The villainess is killed, the heroine is insecure, Clarissa loves her cat.
CLARISSA WAINS had no business with the king until she murdered his daughter, a villainess in a webnovel she once read before ending up in its fantasy.
She is not the...
The pandemic quickly birthed its name. Crow disease. It starts with itching and fever, progressing into an unexplained necrosis. The afflicted's skin holds a feathery texture.
Their mind deteriorates.
Since fire last greeted the dead of night, no one slept easy. If someone were to start scratching their skin, all eyes would be against them, distance being created, and individuals being shunned.
Any symptom of the disease and they're to sent to isolation in the dungeons. The moment progression shows, it's time to write up a will.
For all the death Clarissa has seen, it's never given her chills the way this has. She dips her quill in ink and continues to write down names.
"Effray the child, Franklin the cook, Myrick the rat.
Howl the noble, Aurell the noble, Melissa her daughter."
She used to write the names of the lives she's taken. The lives her fellow assassins took, the names her boss mentioned. Because anyone whose name escaped his lips meant death.
"Dawn the student, Tyrone the cashier, Rinoa the author."
That last one was a mistake. Her name wasn't supposed to be there, her name was not tainted by boss.
She puts the quill down clumsily, nearly making a mess of the ink over the paper. Being clumsy is too unusual for her, perhaps a sign the mental fatigue is truly there.
"Clarissa?" Astaroth knocks twice and enters her quarters.
"It's late." She pushes her seat back to make enough room to stand.
"I can't sleep. Seems like the same goes for you."
"An astute observation, knight wannabe."
He chuckles at her sarcasm. "I uh... Actually have something to show you."
Clarissa watches as he slowly folds up the sleeve of his right arm, the joyful smile on his face fading away. If she smiled too, then her own would be doing the same. Fading like a baby's wrinkles. As the fold was up as far as it could go, rotting skin is revealed crawling down his bicep, and Astaroth looks back at his comrade.
"I haven't had any of the signs."
She takes a few steps towards him and he takes steps back.
"Astaroth..."
Another foot forward, and he retreats three steps back.
"Astaroth stop."
She backs him up against the door, pressing her hand against his forehead. "You're right. No fever."
He tries to push her away with his left arm. "You shouldn't touch me. Or even be near me."
"Astaroth stop!" Clarissa raises her voice, slapping his left hand away from her. "I don't care if you have the crow disease. We can burn together then." She touches the skin, as feathery as they described it to be. To the extent it felt like it'd just fall off like a talon if she weren't careful.
"Only people who love each other wish to die together."
"That may be true."
Clarissa looks up at his face. They've never been so close when disengaged from combat practice. She leans in, resting her head on his chest, her hands falling limp at her side. "Don't tell the others yet. I don't want to watch you burn so soon. Please." She begs.
"But I'll be compromising everyone's safety. Your safety."
"Everyone can rot and burn together. At this rate no one is going to survive." She begins to sob into his top.
"Then, on one condition."
"What..."
"Tell me you love me."
She responded with silence, wanting to say the words, but unable to do so. Astaroth sighed, and unstuck his back from the door. He wished that just this once, Clarissa would give him a piece of her heart. But he's left with disappointment. Unsure whether this girl has no love to share with anyone, or he'll just never be the one.
"Good night, Clarissa."
She watches him leave her room, biting her lip with anguish. All she can do for now is crawl into bed and sob at the prospect of losing another.
I thought maybe I'd have a shot at love. Maybe an assassin can get to live some normalcy.
But everyone I'll ever hold close to me will die. The punishment for the uncountable lives I've taken.
This night, for Clarissa and Astaroth, is the grimmest it will ever be. For two friends who want to be lovers. Comrades fighting different personal battles.
Astaroth as he hisses in pain, tossing and turning— trying to get some sleep, wonders how long his mind has left.
The skin rots gracefully like a feather, And the mind deteriorates.
Such is the crow disease.
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