Pirim awoke to the cawing of crows. A shadow flitted across where she lay inside her broken crate. She tasted dust and dried spit on her tongue. She patted her stomach, checking for wounds. None to be seen. She had only just come back from the great black void that was her sleep, and she had to admit she was surprised she was still alive without injury.

There was someone rummaging about next to her. The sound of metal scraping against stone. She tensed. They were here to collect the corpse, no doubt. The heat of the enclosed box, fueled by her rebounding breaths, caused sweat to swelter around her skin. She inched her head ever so slightly forward to catch a glimpse of the person next to her.

There was a shadow on the ground, faintly illuminated even in the daytime. The shape of the silhouette was odd… where a flat human face would be, there was a pointed protrusion shaped like a beak. So Azazael was not above studying the deceased, it seemed. The reflection of her mask was both alien and comfortingly familiar. Pirim almost climbed out of the box to greet her, but suddenly realized the implications of their last conversation – that she expected Pirim to be an upstanding and well-off individual. To dash those expectations meant risking making an enemy out of her. So Pirim hid from Azazael. She held her breath as her long black cloak swept the ground in front of her.

“My, what an unorthodox place to be in,” said Azazael. Pirim choked on her own surprise. Azazael’s plague doctor mask swung downwards as she squatted in front of Pirim’s box. Azazael peered at her like she was a caged animal under observation. Deep motions behind her goggles showed curiosity and calculation. “Come on out; I’m interested in what your explanation is.”

Pirim wriggled her way out of the cramped container. She brushed the empty bags out of sight with her feet as she climbed out. She rose to meet Azazael while shaking dust off of her clothes. Azazael stood nonchalantly in the middle of the alleyway with the decomposing corpse stuffed in a potato sack and drooping from her grasp. Pirim opened her mouth, but Azazael spoke first. Understanding dawned on her face.

“Ah,” she said. “That throws a wrench in my plans, but that does explain things quite a bit.” She tapped her chin in thought. “I understand not wanting to admit you were penniless and homeless. I guess the economy in this place is worse than I thought. I knew this was a poor town, but I suddenly realize it is so much worse than that. That must be why you were so hesitant to get treated… even the alternate payment I suggested doesn’t quite work for us, given that people aren’t very likely to trust you if you look like… well, that.”

Pirim bristled at Azazael’s words. It was the nonchalant bluntness that stung the most. But she was right; the past few days had taken their toll on the already decrepit girl. She looked herself up and down as Azazael did the same. There were crumbs dotting her graying skin, flakes of dust and dead cells clinging to her hair. Her cloak was like a night sky with how many granules of grime were trapped inside. While her injuries had clotted, they still cut ugly red-brown streaks across her figure. There was no chance she could ever show her face in public in this state. How would she be able to survive without amenities? Her parents would throw fits if they say their daughter like this. Not that she cared, but…

“I’m correct, aren’t I? I can see the shame in your eyes. Well, you’re very lucky that I came here to extend a helping hand to the populace. Even if you aren’t good for publicity, it’s clear that you recognize my potential. I presume living in such squalid conditions isn’t exactly comfortable. So… if you will assist me with my work, perhaps we can arrange something better.”

Pirim could feel a rising heat at her abdomen. Phylaris was simmering with emotion, but said nothing. Just knowing that made a wicked smile crawl out of her throat. Even though it was clear her kindness came with caveats, Pirim could use it. It was a golden opportunity, and so she nodded profusely. In her excitement, she extended her hand. When Azazael shook it, her eyes widened.

“Your hand… it’s deathly cold!” she exclaimed. Pirim said nothing. At first, Azazael took a step back, but after a pause, she stepped forward again, eager. “That’s so interesting… sorry. I was a little startled, but no matter. You’ll come with me, yes? When we met last, I mentioned my makeshift office in the inn. I’ve found a better location, one that is not so overcome by prying eyes.”

Azazael’s expression was unreadable, but her words were music to Pirim’s ears. Azazael turned and started to head down the alleyway, taking a backwater route to her new so-called office. She carried the body bridal style, almost joyfully skipping along the stones with the corpse in tow.

“Aren’t you concerned someone’s going to see you with that?” asked Pirim.

“Oh, no, people do this all the time,” Azazael said with a wave of her hand. “From what I hear, since the demonic incursion started, the population has been dwindling all the while. That’s why there are so many abandoned and empty buildings in the town. It’s not uncommon to see someone carrying a body bag. People here are desensitized at this point. Still, that doesn’t mean that there aren’t people still left here to save.”

As Pirim ventured down the unfamiliar winding passageways, she noticed the condition of the houses surrounding her begin to deteriorate. Stone and cob walls with timber frames morphed into wood and log constructions, ending in decrepit rafters and drafty doors. Worry started to worm its way into Pirim’s throat. There was, of course, no way Azazael would have been able to buy a proper house in a single day. In fact, it must have been illegal. Though she had planned to do the exact same thing, it made Pirim uneasy to think Azazael had taken over some abandoned home.

They eventually came across a barn-shaped building with shoddy walls. Its weathered stone foundation was the only thing preventing the entire thing from crashing down. Pirim gulped. Her fears were confirmed. However, Azazael’s cheery disposition did not waver, ever as she dragged a decaying corpse to an illegally inhabited building. She walked inside, and Pirim noticed she was especially gentle when opening the door – though she did not show it, she was well aware of her living conditions.

“This shall be the place where miracles are made!” she said, lifting her arm up and gesturing about. Pirim stepped lightly. There were probably upturned floorboards, sticking out like lethal traps. “I must admit this place is not exactly befitting someone of my caliber, but that should not be the case for long. First come the results, then comes the reputation. And you shall, of course, be my assistant!”

“For how long?” Pirim asked. A single treatment should not be worth too much time by this oddball doctor’s side. But Azazael cocked her head at Pirim in a quizzical gesture.

“How long? As long as it takes for your body to heal, of course.”

Pirim said nothing. A foreboding atmosphere presided over her. She could feel some malicious, violent energy in the air. It was not the calm, placid, cold embrace of death, but the thrashing, snarling, desperate claws of life. The kind of life that would do anything to protect itself. Underneath the folds of her clothes, Phylaris grew warm.

Pirim could only watch from the shadows as her anxiety rose. The peculiar doctor dusted off an ill-used shelf. There were stains deeply soaked into the wood that were of unknown origin. Pirim coughed. She would have loved a mask like Azazael’s to block out all the flying dust.

Azazael set her satchel on the ground and drew out several glass bottles of different sizes. She draped a tattered cloth over the table to set her supplies on. Then she walked towards a cabinet covered with dark red curtains and opened it, revealing several large jars filled with dark, sludgy substances.

“You are, of course, familiar with the four humours?” Azazael asked.

“Of course.” Pirim had learned about it during her studies at the University of Walden. The four humours, the essential fluids that maintained the body’s balance and functionality in harmony. Blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phlegm. She peered at the jars. The first jar was as big as her abdomen and held a dark red substance, almost dried and plastered against the walls. The second jar was about half the size, and filled with a brown-orange mixture with chunks of unknown material jelled inside. The third was the smallest, and only contained a tankard’s worth of a black liquid. The fourth was moderately-sized and contained a clear liquid, though age had given it a slight yellow tint.

“These are jars containing pure samples of the four humours,” said Azazael. Pirim was suddenly hit was an overwhelming stench – metal mixed with vomit and feces. She recoiled. “Ah, yes, the base substances of our body can be a bit much to inhale. They are, of course, not meant to leave the body in such large quantities. That is, in part, why I wear this mask.” Azazael set the four jars down on the table while she continued her speech. “All illness is caused by an imbalance in the four humours. Illnesses that bring about aggression are caused by an overabundance of yellow bile, illnesses that bring about sadness are caused by too much black bile, and illnesses that bring about weakness and fragility are caused by large amounts of phlegm. As blood consists of a mixture of the other three humors, too much blood causes disease of all these qualities.”

“I see,” Pirim said. She distracted her sense of danger by listening intently to Azazael’s words. She had not learned that information before. Perhaps part of her constant longing and anxiety, even down to the fear she felt in that moment, was due to an abundance of black bile in her body.

“This has all been researched very extensively,” said Azazael, waving her hand. “Any practitioner worth their salt could tell you that much. The studies I have done, both outside and inside this village, however, bring me to a new conclusion, one that nobody else has even grasped at yet.”

She turned to Pirim, and behind her goggles, Pirim could see a glint of passion. She then showed Pirim a fifth jar, containing a liquid that was bright red, much more so that blood. It glistened, and almost glowed, compared to the lifeless, congealing portions of human fluids in the other jars.

“This is the Influence. This is the fifth humour, the demonic humour. The humour that demons and otherworldly beasts use to operate, a humour that is incompatible with humans. I call the substance itself red bile.” As Pirim edged closer, the liquid in the jar began to move. It wiggled and oozed before plastering itself against the walls of the jar as if reaching for Pirim’s body. She hissed under her breath and jumped back. Azazael laughed at her fear. “Yes, the demonic humour is also unique in that it seems to move on its own. It does not obey the same rationale that we humans do, because demons do not operate on the same plane of reason that we do. It is also the reason why illnesses caused by the Influence result in irrational behavior that cannot be attributed to normal human emotions like sadness, anger, or tiredness.”

To illustrate her point further, Azazael used her gloved hangs to untie the sack and drag the dead corpse onto the table in front of the jars. She laid the corpse out supine, adjusting its arms and legs straight. Then she struck a candle, placed it in a lantern, and laid it at the head of the table next to the corpse’s burst-open head. The horrible smell of the jars prevented Pirim from willingly stepping any further, but Azazael beckoned her forward.

“Come on now. You won’t make any new revelations by standing by the side. You must watch, act, learn.”

Pirim begrudgingly edged forwards until she was staring right at the deformed exposed bone of the corpse.

“Sadly, the Influence has long left this body, as have all the other four natural humours. However, we can still learn from the anatomy of this parasite and how it causes an imbalance.”

Azazael pointed her finger at the frayed edges of the parasite’s tissue. “Its reproductive cycle consists of finding a host and then modifying the internal systems of the victim to produce red bile instead of the other humours.” She lifted the flaps and spread the gaping hole open to better view the connection between the parasite and the host. Where the flesh of the parasite met the corpse, Pirim saw several vein-like tubes underneath the surface leading from the parasite to the inside of the corpse’s head.

“The most fatal replacement is the bloodstream,” explained Azazael, turning the corpse’s head to better illustrate the phenomenon. “Slowly, the parasite latches onto the blood vessels in the victim’s head and replaces the blood with red bile. It flows throughout the rest of the body, corrupting it all. Finally, once the entire body had been transformed into a source of food, the parasite gorges itself on the red bile, becoming fat and nurturing its offspring within the expanding walls of its tissue. Once the body has exhausted its use, it simply explodes, killing the victim, itself, and sending the new airborne parasites out into the air to latch onto new victims.”

“That’s horrible,” Pirim gasped. “The pain they must feel, especially to have their internal workings just slowly stop working like that. It must be agonizing to die this way.”

This was the world in which Phylaris came from. The cruel nature of these otherworldly parasites only served to make the girl even more cautious about the forces she was playing with, and even more certain she would eventually betray them.

“It truly is. Nobody deserves to die this way. However, I have also developed a couple of methods to solve this crisis. The first is the method that I used earlier: having patients breathe in a gaseous version of a concoction made with the four humours. You see, humans have a limit to how much humour they can hold. That is why the parasites must replace their victim’s humours with red bile instead of simply adding it. Therefore, if a large amount of all four types of humours is directly inhaled, it follows that much of the red bile would get ejected through the orifices in the body. It would feel uncomfortable even painful, but of course, it is always worth it in the end.”

Pirim blanched. She had a feeling she knew what Azazael was going to say next. Worry overcame her as Azazael nonchalantly tapped the outside of the jars.

“The second method is a more direct method for those who have almost succumbed to the Influence. Inhaling vapors is not enough; we must ingest the liquids themselves. Of course, this is a last resort. It can be rather arduous to swallow such large amounts of bile and blood. The treatment that I would use depends on the prevalence of the demonic humour in a patient’s blood. Since it is so fortuitous you decided to accompany me, how about we test yours?”

Azazael gestured to a rickety chair. There was a dirty cloth spread out on the seat. It was ostensibly to prevent whoever sat there from getting dirty, but the opposite seemed to be the case. It was stained, like the tablecloth and the table itself. The stains were dark, almost like burn marks. Pirim shuddered. Azazael’s confidence did not assuage her worries. Instead, they exacerbated them. Yet, she needed to know. If she did in fact have Influence in her blood, it would mean Phylaris was up to something. She sat herself down in the chair, peeling back the folds of her cloak and her sleeves. She propped her forearm up on the armrest of the chair.

“Have you had your blood let before?” asked Azazael. Pirim shook her head, though she had studied how it was performed. “I see.” Azazael rummaged in her cabinets before drawing a flat-bottomed metal bowl from its depths. The sanitation of such a bowl was questionable at best. From within a deep pocket, Azazael also drew a thumb lancet, flicking open the two flat handles to reveal a sharp, flat blade. She looked over the tip at Pirim.

“Judging from your complexion… you have a certain grayness in your skin. It lacks color, and I did note that your hands earlier were deathly cold. Coldness and lack of vitality are characteristics of black bile and phlegm. This indicates that your natural humoral balance features a large amount of black bile and phlegm – in other words, you are a melancholic and phlegmatic person. This should help me predict what sort of percentages of the humours you should have, and help me decide how much of each humour to provide you with if they have been replaced by red bile.”

Pirim focused on Azazael’s words, distracting herself from the glistening, hungry gaze of the blade in her hands. Suddenly, Azazael placed the two flat handles on the opposite sides of Pirim’s arm, and pushed down. Pirim winced in pain as the blade nicked her vein. With the other arm, Azazael held the metal bowl underneath the rivulets of blood that were quickly seeping out.

Pain filled Pirim’s head. She grit her teeth and bit down hard. Pain was the worst feeling in the world. Her head swam from her previous injury at the sight of so much blood leaving her body. Her heart leapt into her chest as she saw that the entire bottom of the bowl had been filled with her blood, and the level was slowly rising.

“Um, when are you going to stop the bleeding?” she asked in a trembling voice.

“Oh, do not worry. The body is always producing new blood, so there is no need to be stingy. The more blood I can collect, the more accurate my analysis of its contents will be.”

The metallic smell of her blood was overpowering. She could feel Phylaris grow even warmer as she watched the blood pour out of her. She could almost sense its hunger, as if it wanted to take her blood and make it its own. She fought the urge to panic, to lash out, to vomit. She knew that if she moved, then the blade would cut her further.

It took until the bowl was halfway full for Azazael to stop the bleeding. Pirim watched it ripple as Azazael bandaged her arm and carried it swiftly to the table to analyze. She held it up to the lantern. Pirim clutched her arm, massaging it. She had had enough of pain lately. She leaned back in the chair and breathed deeply. She closed her eyes, trying to dull everything out. A curious exclamation from Azazael roused her from her relaxation.

“You don’t have a single trace of the Influence in you!”