“So, the boy’s cursed.”

Lord Ward Aldritch prodded his silver monocle and eyed the occupants of the high-backed chairs surrounding the oval ironwood his hands were placed on. His tone, aged but sharp, condensed an unnerving silence through the room’s air.

“We…” Lady Thelma didn’t take long to break it, “don’t know that yet. For all we know, it could be a part of his Spark. It’s too early to jump to conclus—.”

“Preposterous.” Another aged voice cut in from across the table, and Lady Thelma’s eyes shot in its direction. “Anything involving the Eldritch always corrupts, and the aura is proof that the boy’s been marked. He’s cursed.”

“Precisely my point.” Ward twisted his bristly mustache.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Thelma retained her stance, her tone sounding dismissive of any counterargument. “My point stands. I believe the Eldritch aura came from the boy's Spark, not his soul.”

Her eyes traced around the oval table, starting from Ward to Lord Diether Aldritch—the voice who’d interrupted her— to Lady Luvenia Aldritch—Adgar’s mother— then back to Ward. As her eyes swept across them a second time, she made several mental notes detailing their facial expressions and reactions to her words.

“And since that is the case,” She continued, “It is equally possible that what the boy has is a Spark property. Unless of course…” her voice turned mocking, “You know of a curse potent enough to fundamentally alter the human Spark.”

There was a pregnant silence after her words, the tapping of Diether’s ringed finger on the ironwood being the only sound audible. The old nobleman used his other hand to fondle his regal beard, and his eyes were unfocused, bewitched by contemplation.

Curse magic could do a lot, that much was certain. But it being able to fundamentally alter the human Spark? That was an overestimation, he realized. No magic was capable of such a godly act.

Still, he was more inclined to believe that the boy had been afflicted with some unimaginably powerful curse by something Eldritch related rather as that was less absurd than Thelma’s guesses.

Anything ‘Eldritch’ did not belong in their universe, so Lady Thelma’s notion of the boy’s Spark innately possessing the ability to emit that aura was something he found impossible to rationalize.

It would imply that the boy, like anything with an innate ‘Eldritch’ aura, was not from their universe, and that…that was a ludicrous postulation, even by Thelma’s standards.

He shot her a glance, momentarily wondering if she’d finally gone mad, before gazing back at the ironwood. Thelma was an incredibly brilliant sorceress, one of the very best House Aldritch had ever produced. If she was this strong-headed, something had to be convincing her.

“I’m sure the two of you are wondering why I’m so convinced of this possibility.” a gentle smile strewing itself across her slightly wrinkled face, and both Ward and Diether squinted at her, “It's because he’s…”

Vittoria stopped listening to their conversation and looked at her trembling fingers, worry contorting her face uglily, and eyes as hazy as her childhood memories.

She was terrified, so much so that she couldn’t find her rationality.

Just what in tarnation was going on? The Eldritch? Curses? What did that possibly have to do with the resuscitation of her precious little boy? She spat on it all, not giving a damn. All she wanted was to see his bright blue eyes again, hear his soft, boyish voice, and hold his plump face within her hands.

She closed her eyes, forcing the pool of tears threatening to burst through her eyes back. Her son had been unconscious for a week now, and with each passing minute, his face got paler and his breath more shallow. Not a single sign of him waking up in sight.

Her lips began to quiver uncontrollably, and she felt a sudden warm hand on her lap.

She tilted her head, eyes searching through the haze. She relaxed seeing it was Luvenia. The woman was seated beside her on the round table.

“Mother. I—” she weakly croaked, but Luvenia gave her a reassuring smile, rubbing her laps and wiping the tears streaming down her cheeks with a handkerchief.

“It’ll be alright, Vittoria.” the woman said sagely, “Don’t worry, it’ll be alright…”

 

✵✵✵

 

Broad Street

Aldenville, Duchy of Athanor, Pruvian Empire

Four Days Later

Valerio Venturi hailed the hackney cab rounding the street, briefcase in hand, and newspaper tucked under his arm. His nostrils flared smelling the tincture of coal smoke and steam prancing through the chilly morning air.

He reached for the interior of his frock coat and produced a pocket watch, ignoring the clatter of hooves and shoes on the pavement, the hum of conversation, the jingle of harnesses, and the melody of the hurdy-gurdy player a few paces south.

Just a little over Nine. Perfect, he’d get there on time. He stuffed the pocket watch back into his coat as heard the cab grind to a halt in front of him.

“Good day sir.” The driver greeted, his gruff voice sounding extra-polite. “Where, to?”

Valerio tipped his top hat, “The Aldritch Estate.”

The driver couldn’t mask the surprise that flickered across his aged face, but he swiftly nodded. “It’ll be fifteen stilights, sir.”

Valerio internally cocked a brow. The papers weren't kidding about the inflation. Fifteen stilights for a ride to a place less than a mile away was outrageous. The same amount could buy him an honest pair of winter gloves back in the Republic.

He gave a slight nod, glanced around for a moment, then got in the hackney, shifting across the cab’s cushioned seat until he was comfortable. He unfurled the morning newspaper once the cab had set off.

Political Crisis Looms as the Empress dismisses Prime Minister: Uncertainty Grips the Motherland as Parties Scramble to Form a New Government

The headline read, and Valerio’s lips immediately pursed, interest glistening across his pupils. It seemed four regime changes in the span of ten years was not enough to alleviate the Empire’s economic crisis after their thorough defeat in the Great War some fifteen years ago.

He crossed his legs and glanced at the street for a moment, deciding to chew the information the headline presented. There were kids in tattered clothes shouting and playing on the sides of the street he was currently passing through.

Men with their resumes pasted on cardboard signs raised above their head littered both sides of the street, with beggars interspersed every few feet between them. People were sleeping on cardboards, and some on bare pavement. The smell of destitution was everywhere. Valerio sighed, looking away.

If Aldenville, one of the major cities of the Empire’s industrial center, was in such a sorry state, he couldn’t imagine what the rest of Pruvia was like. The Great War had battered this once-revered nation’s economy perhaps too much. Something needed to be done

Valerio found it remarkable that the nation had been able to endure this much already. But the Empire was running out of steam— the political instability brought by the constant regime changes was music for revolution and Civil War and that was the bane of any polity.

He shook his head, wondering why even cared so much. This land was foreign to him, and growing up, all his friends and family had always made the Pruvians to be devils in human skin. They were the ultimate evil, the heralds of doom and destruction, and the scapegoat of Marian jingoistic propaganda.

Even devils deserve mercy.

“We’re here, sir.” The sudden tapping of the hackney’s sides tugged him out of his mindscape, and he grunted in acknowledgement, furling the newspaper and grabbing his briefcase.

He hopped out of the cab, rummaging through his pockets, and handed the driver a note for one Pruvian sharna which the old man immediately snatched from his fingertips.

“Keep the change.” Valerio muttered, paying no heed to the latter’s actions, but the fellow had already trotted off, leaving his words hanging in the dust.

Valerio stifled the urge to curse at the man aloud and straightened his coat. Such actions were not befitting of a gentleman like himself.

He glanced at his destination, raising the bridge of his glasses to view it better. The main entrance of the estate was a little further down the driveway he’d been dropped off at. Trees, hedges, and ornamentals lined the driveway, and even from this distance Valerio could still make out the grand silver gates leading to the estate's interior.

Valerio sauntered his way through the driveway, admiring the plantlife, and internally shaking his head at the stark contrast between this and the street he’d observed earlier. Truthfully, there was no comparison.

The wealthy elite lived in a completely different world from the common folk, and he reckoned the economic turmoil had affected them little in the grand scheme of things—they’d been hoarding wealth for centuries.

He’d long heard about House Aldritch’s ostentatious lifestyle, and just from the estate’s entrance, it seemed to Valerio that the articles he’d read about them might not be exaggerating.

Soon, he reached the main gates, and two soldiers in black and gold Pruvian military parade uniforms appeared within his vision. They each held a rifle in one hand, had swords strapped to their belts, and wore plumed black helmets.

“State your name and business.” One of them immediately barked the moment he reached within a few feet away from the gate.

“Doctor Valerio Venturi. Here for business at the request of His Grace, Adgar Aldritch, the Duke of Athanor.” he immediately held up his free hand, showing he was unarmed.

The soldier who spoke glanced at his partner, who shook his head, then back at Valerio. He frowned, aiming his rifle at the Marian doctor.

“Turn aro—” he suddenly halted his words, stilling himself for a moment, before lowering the rifle and jerking his head in the direction of the gate.

“You may proceed,” he said. “Your escort will be here in a few minutes.”

Valerio exhaled softly, casting a mental net around himself, and using his aetheric senses to observe the mechanical owl he saw perching on a tree out of the corner of his eye.

Interesting. He noted, internally realizing he’d been watched the moment he stepped foot on Aldritch soil. The soldiers were probably just informed of his impromptu arrival via telepathy.

He straightened his coat again, then walked to the gates, his mind going through a mental copy of the Duke’s letter he’d received a few days ago.

Let’s see what he’s so concerned about.