The Silver Path Pavilion no longer resembled a place of healing.

Once, its courtyard had been a space of polished stone and quiet dignity — a garden where waiting families whispered to one another and patients found a moment of calm. Now it lay desecrated. Guards drove back the press of bodies with outstretched arms and sharp orders, their voices cutting through the restless murmur of the crowd. Lantern light skittered across spear points and polished helms as the line strained against citizens hungry for a glimpse of what remained.

On the stones, corpses stretched in grim formation, lined row after row until the yard seemed paved in white and red. Healer's robes clung dark with blood, twisted around bodies bent into shapes no anatomy should allow. Their mouths hung open in eternal cries, but no sound came — only the heavy drip of blood pooling thick between the cobbles, sluggish as tar. Workers in stained aprons trudged out from the Pavilion doors again and again, dragging yet more bodies to add to the tally. Each passage left a trail of crimson that branched through the courtyard like veins.

The Pavilion itself — once alabaster-white, a beacon of sanctity in the ward — had turned grotesque. Its proud walls marbled with scarlet, as if blood seeped from the very seams of its stone. In the torchlight it looked less a building than a carcass, bleeding out into the street. Whispers rippled through the crowd: that the Pavilion wept for its sins, that the stones themselves had betrayed those sworn to serve within.

At the courtyard's edge, a senior guardsman stood rigid, a notebook braced in his hand. His pencil hovered and scratched in uneven strokes, his knuckles whitening as his face grew paler with each line. He had seen battlefields before, but this felt fouler. At least in war, a man knew whose hand struck the killing blow. Here, death had come faceless, remorseless, unseen.

Bootsteps scuffed the stones behind him.

"Sir," came a voice, clipped and taut.

A younger guard strode forward and snapped a salute, posture stiff despite the flush still burning his cheeks. His throat worked as he spoke. "That's the last of them."

The senior guard snapped his notebook shut, the sound sharp as steel. "Any issues?" His words were gravel, the cadence of a man clinging to protocol to keep order in the face of ruin.

"None, sir." The younger man shook his head. "Our experts say the magic at work here is… very selective. None of our people have shown any signs of affliction."

The older guard's eyes narrowed. "Selective how?"

The younger guard hesitated, his weight shifting uneasily from heel to heel. His eyes flicked toward the Pavilion's yawning doors and then back to his commander. "I think you should see for yourself, sir."

The senior guard's frown etched deeper lines into his face. He clipped the notebook to his belt, squared his shoulders, and followed.

The Pavilion's threshold reeked of iron. Inside, the air grew heavy, wet, oppressive — a breath dragged rot across the tongue, thick enough to choke. The senior guard's gut lurched, bile clawing up his throat. He staggered, fought it down, then lifted his gaze.

And lost the fight.

He doubled over, heaving until his meager dinner splattered across the blood-slick tiles. The stench grew worse for it, but the sight ahead demanded all his horror.

Four bodies hung nailed to the far wall. Two on each side of a massive framed portrait, their limbs wrenched into cruciform display. Their skins had been peeled open in sheets, muscles slick and glistening, organs pulsing in grotesque rhythm. The wall itself drank their blood, crimson rivulets trailing down the stone like deliberate calligraphy.

But worse — far worse — they still lived.

Their hearts pumped in the open air, ribs flexing around each beat. Their eyes darted wildly, glassy orbs jerking in panic. Their mouths opened and closed again and again, but no sound came — only the ghastly silence of throats robbed of voice.

The senior guard staggered sideways and vomited again, bracing himself against a pillar that oozed red where the stone had absorbed too much blood.

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Several large men wrestled with the nails pinning the victims — spikes the width of a thumb, glistening like dried blood hammered solid. Crowbars bent. Hammers rang hollow. The nails did not shift. Each attempt only tore another screamless shudder through the impaled bodies.

At the chamber's edges, robed mages crouched with quills scratching furiously, parchment filling with jagged notes. Their hands traced invisible diagrams, lips murmuring incantations as they prodded the flows of magic saturating the air like smoke. Every motion deepened the unease, as if they mapped not just spellwork but a crime against the natural order itself.

"Celestials above…" the senior guard rasped. He swiped his sleeve across his mouth, smearing bile and sweat. His voice cracked. "What happened here?"

The younger man did not answer. He only pressed several sheets of parchment into his superior's trembling hands.

The senior guard blinked, squinting down at the smudged ink. "What's this?"

Employment contracts. Neat, proper. The seals intact, the clauses stamped in tidy columns. The only difference lay in the signatures, each one scrawled in a different hand.

"These were nailed beneath them," the younger guard said, voice tight with strain. He gestured toward the obscene tableau. "We've confirmed the names. Four of the Pavilion's acting directors."

The senior guard's throat worked. His fingers shook around the parchment, the papers rattling softly in the blood-thick air. "I… don't understand…"

A new voice interrupted, low and steady. "I might be able to help."

Both guards turned. From among the huddle of mages, a middle-aged man stepped forward, his black academic robes dusted white with chalk. His spectacles clung precariously to the ridge of his nose, reflecting the lamplight in thin crescents. He moved with the quiet assurance of a man used to lecture halls, not battlefields. Even here, in this chamber of horror, his composure clung to him like armor.

He offered a short bow. "Professor Harn. School of Thaumaturgical Studies. Specialist in curses and hexes."

The senior guard gave a jerky nod, his eyes dragging back to the blood-spattered contracts in his grip. "Then explain."

Harn adjusted his spectacles with one ink-stained finger. His gaze lifted toward the flayed, silent figures pinned like specimens on display. When he spoke, his voice carried a professor's clarity, cutting through the stench and moans of the room.

"These are no simple employment contracts," he said. "They are blood contracts. And powerful ones at that."

The senior guard blanched. Blood magic wasn't outlawed in Halirosa — not outright. But it walked too close to the shadows, its darker branches carrying histories best left unspoken. His grip tightened on the parchment. "You're telling me these four directors broke their contracts? That's what did this?"

Harn shook his head, spectacles glinting as he adjusted them with slow precision. "Not exactly. It wasn't just these four."

The younger guard stepped forward, his expression grim. He gestured back toward the courtyard beyond the doors. "Sir, every body out there — every single one — belonged to Pavilion staff. Not a single civilian among them."

The senior guard's stomach dropped. His mind stumbled over the implications. "How is that possible? You mean to tell me all of them broke their contracts at once? That's… madness."

"Not madness," Harn said, his tone sharpening. "Deviousness. Whoever wove this was clever. Breaking the contract didn't trigger the catastrophe directly. It only branded the violator with a blood mark. Faint, subtle — nearly invisible. But it carried two consequences. First, anyone who knew what to look for could identify the marked. And second…"

He paused, pushing his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. His gaze flicked to the foundation stones beneath their feet. "It made them vulnerable. The mark acts as homing beacon for a defensive array bound into the Pavilion itself. An array carved into the very bones of the building."

The senior guard swore softly, a hoarse rasp torn from his throat. His pallor deepened until his skin seemed almost as gray as the stone around them.

The younger guard picked up the thread, his voice subdued. "Our working theory is that someone with knowledge of both the marks and the array infiltrated the Pavilion… and activated it. The result— " he swallowed, glancing at the wall of writhing forms "— you've seen for yourself."

The senior guard closed his eyes, forcing the bile back down, but the images pressed against his mind's eye all the same: torn flesh, darting eyes, hearts beating in open air. He steadied himself and asked, "Any leads on who might have done this?"

The younger guard shook his head. "No, sir. But we've identified gaps in the body count. A few dozen nurses, and at least a dozen doctors, are missing. Witnesses claim none of them were seen during the incident. We're investigating as we speak."

The senior guard exhaled slowly, the sound more like a groan than a breath. He waved them away. "Keep me updated."

The two men saluted and withdrew, their footsteps echoing hollowly through the blood-drenched chamber, leaving him alone beneath the ghastly portrait.

He dragged a hand down his face, voice low, meant only for himself. "The clans will be furious. They've poured fortunes into this place." His gaze lingered on the nailed directors, their bodies twitching in their wordless torment. His lip curled, part sneer, part bitter smile, as his eyes settled on one man in particular. "Then again… that bastard charged me triple for my niece's surgery after the last inspection."

At last, his eyes lifted to the portrait itself. The painting of an elderly woman gazed back, her smile soft, almost grandmotherly. But scarlet streaks marred her cheeks, red lines running from the corners of her eyes, dripping like tears of blood for the slaughter beneath her.

The senior guard's smirk faltered. He looked away.

Outside, the city whispered, and the Pavilion bled.

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