CHAPTER 67: THE PRICE OF DEATH

PREVIOUSLY-

Gorvax watched the scene unfold with a gleam in his ghostly eyes. "Boy," he whispered to himself, licking phantom lips. "Those ones are delicious roasted."

Theobald rolled the cart forward, grinning like a cat with a key to the pantry.

"As you say, Master."

Then he whistled — a quick, sharp note.

Overhead, Rook shifted. The orange vulture, perched atop the command tent, dipped his head and unfurled his wings.

A blur of feathers, and he vanished toward the lizardmen’s village.

The operation had begun.

--X—

Back at the lizardmen tribe, twilight cast long, wavering shadows across the marsh. Theobald trudged through the soft soil, a heavy burlap sack slung over his shoulder. Glass clinked and metal jostled within — the echoes of an outpost’s sins.

He halted before the chieftain’s hut, heart hammering in his chest. For a moment, he clenched his fists, knuckles whitening as his jaw tightened.

"Chief!" he called, voice steadier than his nerves.

From within the dim hut, the voice came, low and weathered. "Enter, human."

Theobald stepped through the curtain of cured leather. Inside, the chieftain sat cross-legged on a woven mat, the flickering firelight casting deep shadows along his scaled face.

"What happened?" the chief asked. "Did you find the cure?"

Theobald said nothing. He knelt slowly and set the bag down. The heavy thud it made felt final. Like a grave being filled.

"No," he murmured.

The chieftain tilted his head, disappointment tightening the corners of his amber eyes.

"Why?"

Theobald tugged off the white coat. The Medic Guild emblem — a heart with wings — crumpled in his fist before he cast it aside. Then he removed the spectacles, setting them gently on the floor like the mask they were.

"They haven’t made a cure," he said, his voice stripped of pretence. "They weren’t trying to."

The chieftain’s eyes narrowed.

Theobald looked up at the towering figure.

"They were developing the virus itself. Not to heal. But to manufacture a plague so they could own the cure — and the profit that came with it."

A flicker passed through the chieftain’s gaze. Anger, maybe. But dulled. Like a blade that had cut too many times.

"Shouldn’t they make the cure too," he muttered. "Do they just want to spread a deadly disease to the world?"

Theobald nodded grimly. "This time, they didn’t think it was dangerous enough. They wanted something that killed faster. So they shelved it. Tossed it aside. Your children... were just the debris left in the wake."

A silence hung heavy in the air.

The chieftain’s snout lowered into his palm. He closed his eyes, as if bracing against an invisible storm.

"So," he rasped, "this ’virus’... it is a disease?"

"Yes." Theobald sat back on his heels. "Technically, viruses are not alive. But once inside a body... they hijack everything. They don’t feed, they don’t think. They infect. They turn your own cells into factories for pain."

The chieftain let out a long breath through his nostrils. "And the Guild made this?"

"They call it progress." Theobald’s voice was brittle. "They never meant to cure anyone. It was a rehearsal. A stage test. Your children were just..." he bit his tongue, then spat the word like ash, "samples."

A deep growl rumbled in the chieftain’s throat.

Theobald looked him in the eye, defiant now. "Also, they will be attacking the tribe tomorrow. I suggest you all either prepare for war or...flee."

The chieftain’s gaze lingered, ancient and unreadable. "You could have fled," he said at last. "Told no one. Washed your hands of this."

"I could have," Theobald replied. "But I didn’t."

Silence stretched again, and then, slow and deliberate, the chieftain leaned back.

"In that case," he said softly, "you are not just a human. You are a man."

Theobald didn’t respond.

Theobald unfastened the drawstrings with a flick, letting the burlap mouth gape open.

"Mirejaw Gharial eyes," he announced. "Some fresh, some... fermented."

The stench drifted up like a swamp burp. Glimmering orbs—mud-specked, some glassy with death—rolled within.

The chieftain raised a brow ridge, inspecting the contents without flinching. "And?"

Theobald flashed an unsettling smile. "I’m going to eat them."

A pause.

"What?"

"I. Am. Going. To. Eat."

Each word dropped like a knife on the table.

The lizardman’s gaze flicked from eyeball to madman, then back. Finally, he snorted—a deep, gravelly chuckle.

"Do whatever you want, dryskin. We defend our home at dawn."

Theobald nodded and cinched the sack closed, hoisting it over his shoulder like a child’s toy.

"Chief," he said, and turned without another word.

The swamp exhaled mist as light crept over the horizon. Theobald stepped from his hut, boots squelching into the soft soil, every strap on his gear taut, every blade oiled and waiting.

His eyes gleamed—somehow sharper than yesterday.

In the clearing, lizardmen assembled. Crude armour gleamed with scavenged steel and sun-warmed bronze. Spears of carved obsidian and bone shivered in the humid air.

Women watched from their huts, silent. Some clutched pots and pans between their teeth like makeshift shields. Others offered quiet gestures—half salute, half prayer.

A low growl rippled through the crowd as Theobald passed. Not of threat—but respect.

"Chief."

Theobald approached, boots squishing through wet earth, his sack of monstrosity swinging behind him like a second spine. The chieftain stood at the centre of the clearing, scale-plates catching golden flecks of sunrise.

"What is the plan?"

The old lizardman turned, tail slowly sweeping behind him. His yellow eyes gleamed without hesitation.

"There is no plan," he growled. "We kill the invaders."

Theobald slapped his forehead with an audible smack. "Oh for—"

He stepped in close, lowering his voice, nearly nose-to-snout. "Chief. We need a plan. A real one. Listen—I’m going to sneak into the Guild’s settlement. My accomplice inside is working on the cure. I’ll steal it."

A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant croak of a swamp toad.

Then, the chieftain’s snout curved upward in a toothy smile. "Heh. That’s good."

He turned, watching the warriors file into ranks behind them, axes clinking against shell armour.

"Once you have the cure," he said, "head to the eastern grove. That’s where we’ve hidden the children... and the old ones."

Theobald’s expression hardened.

"Understood."

The chieftain clasped his forearm with a warrior’s grip—scaled fingers over human wrist.

"Don’t die, small one," he rumbled. "That’s my plan."