Chapter 4: The Taste of Poison

Chapter 4: The Taste of Poison

The Siege of Veridia was not a book; it was a contagion.

Within a month of its release, it had devoured bestseller lists, consumed book clubs, and rewritten the landscape of modern fantasy. Critics, in a rare, unanimous chorus, hailed it as a work of once-in-a-generation genius. They praised the debut author, Leo Vance, as a master of prose, a reclusive prodigy who had emerged from nowhere with a fully-formed masterpiece.

Leo experienced this phenomenon from the confines of his silent house, a ghost haunting the scene of his own success. The fame was an abstract noise, a flurry of emails from Isabelle Rourke that he read with detached disinterest. “The film rights auction is a bloodbath, Leo! We’re going to need a bigger bank!” “Germany just fell, France is next! They’re calling it Die Belagerung von Veridia!” “The President was photographed reading it on Air Force One!”

The money was even less real. It was a number on a banking app, a seven-figure ghost that had no connection to his life. He used a fraction of it to pay off the house and officially quit his plumbing job, a short, awkward call to Frank that felt like a farewell to a different person’s life. After that, the money just sat there, accumulating, as useless to him as a pile of stones. It couldn’t buy him what he truly wanted.

He was a prisoner in his new kingdom. The unpacked boxes remained, a cardboard city in his living room. His only companion was the book itself, his own name a glaring lie on the cover. He read it constantly, obsessively. He knew every sentence, every perfectly placed comma, every gut-wrenching turn. He would trace the words with his finger, trying to feel the spark of that first reading, but the magic was gone. The story had been shared, diluted, its power spread thin across a million other minds.

He was starving.

In a fit of desperation, he bought a dozen of the year's most acclaimed novels. They arrived in a crisp new box, a stark contrast to the dusty tombs of his old life. He tore one open, the spine cracking with a promise of a new world. He started to read.

It was like chewing on cardboard.

The words lay dead on the page, inert and clumsy. The characters were paper-thin puppets, their dialogue tinny and false. The worlds they inhabited were pale, washed-out photographs compared to the vibrant, breathing reality of Veridia. He threw the book across the room, a surge of revulsion and despair making him gag. He tried another, and another. It was no use. They all tasted of ash. The Scribe hadn't just written a good book; it had scorched the earth, leaving nothing else to grow.

The withdrawal began in earnest. It was no longer a dull ache but a physical affliction. A constant, low-grade fever left him drenched in sweat. His hands shook so badly he could barely hold a glass of water. Sleep offered no respite, only fever-dreams of Veridia’s rain-slicked streets, of Kaelen’s determined face, of the final, perfect, agonizing chapter. He was a hollowed-out thing, a husk animated by a single, all-consuming need.

He knew where he had to go. The thought had been lurking in the back of his mind, a dark and tempting shadow. For weeks, he had resisted it, clinging to the last shreds of his autonomy. But now, curled on the floor, his body wracked with tremors, he finally understood. He had made a deal. He had been so focused on the signature on the contract that he hadn't understood the true terms. The publication, the fame, the money—that wasn’t the reward. That was the payment.

He had spread the first plague. And now it was time to collect his fee.

He crawled, then stumbled, his way to the master bedroom. Each step was a surrender. He was no longer an accidental author or a lucky finder. He was an addict, and he was walking to his dealer. He pulled open the closet door, its familiar shriek a sound of grim welcome. He peeled back the carpet, his fingers finding the cold iron ring.

He lifted the trapdoor. The air that rose to meet him was the same—the thick, cloying smell of damp earth, mildew, and rot. But this time, it didn't smell like a grave. It smelled like a promise.

He switched on his flashlight, his hand surprisingly steady now that his purpose was clear. He aimed the beam into the dark heart of the crawlspace.

It was there.

Resting in the exact same spot, a beacon in the filth, was a new stack of paper. Crisp, white, and impossibly clean, held together by a simple black binder clip.

A choked, desperate sound that was half-sob, half-laugh escaped Leo’s lips. It was a reward. A ration for the good soldier. He had done what the Scribe wanted. He had unleashed its story upon the world, hooked millions of other souls, and now he was being given his prize. The next hit.

He lowered himself into the crawlspace, the foul air a balm on his feverish skin. He didn’t hesitate. He reached out and took the manuscript, its weight in his hand both a relief and a condemnation. As he climbed out, he knew he was irrevocably lost. He had quit his old life, accepted the money, and now he was accepting this. His transformation was complete.

He returned to his nest of boxes in the living room and looked at the first page. There was no title. It was a new story, with new names and a new world, but the voice was the same. The perfect, irresistible, soul-stealing voice of the Scribe.

The dust of the Ochre Wastes tasted of rust and regret, and Elias had been breathing it his whole life…

The poison was on his tongue, and it tasted like salvation. He began to read.