looking back at me.
“Please, let me go.” My words are gasps. The restraints rattle as I start to sob.
“Dear Father,” he begins to read a diary entry in a vicious, condescending tone.
“Something isn't right here. More people are turning up sick than were a few weeks ago as though something else we are unaware of is causing it. I must find the true cause. I must find a way to stop this plague… ” he smiles, “You really thought you were on to something, hey?”
My chest is hollow. I want to look away from him, but his cruel eyes make me unable to avert my gaze as he continues to read aloud:
“Dear Father,
The way Doctor Ruddel is handling these cases terrifies me. I managed to stave off a patient's fever earlier today, and as soon as the doctor found out, he began to smother the patient, increasing their temperature so much that they grew stiff and shook violently. He claimed the high temperature was a good thing, but I know he's wrong in both his theory and his methods…” He sits back, looking at me as though he could read my mind. “Come now, we know that sweating helps a fever. If you're going for ‘evil doctor’, at least make me sound like a monster in your examples.”
My mouth opens but I struggle to push out the words, “I didn’t… I can make it right. I can say that I was wrong.”
“Dear Father,
I snuck into town today…” He wags a finger at me, “Oh, Tary , that’s not good at all. I expected better of you.” he frowns before continuing, “People with the plague seem to be surviving much longer, and with far less issue out there. I must get the doctor to listen to me, but he refuses. I’m yet to find out why he carries a pouch of hensbane around with him. I don’t trust that man.
I know there are better practices to use. Better medicines like hillwort, fildersroot , and carnicine seeds. I need to find a way of dispensing them… ”
He chuckles, the abruptness of it catches me off guard and I startle, yanking at the restraints. He stops laughing, standing as his body looms over me, “Sneaking off, dispensing smuggled medicine, oh dear. That’s punishable by death, as I'm sure you are aware.”
I shake my head rapidly. There’s nothing I can say to him.
He flicks through the pages, landing on the final one I wrote:
“Ahh, this must be what you were writing when you found that girl down here.
"Father,
I must be quick. The plague isn't what I expected. I must expose them, I must expose him, though I am unsure how. I only hope I can make this known before I—"
He slams the diary closed and his eyes thin. "You intend to expose this? Expose me? Well it’s a good job I caught you when I did. Lord Solstice would have you arrested and hung for conspiracy if you had approached him. I work for him, as do you. It is under his command that I operate in this manner. He trusts me to do as I see fit. At least dying here, you will have meant something, assisting my research. Or, I can report to Lord Solstice the proof of smuggling, conspiracy, and treason.”
His eyes curve like he’s grinning before slamming the diary closed. He’s proud of his horrific behaviour.
I pray to Florynsii, God of flora, gently under my breath as another tear rolls down my cheek, "Let me be saved, or at the very least, allow me to help others be rescued. Please, let my knowledge be known before I die."
I hear shuffling outside and Doctor Ruddel turns on the spot to watch the door. Someone else is brought into the room, my sight is blurred by the blow I received from the doctor and the tears that wobble on my eyelashes, but I can just about make out his face. It's the cart driver. His gaze finds mine, and I try to give him an apologetic look despite one of my eyes growing swollen and half shut. Doctor Ruddel leaves the room as silently as he had entered.
The driver rapidly averts his gaze as two men drag his uncooperative feet to a bed next to mine. The assistants strap him to the table in the same fashion I've been restrained, and I can see in his eyes he is incredibly dazed and confused.
"I'm so very sorry, driver." I force the words out despite my pulsing cheekbone and hammering heart, "You being here is entirely my fault. Please, what's your name?"
He grunts, muttering to himself, struggling to turn toward me. He hasn’t realised he's also been restrained.
"Quite alright, madam. I've been in worse places..." he tries to lean in before whispering, "and better ones, mind. The names Larner, Clyff Larner. And you?"
Relief and sadness wash over me that he has no idea what's happening. I lie, deciding that him hearing my name could trigger a string of memories too painful for him to re-live. "Tary, sir. Nice to meet you." He smiles just as Doctor Ruddel opens the door.
"Hello, how are you?" Clyff asks him cheerily, but the doctor doesn't respond. I'm glad his delirium will smother the horrors he is about to endure.
My breath stutters from my lips, I don't dare to blink.
“Doctor Ruddel… can we please talk about this? Come to an arrangement?"
"Your chance to cooperate is over. You could have been an integral part of my team, your knowledge could have vastly altered the plague, improving it. But your curiosity has seen that opportunity die.”
I tremble, “Why does Lord Solstice need the plague to be improved?”
“He doesn’t, but I do. And he is allowing me to do whatever I deem necessary to manage the plague. To cure a disease, you must first create it.”
“You can’t do this!” I yell, screaming and kicking my legs out, pressing my heels into the bed. I have to draw some attention to myself.
Doctor Ruddel smiles, standing over me as he reveals a vial in one hand and a needle in the other. “Be warned, this one hurts a great deal; it's time for test seven."
• • • • •
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About the Author
Sophie M. King is a writer with a deep desire to portray emotionally driven, complex characters that offer disability representation in deep, lore-rich, immersive worlds primarily in fantasy, and Sci-Fi genres.
A Most Deadly Cure is her prequel short story set ahead of the Beyond Shadows and Suns series and its companion Novella’s.
Between Shadows and Suns is a soft-dark, high fantasy series that follows an exiled floral fae through twisted quests, across treacherous lands, and against deadly creatures.
Ideal for readers who enjoy games such as: Dungeons & Dragon’s, Stardew Valley, and Skyrim.
Readers who enjoy books such as: One Dark Window, Harry Potter, and Cruel Prince.
TV buffs who enjoy movies & series such as: Lord of the Rings, The Winx Saga, and Narnia.
When she’s not writing, she is a busy mother of two who loves to get messy with some arts & crafts or spend the evening playing a board game. During quiet time—when it arrives!—she can often be found crocheting, needle-felting, creating 3-D printing models, or making digital art.
This is where Sophie’s journey begins within the realms of writing. Look out for more stories!