I do not often speak of that time, for dark are the memories and vivid is the pain of their recalling. Nevertheless, I am compelled to commit them to parchment, for much suffering could have been saved if those in control had behaved differently and it is my sincere hope that the learnings from these stories could one day avert disaster when the seasons turn again as they inevitably will.

[p]

It began in the early days of the Crimson Year, when the skies took on a hue of foreboding and the winds carried whispers of discord. The omens were ignored by the Council, who dismissed them as the ramblings of mad oracles and superstitious commoners. Their arrogance, as it turned out, would seal our fate.

[p]

The first signs of the Coming Rot were subtle: crops that failed without reason, livestock that grew listless and sickly despite ample care, and wells that tasted faintly of iron. I remember my father’s furrowed brow as he examined the wheat field behind our home, its once vibrant green now pallid and lifeless. "It’s nothing," he assured us, though his hands trembled as he clutched the soil that crumbled like ash.

[p]

When the affliction reached the people, there was no denying its unnatural origin. It started with a fever that no herb could cure, followed by a rash that spread like wildfire across the skin. Soon, entire villages fell silent, their inhabitants reduced to hollow-eyed wraiths or unmarked graves. Yet the Council’s messengers rode through the land, proclaiming that all was well and urging calm. It was a calm borne of denial, and it only hastened our demise.

[p]

By the time the Council realized the gravity of the situation, it was too late. The Rot had not only consumed our lands and bodies but also our trust in one another. Neighbor turned against neighbor,

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