Warning: Mentions of blood, injuries and pain, nothing outside of the fantasy-violence label. This applies for all following chapters of No One's Tower.

"To see the world had always been a common dream, an enduring desire for knowledge and experience tied to something deep within people. But is that all we could ask for, just to see the world, never to fully know it? The world’s size is fluid, evershifting. What we perceive as reality is but a shard of shattered glass. We learn and explore, gathering these fragments and piecing them into a bottle we call our world. Each person fashions their own bottle, capturing within it their truth, their essence, while the greater world sways like a chandelier in a boundless dance. We cage ourselves in the worlds we construct, fiercely defending our shards, for clutching that bottle and pouring our souls into it grants us a semblance of control. The paradox of the mortal condition lies in the contrast: seeking the world only to accept the shards that could complete our bottle. The freedom of glueing shards, of living a familiar village against the crushing weight of an unfathomable expanse.

I believe the world was once vast beyond measure, yet the people of old seemed to understand it far more intimately. What we knew had withered away, fading to mere whispers of myth in the Age of the Wonder Wall. This era trapped humanity inside a fragile vase. Yet humans endured, struggled on, and quietly embraced the promise of tomorrow, clinging to the hope that one day they might truly live.”, quote of a pesky traveller. 

 As fate stirred and opened its eyes, it fixed its gaze on the world’s broken shards and chose an unlikely place to gaze—the humble village of Arcut, on the edge of the Meniah republic. The roads of Arcut were left almost empty, with little trace of the children playing games in the warm afternoons, the sound of wagon wheels and sturdy hooves being not far from simply whispers. The autumn was quiet, not for the low harvest but for the death lurking the roads. A plague that chased off the cheerful workers on Sundays, the gossiping elders, or the loudmouth merchants—a plague that took away the noise of life from the roads. This didn’t mean the houses were silent nor the fields abandoned, yet a part of Arcut’s soul felt undeniably lost.

  Placed in the south point of the village was a small farm, like any other, and through the wooden fence, a woman would rush to the house in the middle of it all. The woman left her belongings on a table and reached a door leading to a small room. She stopped, as if grabbing the doorknob sent her into fright. Her whole body shivered briefly. She took a shallow breath and, with a slow push, forced herself to peer inside. Her eyes were met by a slightly startled child, resting in a bed under thin coverings. His skin was pale and dry, yet blood quickly rushed to his face as he murmured in a faint voice:

  “Mom! Is it already morning?”.

 “Oh, it’s noon by now, darling,” his mother answered, with a tone of relief. “But do not fret; your father and I are managing the farm well. We did it before you and your siblings stuck your little noses into our work,” she says, gesturing as if to poke his nose. “Did you sleep well? You really weren’t waking up in the morning, and it was”—the mother stopped herself, her arms getting closer to her heart. 
“I slept until you came in; I even had no nightmares this time. Just thinking of the chickens, they must miss me. Everyone must be missing me. But I can’t stop feeling dizzy; I can’t jump out of bed. Why can’t I stand up yet? Why .”
“Morti, don’t worry. I told you to stay in bed for as long as you need. I’m still so glad," she snorted for a second, her blinking unable to hide a couple tears. “I’m just so glad you’re awake. I’m so happy to see you.” She sat herself at the edge of the bed. “I did get you something!" she exclaimed, revealing a wooden can from her pocket. “Cream from Aunt Denisa! Can you still move your fingers? I’m sorry to ask you again, but put some of it where you can feel your body burning, Mortigus.”
The kid nodded while opening his hands. He grabbed the can slowly, putting it near his pillow. He tapped his hand on it, as he liked the sound it made. The mother gazed at him, her eyes clouded with a deep, unspoken worry.

  “I wanna see Anca too, could you tell her?" He asked genuinely, pushing through signs of hesitation. 

  The mother looked at Mortigus with a forced smile, her eyes slightly closing. “Your sister is just as tired as you, let her rest for today. She will see you tomorrow. She cares so much for you after all; never forget that, Morti. She would see you if she could.”

  Mortigus nodded in response but tried to hide his eyes as his mother left the room. He felt again a gnawing sensation, he heard those words before, gentle excuses for a reality too painful to shape into words. Almost like clockwork, his parents would visit Mortigus, bringing food, water, and soft words. He would attempt to eat, barely mustering the strength to chew. He could still speak, but only in slow, faint whispers, like a shade of the boy he once was. All that was left was muffled sobs behind closed doors, steps that cried of wearyness and despair, repeating the same paths between rooms. Being the youngest, Mortigus learnt to listen to the stories of steps, and now they only serenated his fears. His sister, once a bundle of unstoppable joy, had slowed, her energy fading ever since the plague had reached her as well. His parents tried to reassure him he and Anca had just a cold, making them “too tired”, but other brothers and cousins grew just as tired as him, before never seeing them again.   

  As the sun set, his father entered the room, anguish flickering in his eyes. Mortigus felt the subtle warmth of his presence, shadows concealing the faces of the two. After they shared a few words, his father glanced at the moon before leaving.

 “Good night, son. We will see each other tomorrow. And you might have some other visitors too. Now, please sleep, the moon won’t wait for you.”, the father said from the door’s threshold. 

  Mortigus tried to chuckle, but it came out as a cough. Thinking about it, the moon had appeared in many of his father’s stories, a symbol his father seemed to cherish, as if no fairytale could be complete without it. Mortigus tried to say goodnight back, but his throat was drained and his voice was low. The father replied back, but the boy could barely hear it. As Mortigus gazed up at the moon, sleep gradually overtook him, and he drifted off, with hope for the coming day.

 The sun was finally rising, slim beams of light making their way through the window and landing on Mortigus’ face. He shook his head, his eyes flickering. In his blurry vision, Mortigus could make out the silhouette of his father, occupying a chair in the corner of the room. The father was occasionally turning his head to Mortigus but didn’t notice the boy was awake. The face of the man was plain, deep in thought, his fidgeting hands keeping his body occupied while the mind was left to wander. How long has he been standing like this, Mortigus couldn’t tell. Finally, as the boy raised his back from the mattress, his father too was awakened from his state of fret and jumped towards the bed.

  “Thank goodness you’re awake, truly, thank goodness!" said the father in a low tone. Tempted to hug his son, he quickly retracted his arms, his expression shifting again. Mortigus could barely open his mouth to greet his father. His face has gotten weaker than even yesterday. He could see his father retaking his spot on the doorway, his eyes jumping between looking out the front windows and looking at his son.
  Towards the farm, two shadows were marching solemnly. One was distinctly taller, with a long, bird-like beak, its eyes hidden behind smoky lenses embedded into its leathery skull; the top hat crowning it dramatically amplified its already imposing figure. A slim, orderly coat maintained a humanoid silhouette, at least as far as the shadow needed it to. The being accompanying the tall figure was more vaguely human, of regular height, wearing a mask with a smaller beak, more clear glasses through which glimpses of their dark eyes could escape. Their attire was also slightly more revealing, letting their hands and shoes show for the onlooker’s gaze. The figures were affiliates of the Plague Doctors, walking through the empty road of Arcut with a sense of duty and in a familiar rhythm. They would finally reach the wooden fence of a small farm. From under the pitch-black towering cloth, an arm sprung forth, holding a cane with strange inscriptions and a rotund handle. The one gripping this cane was the tall doctor, who proceeded to raise the cane and hit the fence on its pol. A second and a third hit followed shortly, a clicking sound of strange intensity. The father shivered upon hearing this, as he’d heard of it before. A doctor must always greet their patients properly, and the tapping of this cane became their signature "warm greeting," known by many villages.

  “Stay put; I’ll be back with help.” the father assured Mortigus before jumping out of the chair and leaving the room. Mortigus was barely able to stay awake, but he felt at this moment he shouldn’t succumb to sleep. Sounds could be heard outside of people talking—the father’s voice, accompanied by a rather foreign accent. Strange steps breached the front door of the house. The bedroom door creaked open, pushed by an arm enveloped in black fabric. A white, pointy beak peaked inside, pointing directly at the bedridden boy. 

“Ah, here is the patient. Hello, boy, do you know who we are?” the doctor said, while he and his assistant set foot in the room. The father, though, stopped in the door frame. 

“ H-hello, uh," the boy had a hard time talking, a great feeling of anxiety building up in his throat. The two oddly-clad figures in front of him had an unnerving presence, filling that small room. Mortigus felt an unexplained fear in that moment—a kind of dread he’d never experienced before. 

“I’m sorry, my son must be too weakened to talk,” the father intervened, in a rather trembling tone.

“No worries, but I still would rather assess his state of mind at the moment before getting into, well, his body. Health extends to the mind as well,.” responded the taller doctor while nodding to the assistant. The assistant then pulled down their luggage onto the floor, a clattering metal noise coming from it. While the assistant opened the luggage, revealing multiple trinkets of unknown uses, the doctor turned to the kid again.

“Hope the masks are not scaring you, this must be the first time seeing someone like us.” Mortigus noticed the doctor’s voice had gotten softer, calming him a bit.

“Yes, but I've heard of them. You must be doctors,” were the words forced out by Mortigus.

“Ah, indeed! Very glad to hear you have an idea of who we are. Your father said you have been sick for over a month, and yet here you are, still capable of conversation. That is so peculiar, so impressive, boy. I have to say though, we are more used to the full title: Plague doctors! The medical field is wide and full of particular branches—just listen to me ramble, sorry, boy. My assistant seems to have taken this rambling as an opportunity to prepare my tools; that is good at least.” The assistant was indeed ready with two metal tools in their hands, as well as a ceramic container. 

 “Tools? So you use tools too?” asked the boy innocently.
“These are not really the same as your parents’ farming tools, but yes, we use tools to help people. It is dangerous to touch you directly when the plague spreads so easily. I believe your parents were careful too, but it might be late to say that.” 

 The boy was confused by the last words of the doctor, but before he could reply, the assistant grabbed his left wrist. Mortigus’ body trembled a bit, lacking the energy for any bigger reaction. He could barely move despite the assistant clearly putting little strength in their grip. The assistant then started pulling the bed sheet from over Mortigus and proceeded to press slowly onto the crook of the arm while holding the it steady from the elbow. Mortigus could see the lines in his arm get more visible.
“You still got good veins, boy, that makes our job easier,” chuckled the doctor. “I apologise for the following sting, but it is necessary that you do not struggle.” 

 While focusing on the assistant, the boy didn’t even notice the doctor holding a sort of needle and hitting it with his finger, making a droplet fall onto the floor. In a quick motion, the doctor grabbed the boy’s arm as well, injecting the needle into the crook. The boy attempted to struggle, but his body was already too limp. His eyes started to close, his last sight being the white mask of the doctor turning away from him.

 A sharp, painful pressure jolted the boy into consciousness. His head felt unbearably heavy, as though the very air were squeezing his brain. When he tried to sit up, a pair of arms lifted him from the bed and moved him outside the house, shaking him slightly in an unfamiliar manner.

 “Then I’m afraid we will have to depart right away, but I assure you that the treatment Mortigus will receive at the laboratory far exceeds the one we could give out here. The boy has a strong heart and good veins; he will make it, I promise you.”

 “We’re truly grateful, sir. It means a lot to hear hope. I’m afraid we are short on coins; we can only pay you with some of our chickens, or maybe a pig? They didn’t have the time to fully grow -”

“Payment is not necessary,“ the doctor interrupted the mother. “I know how these times have left your family deeply wounded. My duty as a doctor pushes me to help to the best of my abilities. I cannot ask you three to give me anything more than your trust and hope.” 

   The doctor turned to the half-asleep boy, who was being carried by the assistant.   “Mortigus, I think you should say your goodbyes for the moment. As sleepy as you are, you would regret not doing it.” 

  The assistant brought the boy closer to his parents. The two jumped to hug their son. Mortigus could barely feel their arms around him, but he felt their warmth. Tears started drooling on his hair. His sleepy eyes could barely make out the shape of his parents’ mouths moving, their words barely audible through their cries. Yet, their sobs were different from the ones he had heard late at night. This time, there was a fragile hope woven through their tears, slowly overpowering the despair that had built up over so many days. He tried to say goodbye as the doctor had instructed him, murmuring the words and weakly forcing his arms to embrace them back. Despite the pain throbbing in his left arm, he reached for their necks, but the assistant gently pulled him back. Unaware of what was truly happening, the boy continued reaching, trying to hug the empty air.