The One

“The One”
	Lyra was sick. Avarice knew that very well. Even the mighty Sanguinem get sick. At first, it was a cold. Then it was a flu. Then it was a feven. By the end of the fifth day, the Blood King was very worried.
	“Atros, what is wrong with her?”
	The doctor shook his head.
	“Nothing good, your highness. As far as I can tell, it's some sort of virus.”
	“Is it deadly?”
	“It....”
	He paused.
	“Go on man.”
	“It appears so.”
	Avarice smashed his fist through a wall. Atros flinched.
	“There's good news, your highness.”
	“What is that?”
	“I believe there is a cure. Out on the high islands of Precipitos.”
	“I know the place. Is it some kind of flower I'll be looking for?”
	Atros nodded.
	“Black with white stripes, like a zebra. A flower so rare it doesn't have a name.”
	“What am I to do with this flower?”
	“Bring it here, without losing a single petal.”
	Avarice's eyes shone bright with determination.
	“I'll go right now,” he said.
	“Your highness, won't you bring your guards? It's dangerous.”
	“I'm dangerous,” he replied.
	He turned, his long coat sweeping with the motion.

	He had already left the Iron Castle. In fact, he had already left the Iron City altogether. It was a long, perilious journey ahead of him. Even with his speed, he would need to be cautious. Even with his strength, he might be crushed. He shaded himself with his left hand, squinting at the sky. A little bird flew in front of him, singing its sweet song. It was a jellybird, small and beautiful and royal purple, the color of its namesake. He smiled, despite himself. Jellybirds were said to be lucky. Avarice Angelus did not believe in omens. Despite that, it was still beautiful.

	Lyra lay beneath 4 thick blankets, sick and sweaty. Marilyn put a hand to her forehead. She was clammy, and hot to the touch.
	“Bring a washcloth,” she ordered Wellmit, their servant. He hurried to obey.
	Marilyn was a witch. A very powerful witch. Even so, her magic had limited use in this situation. She was a combat mage, specializing in fire and flame and destruction. She had no doubt that Avarice was off doing something gallant. Gallant, and probably foolish.
	“M-Marilyn,” Lyra stammered.
	“Yes, sweetie?”
	“Where is my dad?”
	“I don't know,” she said honestly. “But I have a feeling he's doing his best to help.”
	Lyra smiled.
	“We both know that,” she agreed.
	She began to cough. Marilyn handed her a glass of water. She had to help Lyra drink it, for she was so weak.
	“T-thank you, Marilyn.”
	“How are you feeling?”
	“Sh-shitty.”
	She laughed, despite herself.
	“Marilyn? Am I gonna die?”
	“No. Your father will pull through.”
	They sat in silence. Marilyn was more worried than she was willing to admit. Lyra presently fell asleep. The Witch of the White Flame squeezed her hand.

	Avarice was in the East part of the Stony Woods. Hundreds of Cockatrices lived there. He would have to keep his eyes closed here, lest he be frozen in stone. He strong senses guided him around the trees, taking extra care. He was almost out of the forest when he had a scraping sound. He drew his sword, turning around. He could not see the beast, but he could smell it, could hear its heavy breathing. It was ugly, he knew. A 3000 pound giant bird, the Cockatrice was an ugly  color, covered in rusty golden feathers and looking more like an ugly raptor than a proper bird.
	The beast squawked. Avarice slashed. It was no contest. Despite their danger, they were no match for a Blood Weapon. The severed head fell to the forest floor, stopping at Avarice's feet.
	“I'm sorry.”
	Avarice walked on. As soon as he was out of the stony forest, he opened his eyes.
	“That's better,” he said, relived.
	Just then, he looked up, into the eyes of a furious looking red Cockatrice. He tried to look away,  but it was too late. His body was already beginning to harden.
	“No, noooooo!,” he screamed.
	Avarice flailed, yet even he could not combat the Cockatrice stare. Slowly, painfully, he turned to stone.