Sabastian banged on the door as loudly as he could.

The wicked weather had turned vicious, and he was desperate for somewhere welcoming to spend the night. A tavern common room sounded particularly inviting. He’d even fantasised about a feathered bed in a bawdy house, purely for the comfort. Still, that hope was crushed when he found the town gatehouse closed—a barrier against all who desired entry, including weary mages, merchants, and miscreants.

He knocked again, louder this time, putting more force behind it. His knocks resounded against the howling rain, impossible to ignore, given the oomph he’d put into them; with just a touch of aeromantic energy for emphasis.

A window in the door opened. A single eye peered out from beneath a helmet. The scruffy guard didn’t get a chance to speak before Sabastian cut in.

“Greetings, my good man,” Sabastian offered, full of cheer even though his brightly striped hat was sodden, his yellow cloak drenched, and his travelling pack was most certainly full of water.

The guard took one look at the strange youth and sneered. “Can’t let you in.”

Sabastian hurriedly looked over his shoulder, suddenly fear-stricken. “Why? What’s out here?” he pressed, concern creeping into his voice.

The guard chuckled at the alarm on display. “Thankfully, nothing,” he began, as Sabastian breathed a visible, heartfelt sigh of relief. “It’s what’s in here. Towns under quarantine by order of Baron Caalson. Can’t let you in.”

Sabastian wasn’t so easily deterred; the call of somewhere warm to rest for the night outweighed any sense of self-preservation.

“What affliction?” he asked, earnest as ever.

“Pox.”

“What luck!” the young mage beamed, grinning inappropriately. “I’m immune.”

The guard gave the young man a good looking-over, the scepticism written plainly across his face. But he was weary, tiredness etched clearly on his features, and he couldn’t—couldn’t—handle the younger man’s relentless over-exuberance.

“I’m fully warded,” he pressed, as though that settled the matter entirely, hoping the new information would help him gain entry to the town—and its warm tavern. He lifted his sleeve to show bright purple stitching within the inner lining, then opened his robe to display further wardings.

The guard rolled his eyes and closed the window. “It’s your funeral, kid.”

Slowly, the larger gate rolled on its hinges, allowing the young mage access. Sabastian rubbed his hands together eagerly and slipped through the small gap, admitting himself into the town. He nodded to the guard as he looked down the main street. On the corner, a lamp lit up a sign announcing the tavern; its open door looked warmly inviting.

“Just, don’t expect to be able to leave as easily as you got in,” the guard told him, no friendliness or mirth in his words. Sabastian looked hesitantly back at the closing door and realised the error that he had just made. He’d admitted himself into a disease-ridden town for the sake of a night’s warmth. Despite his assurances to the contrary, this could be the end of him. He’d just made a terrible mistake through his lack of long-term vision. Yet he beamed brightly at the guard and nodded. At least he had made it through the day and, hopefully, would spend the night where he desired: in warmth.

—

If you enjoyed this, I write dark fantasy about a witch hunter and his orc companion uncovering some uncomfortable truths.

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