Three days. Three agonizing, blood-soaked days, if one were prone to melodrama. Corbin Rhys preferred the clinical assessment: seventy-two hours of sustained ritual work, and the conduit was holding. A rasping cough rattled the thin wooden door of Corbin's hovel, followed by a voice like grinding gravel. "Rhys! Still clinging to life, boy?" Before the question finished decaying in the air, the door creaked inward. Elder Silas, Quartermaster of the Ashfall Keep, stooped to enter. His face, a roadmap of grime and old scars, was framed by a greasy, matted beard. A tattered, blighted cloak, scavenged from some forgotten lord, hung from his skeletal frame. Silas, ever the pragmatist, recognized utility where others saw only filth. Corbin, for his part, was an instrument. A sharp one. "Elder Silas." Corbin pushed himself up from the mildewed cot, a performance of weariness. He swayed slightly, a subtle touch. Just enough to sell the illusion of a man spent by arcane exertion, not one newly invigorated by a siphoned vitality. Normally, three days wouldn't even begin to mend the true cost of communing with the Void-Whispers, let alone binding a raw, destructive blight-form. But Corbin didn't pay the full toll. Kael did. And Kael, thankfully, was still alive, albeit barely. Corbin had spent the past three cycles refining the tether, drawing the malignant energies through his unwilling conduit. The process, a gruesome ballet of parasitic symbiosis, had hardened his own constitution, infusing him with a chilling resilience. He felt the raw power simmer beneath his skin, a discordant hum that sang of forbidden knowledge and extracted costs. His internal awareness, a faint, sickly luminescence emanating from the small, carved bone shard he kept clutched in his palm, pulsed weakly. Kael was still fading. Good. He needed a fresh dose soon. Silas peered at him, eyes like chips of flint in the gloom. A faint, almost imperceptible nod. "Rhys, I'd give you another cycle, but the Blackwood's 'Ascension' feast is upon us. The Lady Seraphina's ritual demands… certain preparations. We're short on hands." He paused, a new grimace twisting his face. "That fool Kael. Afflicted himself at the worst possible moment." Kael, the designated, unwilling repository for Corbin's redirected blights, had indeed chosen an opportune time to wither. Corbin merely offered a sympathetic, almost bored shrug. "Such is the way of the Blight, Elder. Unpredictable." Silas snorted. "Unpredictable as a rabid dog, aye. And just as useless when it goes to ground." Corbin didn't bother to feign serious injury for long. The Keep of Ashfall didn't tolerate dead weight, and Corbin had no intention of becoming such. "I am capable, Elder. A few aches are nothing to the task at hand." He even managed a tight, pained grimace for emphasis. Silas grumbled, turning his gaze to the damp wall. "It's Kael's fault, truly. He always had a knack for finding trouble, but this… to fall prey to the Lingering Decay just when we need every limb." "Kael is afflicted?" Corbin arched an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine, morbid curiosity dancing in his eyes. He watched the flicker on his bone shard. No, not 'afflicted.' *Drained*. He himself was the affliction. "His illness isn't severe, I trust? Has he received adequate poultices?" Corbin asked, the dry sarcasm barely veiled. He genuinely *did* trust Kael wasn't too severe. Not yet, at least. He needed him functional. Silas cast a suspicious glance at Corbin. "Poultices? The miserable wretch blew every scrap of coin he had on blight-whiskey and the Flesh-Shapers in the market district. What coin does he have left for real remedies?" "He's wasted, shivering in his shack, festering. Heaven knows if he'll last the week." A jolt. Corbin's blood ran cold, a purely pragmatic fear. *Last the week?* His Blight-Seeder's Touch was only at its nascent stage, barely 'Attuned'. And no other suitable, *unwilling* conduit had presented itself yet. Kael absolutely could *not* die. Not now. After a moment of chilling calculation, Corbin turned, rifling through a salvaged leather pouch. He produced a small phial, filled with a viscous, shimmering liquid that pulsed with a faint, sickly green light. "Elder Silas, I have a binding draught here. Not quite a cure, but it should… stabilize him. Keep the more aggressive aspects of the decay at bay. Could you ensure he receives it?" Corbin's expression was carefully neutral, a mask of cold utility. He wouldn't risk delivering it himself. Kael, even in his blighted stupor, might remember the source of his misery. Silas took the phial, uncorking it with a grunt. He sniffed the contents, his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the strange fluid. He was no arcane scholar, but he knew enough of Aethelgard's myriad blights and remedies. He'd seen concoctions that sped decay, and others that merely masked it. This one… The elder raised an eyebrow, a sliver of genuine bafflement in his gaze. "This isn't poison, Rhys. Not in the way I know it. It smells… of controlled blight-essence. A decelerant. It would tether the corruption, not eradicate it." And that was the truth. It *was* a decelerant, in a sense. It bound the siphoned blight, keeping Kael a live vessel, rather than letting him rot completely or recover fully. It nourished the draining process. Silas was silent for a long moment, watching Corbin. "Rhys, you know it was Kael who betrayed your last attempt at the Scavenger's Mark, didn't you? Told the Wardens where you’d hidden your hoard, nearly got you flayed alive." Corbin nodded slowly, a ghost of a predatory smile playing on his lips. "I am aware." "Then what's this…?" Silas gestured to the phial. "Why waste a potent stabilizing draught on a viper who bit you?" It wasn't just a matter of principle; such draughts were rare, requiring difficult-to-acquire blighted flora. Corbin met the elder's gaze, his own eyes like chips of ancient ice. "Kael is a resource, Elder. An unreliable one, perhaps, but a body is a body. And a blighted body, one that has felt the kiss of true decay, can be useful. A controlled affliction is a far more effective deterrent than mere death." He paused, then added, "Besides, I remember Kael once showed me a shortcut through the Blight-Scarred Wastes. His memory, however clouded, is still a map." At that moment, Silas’s weathered face held a flicker of something akin to admiration. Not for kindness, but for sheer, unadulterated ruthlessness. He saw a cold, calculating mind, unburdened by sentiment, focused solely on power and survival. *What a brutal, efficient bastard,* Silas thought. His intention to grant Corbin more autonomy, more access to the Keep's forbidden lore, was now irrevocably solidified. *This one won't die a common vagrant.* Silas, without further ceremony, tossed Corbin a small, leather-bound fragment of what appeared to be an ancient tome, its pages brittle and edged with a subtle, pulsating grime. "Consider this your initiation, Rhys. The true secrets of the Blight-Seeder's Touch require… deeper understanding. And for the ritual, you'll need this. Meet me at the southern gate before the first blight-moth takes wing." A simple exchange. No grand words. In Aethelgard, utility was the only currency. Corbin caught the fragment. Its touch felt… familiar. He felt the cold pull of ancient power from it. Silas then left, the binding draught clutched in his hand, heading directly for Kael's squalid dwelling. The Lady Seraphina’s ‘Ascension’ banquet was tomorrow, and every hand, even blighted ones, would be pressed into service. --- The next cycle, before the first blight-moth's wings began their ghostly beat, Corbin was already awake. He pulled the carved bone shard from beneath his cot. The luminescence emanating from it was still faint, but unmistakably brighter than before. *The binding draught works.* Kael was stable enough. He could continue to reap. He quickly rose, discarding the shard back into its hidden alcove. He retrieved a small, corroded iron censer, filled with dried blight-bloom petals and crushed vermin bone. Lighting the contents, a thin, acrid smoke began to spiral. He settled into a low, predatory crouch, commencing his communion with the nascent blight within him. This binding session lasted a full hour, a focused, almost meditative dance with the insidious energies, pushing them to their limits, then drawing them back, always through the tether to Kael. "Blight-Seeder's Touch (Attuned): 58%" Corbin smiled, a thin, humourless line. Excellent progress. *If Kael can last another five cycles, I should break through to the next stage.* Thinking this, Corbin raised his hand, forming a loose, cupped palm. He focused, and a barely visible ripple of sickly green energy shivered in the air. A nearby blight-fly, drawn by the stench of the censer, buzzed lazily past, only a foot from his palm. The fly convulsed, legs twitching wildly, then dropped from the air, its tiny wings folded, stiff. A faint, cloying scent, like sickly sweet decay mixed with ozone, hung in the air. Corbin stared at his faintly stained palm, a chilling sense of awe rippling through him. Flies, creatures that feasted on death and filth, that could ignore the most noxious miasmas, had just been felled by the invisible wake of his power. This demonstrated that the blight he wielded, even at this early stage, was something no ordinary being could withstand. A silent, insipid killer. Yet, Corbin knew he couldn't get complacent. The Blight-Seeder's Touch, in its raw, Attuned state, lacked finesse. It was a blunt instrument, relying entirely on insidious attachment and spreading corruption. It was decent for silent incapacitation or poisoning, but it would be found wanting in a direct confrontation. For instance, if one of Lady Seraphina's Sanctified Sentinels noticed the strange scent and held their breath, they could still cleave him in two. *Far from enough. I must remain in the shadows, continue my 'arduous training.'* To transcend his current station, to escape the perpetual grind of Keep service, he had to master a deeper ritual, achieve Arcane Ascension. Speaking of which, the reason House Blackwood was hosting such a grand, albeit morbid, feast, was precisely because the Patriarch's youngest daughter, Lady Seraphina, had achieved her Arcane Ascension. She had trained in the hidden crypts of the Blight-Mages since childhood, rumored to possess a chilling affinity for death-magic. And to achieve Ascension at such a tender age, with a bit of political maneuvering, she would likely join one of the Great Circles of Necromancy in the future. Her prospects were grimly bright. After a quick, cold wash, Corbin hurried out of the hovel. The southern gate awaited. Arriving at the assembly point, he found Elder Silas already there, supervising the grim preparations. Corbin offered a curt nod, then began inspecting the rusted scavenger tools, his mind already calculating trajectories, escape routes, and potential new sources of power. Not long after, Kael limped into view, trembling. His face was a cadaverous grey, his limbs moving with a strained, jerky motion. He was a walking ghost, but he was moving. He had no choice but to work. "Kael. Still among the living?" Corbin's voice was flat, an observation rather than a question. He offered no hint that he was the architect of Kael's slow decline. Kael's lips peeled back in a sickly grin. "Aye, Rhys. Somehow… A little better, after Silas brought that draught." He spoke the truth. After drinking the binding draught last night, he had felt a fleeting surge of warmth, a brief respite from the gnawing cold. But for some reason, just as he was about to feel truly recovered, a deeper exhaustion, a profound sense of hollowness, had descended upon him. His entire being felt like a dried husk. *Strange…* Kael thought, his mind clouded by the constant drain. *Looks like I can't stop taking that medicine.* He stumbled toward a pile of rotting crates, ready to begin his miserable task.

The Tethered Leech