Fangs in the Dark

Chapter 5: The Descent into Madness

The fire crackled quietly as the shadows danced across the faces of the Holy Nation scouts. They sat around the campfire, their conversations subdued, unaware of the poisonous tendrils beginning to take hold of one of their own. Lysander remained hidden just beyond the perimeter of their camp, his eyes fixed on Sira, who sat apart from the others, her face pale and her eyes unfocused.

It had been hours since she drank the water laced with Mindrot, and Lysander could see the first signs of the poison's effects. Her breathing was shallow, and her hand trembled as she reached for her blade, as though needing the comfort of its presence. The others hadn't noticed her growing unease—at least, not yet. But they would, soon enough.

Lysander's heartbeat quickened as he watched, the excitement of the experiment building within him. He was about to witness the full potential of Mindrot, to see if it could truly unravel a person from the inside out. He had read about its effects in the book, but there was nothing like seeing it firsthand.

As Sira's disorientation deepened, Lysander could almost feel the poison seeping into her mind, twisting her thoughts, clouding her judgment. He knew that the poison worked subtly at first, creating a sense of unease, a feeling that something was wrong without clear reason. Then, as the Mindrot took root, it would begin to distort reality, causing paranoia, hallucinations, and eventually, madness.

He smiled in the darkness. This was power—the ability to control the mind of another, to bend them to his will without ever having to raise a blade. The Nirvathri poisoncraft was his master, and with it, he would gain control over those who sought to control him.

The next morning, Sira awoke in a cold sweat, her head pounding and mouth dry. The world around her felt... wrong, somehow. The familiar mountain air, once crisp and clean, now seemed heavy, oppressive. She looked around at her fellow scouts, but something about them felt different too—sinister, almost.

Eirik, the leader of the group, noticed her discomfort. "You alright, Sira?" he asked, his voice gruff, but not unkind.

Sira blinked at him, trying to focus, but his face seemed to shift in and out of clarity, as though she were looking at him through a fog. "I'm fine," she muttered, though the words felt hollow, disconnected from her own thoughts. She wasn't fine. Something was wrong, deeply wrong, but she couldn't explain it.

Eirik frowned, clearly unconvinced. "You've been acting strange since last night. Maybe you should sit this one out. We'll continue scouting, and you can rest here."

"No!" Sira's response was sharper than she had intended. The other scouts looked at her in surprise, but Sira's gaze darted away, avoiding their eyes. She couldn't trust them. Not anymore. Something inside her told her that they weren't to be trusted—that they were plotting against her, waiting for the moment to strike.

Lysander watched from his vantage point, a smirk forming on his lips. Mindrot was working faster than he had anticipated. Sira was already beginning to distance herself from the others, her growing paranoia pushing her into isolation. Soon, she would be ripe for manipulation.

As the day wore on, Sira's condition deteriorated. The voices of her comrades became muffled, distorted, as if they were whispering just out of her earshot. When she glanced at them, they would quickly turn away, as though they had been talking about her. Every time Eirik gave an order, she felt a wave of suspicion wash over her. Why did he want her to stay behind? What were they planning?

Her hand gripped the hilt of her sword more tightly now, her knuckles white as she followed the group along the narrow mountain path. She couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching her, stalking her from the shadows. Every rustle of the wind, every snap of a twig made her jump. It was them—her so-called comrades—they were waiting for the perfect moment to betray her.

By the time they made camp again that night, Sira was on edge, her nerves frayed. She barely spoke, and when she did, it was in sharp, clipped tones. Eirik gave her wary looks but said nothing, sensing that something was deeply wrong but unsure how to approach it.

Lysander, meanwhile, continued to watch, biding his time. He needed to push her just a little further before he made his next move. He needed her completely unhinged.

That night, the poison's effects reached their peak.

Sira sat by the fire, her body trembling with the cold that no one else seemed to feel. The flames flickered in her vision, casting long shadows that seemed to twist and warp unnaturally. Her head pounded, and every sound around her—the crackling of the fire, the wind in the trees, the breathing of the other scouts—became deafening.

She glanced at Eirik, who was talking quietly with the others. His voice was low, his eyes darting toward her every few moments. They were talking about her. She was sure of it now. They were plotting against her.

Her breathing quickened, her chest tightening with fear. She had to act. She couldn't let them betray her. She had to strike first.

Without thinking, Sira stood abruptly, her sword drawn in one fluid motion. The other scouts stared at her in shock, their hands moving instinctively to their weapons.

"What the hell are you doing, Sira?" Eirik demanded, his eyes narrowing.

"They're plotting against me," she hissed, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and rage. "I can see it in your eyes. You're all waiting for the right moment to stab me in the back."

Eirik raised his hands in a placating gesture, but his eyes were wary, his body tense. "No one's plotting anything. You're sick, Sira. You need help."

"Liar!" Sira lunged toward him, her sword flashing in the firelight.

Eirik barely managed to parry her attack, his eyes wide with shock. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

The other scouts sprang into action, but Lysander was already moving. This was the moment he had been waiting for. As Sira lashed out at Eirik again, Lysander stepped out of the shadows, moving with lethal precision. Before the others could react, he struck from behind, a dagger plunging into one of the scout's backs with a sickening crunch.

Chaos erupted in the camp as the remaining scouts turned on Lysander, but Sira, lost in her delusion, continued to attack Eirik, leaving him distracted and vulnerable. Lysander moved through the chaos like a shadow, striking swiftly and without mercy.

One by one, the scouts fell, until only Eirik remained, locked in a desperate struggle with Sira. Lysander watched with cold satisfaction as Sira's final blow landed, her sword plunging into Eirik's chest. The scout leader gasped, his eyes widening in shock before he collapsed to the ground, blood pooling beneath him.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, Sira looked down at her bloodied sword, her expression blank. The poison had done its job. She was broken, her mind shattered beyond repair.

Lysander stepped forward, his voice calm and soothing as he approached her. "You did well, Sira. They were going to betray you. But you stopped them."

Sira looked up at him, her eyes glassy and unfocused. "I... I stopped them?"

"Yes," Lysander said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You're safe now."

Sira let out a shaky breath, her body sagging with exhaustion. "I... I don't feel right. Something's wrong with me."

Lysander smiled, his grip tightening on her shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll take care of you."

And with that, he led her away from the camp, leaving the bodies of the fallen scouts behind as the flames of their campfire flickered in the night.