The world resolved itself as a dull, off-white blur, then sharpened into the oppressive geometry of a padded cell. Corvin Morstan sat upright, a thrumming fury igniting behind his eyes. His last memory was of transmuting the Great Serpent of the Sundered Peaks into a harmless pile of petrified gravel, his power a roaring furnace. Now, he was in a box made of foam, wearing a gown that tied at the back like a child’s bib, and his own breath felt thin, reedy. This was not the dignified end of a poison grandmaster. This was an insult. “Ah, Mr. Morstan. Glad to see you’re finally with us.” The voice, sickly sweet and deliberate, scraped against Corvin’s raw nerves. A man stood framed in the cell’s reinforced door, a wide, almost theatrical smile stretching his lips. Dr. Aris Penhaligon, according to the name badge pinned to his pristine white coat. His eyes, though, were sharp, dissecting. A predator masquerading as a shepherd. Corvin rose, the flimsy gown rustling. He focused his intent, summoning the primordial energies that had once withered entire forests and turned armies to dust. The air in the cell should have crackled, heavy with the scent of ozone and impending doom. Instead, a faint tremor ran through his emaciated fingers. He stretched his hand towards Penhaligon, palm out, fingers splayed, willing the Black Bile Incineration Hex to manifest. A slow, agonizing combustion from the inside out. A fitting punishment for this impudent insect. He pushed. He *willed*. Nothing. No infernal fire, no sickening green glow, no agonizing scream. His hand merely twitched, producing a series of jerky, almost spastic movements. He watched, aghast, as his own fingers curled and splayed in an approximation of a child’s shadow puppet, a weak, flickering shadow on the wall behind him. A venerated sovereign of venom, reduced to this paltry spectacle. Dr. Penhaligon, however, clapped his hands together, a bright, startling sound in the quiet cell. “Excellent! Excellent, Corvin! Such vigorous kinetic expression! We’re seeing real progress here, aren’t we?” He beamed, stepping further into the room, seemingly oblivious to the death-curse that had failed to launch. “That’s a breakthrough, truly. I’ll make sure to note this in your chart. From catatonia to… well, *that*.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, squishy object shaped like a brain. It was a lurid shade of pink. “Here, a little something for your newfound enthusiasm. A stress ball. For when you feel those… urges to express yourself kinetically.” He offered it with the air of a proud father bestowing a medal. Corvin stared at the pulsating pink abomination. “I requested the ashes of your ancestral line, physician, not this… rubberized obscenity. And a mirror. To confirm if this body even possesses a soul.” He hadn’t felt this humiliated since he accidentally turned an entire imperial banquet into sentient, wailing marmalade. Penhaligon chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. “Such vivid imagery, Corvin! ‘Ancestral ashes,’ ‘rubberized obscenity.’ We’ll log that as a creative coping mechanism. Keep up the good work.” He patted Corvin’s shoulder, a gesture so profoundly patronizing that Corvin had to resist the urge to simply bite him. “Your sister is here for her scheduled visit, by the way. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to see your progress.” He exited, leaving the stress ball perched precariously on Corvin’s knee. Moments later, the door slid open again, revealing a young woman with a splash of freckles across her nose and eyes that mirrored Corvin’s own — though hers were bright with worry, not ancient venom. Tasia. His sibling. He had inherited her memory fragments alongside this wretched mortal shell. “Corvin!” she exclaimed, her voice thick with relief. She rushed forward, hugging him fiercely. “Oh, thank the heavens. They said you were… unresponsive.” Corvin tolerated the embrace, noting the faint scent of ozone clinging to her. Strange. He pushed her back gently, his gaze sweeping over her. She looked thinner, and a faint greyish pallor seemed to cling to her skin beneath the institute’s sterile lights. As she pulled away, a small, wet cough escaped her. Her hand instinctively flew to her mouth. When she lowered it, a smear of something dark, almost iridescent, stained her palm. Black phlegm. Corvin’s seasoned senses flared. The faint ozone he’d detected, the pallor, the cough, the black sputum – it was unmistakable. The Hollow Rot. The nascent, insidious plague he had spent centuries studying, a demon-borne miasma that consumed souls and bodies alike. It was here. And it was in Tasia. “Tasia, what is that?” he asked, his voice low, the sarcasm momentarily forgotten. A cold dread, colder than any poison, settled in his gut. The plague was dismissed as a new flu strain by the modern populace, but he knew its true, terrifying nature. And the girl, his sole kin in this bewildering metropolis, was its host. “Just a nasty cough,” she waved it off, though a flicker of fear crossed her face. “Everyone at uni has it. They say it’s a new strain, really stubborn. Nothing to worry about.” “Nothing to worry about,” Corvin repeated, his eyes narrowed. He was trapped in this padded purgatory, stripped of his power, while the Hollow Rot began its slow, inexorable consumption of Tasia. He had less than a month before it mutated, before it became irreversible. He had to escape. He had to synthesize the primordial antidote. And he had to do it with whatever meager resources this absurd asylum provided. He studied the girl with renewed intensity, tracing the subtle shifts in her aura and the faint tendrils of corruption coiling through her life force. He nodded, a plan already forming. “Of course. A cough. You just need a proper tonic.” Later that day, after Tasia had left, Corvin found his opportunity during the ward’s designated ‘clean-up’ hour. A janitor, a burly man named Borin, had left a mop bucket overflowing with murky, greenish water just outside his cell door. Corvin had watched him, feigning disinterest, then, when Borin’s attention drifted to a blaring television in the common room, Corvin acted. He pressed his palm against the reinforced glass of his cell door, summoning every last fragment of his arcane will. This frail body might not incinerate, but subtle manipulation, the essence of a poison master, still lingered. He focused, drawing upon the latent energy of the Bleakmoor Institute, its forgotten history, the ancient miasma vents beneath its foundations. He felt a faint tremor, not in his own body, but in the ambient energy around the mop bucket. Slowly, agonizingly, a tiny, glowing green sludge began to separate from the murky water. It pulsed with a faint, sickly light, drawn by Corvin’s intent. The essence of the Hollow Rot’s primordial form. The very thing he needed to synthesize the antidote. He maintained his focus, drawing the sludge upwards, willing it to form a concentrated sphere. It floated, shimmering, just above the water’s surface, a captive star of malevolence. The door to the ward swished open. Dr. Yvaine Helstrom entered, a stack of clipboards tucked under her arm. Her usually composed expression fractured the moment her gaze fell upon Corvin’s cell. She dropped her clipboards, their clatter echoing in the sudden silence, as she witnessed the mop water floating in mid-air, glowing with spiritual fire.

A Diagnosis of Demonic Intent