Page 96 of The Blight of Hollowmire

Failure again. Substance unsuitable for livestock without further alteration.

Seeds watered with substance do not grow.

Second infusion produced accelerated wasting in test subject.

Subject begs for water, though body shows no need. Further alterations will be necessary. And new test subject, since this one expired just like the rest.

Subsequent pages show drawings from what might be a monster’s sketchbook—warped diagrams of plants, dead animals, human organs… a frighteningly rendered apple, sliced open to reveal a core drawn like a human heart.

The final entry in this hellish journal is written in a slightly wilder scrawl, ink splattering over the page with the frenzied enthusiasm of madness.

LIFE EVERLASTING.

My stomach drops clear to my feet—horror surging as things begin to come together in my mind.

Below the title is a spell, clearly cobbled together from any number of taboo or forbidden texts. Even without magic, the utter wrongness of the words seeps up to me from the paper. In the margins of the page are more notes, more observations from Arden.

Life does not return. It seems to persist without nourishment. The kingdom need not eat if hunger itself is made irrelevant. If the gods want us to starve, I shall wield their power against them.

For a moment, I cannot move—my suspicions have been confirmed, but the reality of the situation is far more devastating than I’d given myself permission to believe.

The curse on the crops… the food that looks perfect but doesn’t nourish or satisfy… the people starving, and Arden’s eagerness to send me after the Blight Mother… his insistence that spilling her blood could, and would, end this curse. But this isn’t a curse from the gods, and it never has been. The Blight Mother was sent down not as a punishment—but as the only thing powerful enough to undo one man’s folly.

Arden. It’s Arden. It was always Arden—my wretched brother’s ambition bleeds across these pages in damning black ink.

I’m not certain how long I stand there, but long enough that when the door creaks open behind me, much of the shock has worn off—though none of the horror. Disgust and despair war within me, and were I a weaker man, I might vomit from the chaos swirling in my guts.

Arden stands in the threshold, one hand resting on the iron latch, lantern light warming the fine bones of his face. He’s surprised to see me—that much is evident from the delicate lift of his brows. They drop almost immediately, drawing down in extreme displeasure.

“Renard,” he drawls. “How disappointing.”

“Yes, well, disappointment seems to be a family trait,” I snarl, the parchment crinkling in my angry fists.

His gaze drops to the parchment in my hand. “Ah.”

“Ah?” I repeat, rage and disgust and—embarrassingly—betrayal warring in my mind.

“I had rather hoped you’d perish somewhere more… useful,” he says, picking at a stray thread on his sleeve.

I huff at that, the sound bitter and low. He steps inside and closes the door softly behind him, and it occurs to me that he’s still remarkably, maddeningly composed. Then again, I’ve never known Arden to be afraid—he only every viewed his punishments or consequences with the same sort of detached curiosity. Even now, he acts like we’ve found each other in a library after supper and we’re about to discuss the weather.

“You look terrible,” he says, his lip curling. “And you smell even worse.”

“I never had a problem getting my hands dirty when it was necessary to do so. And I never had the luxury of offloading it to anyone else,” I growl.

His eyes cut to mine—the blue darker and sharper, carved out of sea ice.

“The difference between us, Renard, is that I accepted blood on my hands as part of my role. For a former First Knight, you never seemed to get used to that part.”

My hand itches for the dagger at my belt, but the room is small, Arden is not alone in this castle, and Vireth is still below. Killing him now may satisfy some broken thing in me and doom her all the same. I force my fingers to loosen around the parchment before I tear it in half.

“Gods, Arden. What did you do?” I rasp. There’s an edge of desperation in my voice, almost as though I still cannot believe it. Mayhap that is why I need to hear it from his own lips.

Arden sighs, irritated. “You could never see the bigger picture, could you? You always make everything sound so black and white, when our world is all varying shades of gray. It’s a rather primitive outlook, you know.”

“What did you do?” I repeat, louder this time.

He crosses to the shelves and idly adjusts a row of jars, ensuring the labels all face out. He lifts a shoulder in forced nonchalance.