UPDATE: Dear reader, thank you for following The Dance That Never Ends so far. I would like to inform you of my newly created , which is free to follow. I release all chapters on there as well. Additionally, paid subscribers can access advance chapters, early drafts of future projects and occasional short stories and articles as well. Thank you for your support once again. Now let's get down to Chapter 11!

  ***

  July 29th, 1518 (Thursday)

  It was another hot and humid summer's day.

  It was the kind of wet heat that clung to the skin, added to the discomfort. Thomas unlocked the door to his office, stepped inside, and crossed to the desk near the shuttered window. The shutters creaked faintly as he opened them, letting in a strip of pale morning light. He had just begun setting his tools in order when he heard a soft knock at the door.

  A boy stood outside, no more than ten, with a satchel slung over his shoulder. He wore a patched shirt and dusty boots, and looked as though he'd already walked half the city.

  "Courier for Herr Albrecht," the boy said, holding out a folded paper. His voice was flat with routine.

  Thomas took the pamphlet with a nod and handed over a pfennig from the small dish by the doorway. The boy gave a brief thanks and ran off down the lane.

  The pamphlet was cheaply printed, faintly smelling of ink and press fumes. The paper was coarse and its corners were already softening from the overwhelming humidity. He unfolded it carelessly, expecting a mundane city announcement or a call for donations from the cathedral. But as he read the headline, his chest tightened.

  YOUNG WOMAN PERISHES AFTER THREE DAYS OF MAD DANCING!

  The name struck him immediately, Anna Kleist. Twenty-one. A seamstress’s daughter from the western quarter. He had seen her before a few times, accompanying her mother on errands past the practice window. He read on, his stomach knotting.

  According to the account, Anna had collapsed in the Kornmarkt at dusk the previous day after hours of continuous movement. Witnesses described her behaviour in familiar terms – smiling yet indifferent. That was in the moments before she fell. Her body gave out without resistance. She crumpled mid-spin and never woke up.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  What disturbed him more than the clinical details was the tone of the pamphlet. It was breathless and dramatic, bordering on gleeful. Phrases like "God’s scourge" and "heathen punishment" peppered the paragraphs. The piece was unsigned, but it carried the unmistakable rhetorical style of the cathedral scribes, its language a blend of superstition and celebratory certainty.

  He read the phrase twice to be sure it was really there.

  “DANCING PLAGUE” was printed in bold capital letters beneath the final paragraph, above a crude hand-drawn illustration. It depicted a skeletal figure in tattered robes playing a fiddle, leading a crowd of wide-eyed men and women through what appeared to be an illustration of the Kornmarkt. Their faces were twisted in something between laughter and terror. The fiddler’s grin depicted with intentionally savage lines was unmistakable.

  Thomas put the pamphlet down and rubbed his brow. There was no publication, only a line beneath the title:

  “Printed for the Good of the City, and the Cleansing of Conscience.”

  He sank heavily into the chair and gazed at the floorboards for a long while. The story had left the square. It had acquired a name.

  His thoughts swiftly and almost instinctively turned to Gretchen. However, he did not experience the same surge of dread this time around. Yesterday, she had been tired, yes, but lucid. Her speech had clarity, and her smile was genuine. Even her strange descriptions maintained a kind of internal coherence. This did not mean she was entirely safe, but she was unlikely to become the next Anna Kleist anytime soon, based on her current health trajectory.

  Thomas received three patients that morning. Afterwards, he went to the Fischmarkt to grab some lunch. His initial idea was to go to the Neumarkt. But he eventually decided to avoid the square to steer clear of any compulsive dancers that might have gathered there again.

  When he returned to his office, he was greeted by a sealed envelope composed of heavy parchment, marked with the insignia of the Rathaus, the city council. The courier handed it over with a simple, solemn nod of the head.

  Thomas handed him a coin, and off he went.

  Inside, Thomas broke the wax seal and carefully unfolded the letter.

  The message was brief – a summons. The physicians, herbalists, and apothecaries of Strasbourg were instructed to meet the next day at the Rathaus to discuss issues related to "civic and spiritual health." The tone was terse but stressed the importance of the gathering. Attendance was not requested, it was assumed.

  He read the final line twice:

  Those attending shall come prepared to discuss the matter of the recent affliction in the city squares and beyond. Observations, suspicions, and treatments are to be brought forward in the spirit of communal duty and godly wisdom.

  Thomas folded the letter slowly and placed it beside the pamphlet. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at both documents lying before him like a pair of open wounds.

  Thomas had not been to the town squares much in the last couple of days. With Gretchen bed-bound, he had lost both cause and motivation to go there. But he suspected the sightings of compulsive dancing had become more commonplace within that short period.

  Outside, the marketplace carried on with its afternoon murmur. But something had shifted. The city was starting to speak aloud what had, until now, been a mere curiosity. The men who mattered were beginning to get involved, and a rising tension filled the air of Strasbourg.