Elderly men and women lay on thin, worn mats, their bodies thin as skeletons, their skin pale and waxy. Most had lost most of their teeth. Some moaned softly, as if in constant, dull pain. Others snapped weakly in irritation, appearing aggressive—but they were far too weak and fragile to harm anyone. Wounds that should have healed quickly stayed open, dark and oozing, refusing to close.
Sister Mary knelt beside an elderly woman and let her gentle, warm healing magic flow over the sick elder. But the glow faded almost instantly, useless. Her face paled, and her eyes filled with horror.
"I can't heal this," she whispered, shaken. "This is no normal fever or injury. This is… rot. A fading of life. Like a curse from ancient, dark magic. It's beyond my power."
Hannah stared at the symptoms, and her mind raced.
Tooth loss.
Weak, aching limbs.
Wounds that wouldn't heal.
Irritability, exhaustion, slow decay.
