Chapter 02 He will suffer but…

  The room smelled of herbs and the faint, acrid scent of sickness. Shadows flickered across the walls as the candles burned low, their wax pooling like melted time.

  I sat beside my son, my hands resting gently on his damp forehead, my heart aching with each labored breath he took. The gods had spoken to me in my prayers, whispering that he would recover—but not yet.

  Not before he suffered through this trial.

  Yesterday, I recall the doctor's words in this room with his face full of sadness, telling me the things that no mother wishes to hear: "He will not live more than a day or two." My heart had broken, but at the bottom of my heart, I knew he was mistaken. And now, I was proven correct. The red foam that had always been on my son's lips had ceased; his breathing was smoother, firmer. But I now know the battle was far from over.

  Another spasm wracked his slender body, contorting him in agony. He whined, his hands spasming as if to clutch something imaterial. As if he were bound by intangible chains, holding him, imprisoning him within his own agony. I clenched my gown, praying silently between my teeth, pleading for his relief and the pain to pass, pleading the gods for mercy on his behalf.

  Then, suddenly, his eyes snapped open.

  There was just confusion for a moment, the dazed amazement of one who has walked lost in fevered dreams. But then I saw it—the growing horror, his face twisting in terror. His lips parted, but no sound came from them, only a pain-wracked, husky, gasped sound.

  "It's okay, my dearest, I'm here," I whispered, bending close as I stroked his matted hair softly. "You're safe now. You survived!"

  In desperation, he continued to struggle to move, his body weak, but his gaze latched onto mine, desperate and searching. I wished I could take his pain upon myself, bear it for him, shield him from this suffering. But all I could do was stay by his side, whispering reassurances, stroking his fevered skin, and holding on to the unshakable belief that he would endure.

  The gods had shown me the ending of this story. My son would not die.

  But first, he must walk through fire.

  Seeing him stir, I don’t hesitate. I grasp the vial—an iridescent violet liquid, shimmering like a fleeting hope—and pour it into his trembling lips, praying it will bring him back to us. The raw fear in his eyes is too much to bear; it’s as if the weight of his nightmares and demons is consuming him whole. My heart aches, torn by the terror etched on his face. All I can do is pray he finds his way back to the light, back to us.

  I watched him descend into unconsciousness again, and with it, a strange stillness washes over his body, as if the worst has been momentarily stilled. I call out, directing the servants to bring hot water, fresh linens, and clothing. The doctor’s words echo in my mind: ‘If he regains consciousness, the worst will have passed. There is hope for recovery.’

  But I know the fear that clings to the air—the servants whisper, their eyes wide with dread at the sickness that has gripped him. Since last night, I’ve kept his brother and sister at a distance, even kept my husband away, all for their safety. There’s only a fragile promise that he might heal, a whisper from the gods I have heard alone. And I’ll be damned if I risk the whole family on a prayer, no matter how desperate I am for his return.

  ….

  The parlor felt heavier than usual the following day, and the air was dreadfully thick. My husband sat stiffly beside me, his face pale and drawn. Though trying to maintain a calm composure, Doctor Samole couldn’t hide the worry in his eyes.

  “By the Veils, he has survived the Eternal Punishment," the doctor says, his voice grim, "but we don’t know in what condition. His mind may be lost to insanity or worse. Whether or not he’ll ever leave his bed again is... unclear.”

  The weight of his words fills the room, driving the air out, almost suffocating. Each fight for breath wrenches my heart, and my mind races with the fear of what we might face—the suffering my son might face.

  I take a breath, steadying myself before speaking. “And what of his recovery?”

  The doctor shifts, clearly uncomfortable with the unknowns. “We can only wait and see. But…” He pauses, then lowers his voice as though speaking of something sacred. “I have shared his condition with my order, and one of our Reiki Masters has informed me he will visit your son soon.”

  At this, my husband and I exchange a stunned glance. The words hang in the air, a sudden shock to our system. A Reiki Master? So few of them are in this kingdom, their skills revered and rare. To think that one would come to our home to tend to our son.

  I can hardly breathe. “A Reiki Master? But we could never afford that level of care. Not in a thousand lifetimes.”

  The doctor, who had been avoiding our eyes until now, meets my gaze directly. “I understand, but this is not about money. This Master… is unlike any other. His healing is beyond what even the highest lords in the kingdom could seek.”

  A flicker of hope stirs in me, but it is so fragile, so easily crushed by the weight of everything else. Can such a master truly heal what has been broken? Or is this all just another fleeting promise, another whisper in the dark?

  I shiver as I recall that Whisper while I prayed and pleaded.

  Hear me well, the winds now call,

  Fate is shifting—watch them fall.

  Your son stands where shadows creep,

  Bound by blood, lost in the deep.

  Two souls clash, both torn and tried,

  Each with burdens, none can hide.

  Forged in fire, locked in fight,

  Wills collide in darkest night.

  Mercy fades, hope may wane,

  Only trials fierce remain.

  One may stand, or none at all,

  Destiny waits—it heeds no call.

  Rise or fall, his choice shall be,

  Shaping all the world to see.

  From ruin’s ash or glory’s flame,

  An age shall rise—none dare yet name.

  The prophecy presence wouldn’t leave her. It resonated in her mind—sharp, cold, and relentless, like a chill she couldn’t escape. She had never truly believed in such things. Not really.

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  True, her bloodline had several seers and diviners, names etched in old records and whispered about in temples. But she’d never felt that personal relationship to the divine. Not once. She’d never sought out a church, never registered herself, never answered the questions asked of those who claimed to hear the Veils.

  And now this. A voice that wasn’t hers. A message she didn’t want.

  It felt wrong. Overwhelming. Sacred, yes—but also invasive. Like something had forced its way into the quiet life she had spent years building together with him. A life made of routines and shared burdens and small joys. A life she chose.

  And now, because of some ancient whisper in her veins, everything was supposed to change? Everything was supposed to bend to a voice she didn’t ask for?

  And yet… now, the prophecy pressed down on her like a heavyweight in the stillness of her thoughts. A divine voice had called to her, found her, with a message that chilled her to the bone. Her son’s fate was no longer just about illness or recovery—it was tied to something far more immense, something cosmic, something tangled in forces beyond her control, forces she never sought or desired. Her mind raced, overwhelmed by the vastness of what it all meant.

  A diviner in their bloodline.

  It would only be a matter of time before the whispers began—soft at first, but persistent, like wind against old shutters. And once rumors took root, they would spread fast.

  In the kingdom, a noble house tied to a diviner unsettled many. It didn’t matter whether the gift was real or rare—perception alone was dangerous. Other houses whispered that diviners could bend fate to their will, twisting events in their favor. Others feared what they didn’t understand, imagining secret powers, dark pacts, and dangerous knowledge.

  She knew what that kind of talk could do. Alliances could shift. Trust could vanish overnight. Fortunes could rise—or fall—with a single spoken prophecy.

  And now, eyes would turn toward their house. Watching, waiting, and wondering what she might say next.

  She clenched her hands, fighting the urge to tremble. She couldn’t decide at the moment. Not when her son’s life was on the line. Her focus had to remain on him, on his recovery, on getting through this trial, whatever it may be. She would talk to her husband later—after their son’s fate was more apparent after the shock had settled.

  For now, she would keep her fears locked away. There was no room for them in the here and now. But deep inside, she knew that this revelation—this prophecy—would ripple through every part of their life. It would impact their standing, business, and future. And in the future, their every move would now be watched with more than just curiosity—it would be watched with fear.

  ….

  The weight of uncertainty pressed against his chest as he sat in his study, staring at the steady lamplight. His hands, strong and constant in trade and negotiation, trembled slightly as he reached for his wine. The taste was bitter tonight, or perhaps it was just his mood. His son still lay unconscious, trapped in some unknown struggle between life and death. The doctor’s words haunted him—he had survived the Eternal Punishment, but in what condition?

  And then there was his wife's claim.

  His wife had been shaken to the core by something, though she had tried to hide it. He knew her too well—every glance, every hesitation, every moment she spent hovering over their son’s bedside instead of at his side, where they always made decisions together. She was afraid, not just for their boy but for the entire family. He had always admired her strength, devotion to their household, and unyielding will. But now, there was something more—something she wasn’t saying. And that troubled him more than anything else.

  The danger to his house was growing, an invisible storm pressing in from all sides. He could feel it, a weight in his chest that had nothing to do with sickness or grief. It was the weight of unseen eyes—watching, waiting as if whispers that had not yet reached his ears were already spreading beyond the walls of their estate, carried on the wind to those who would twist this uncertainty for their own gain.

  Once stable and firmly rooted, his house suddenly felt like a lone vessel caught in a river swollen with the fury of spring’s thaw. The current was too fast, the waters too dark. He had no oars, no way to steer, no way to know what lay ahead—only the undeniable certainty that something awaited them in the unseen distance.

  He had prepared for war. He understood famine. He had made his plans and laid strong foundations so that his family, business, and lands could weather such storms. But this… this was different. This was a lightning storm out of a clear, sunny day, striking without warning, setting fire to all he had built.

  He would have understood even if someone in his family had manifested a Gift from the heavens. It was rare, yes, and would bring its own share of difficulties, but divine blessings were still blessings. They could be wielded, harnessed, or even respected.

  But… this did not feel like a gift. This was not a miracle. It was a shadow stretching toward them, a force that carried only risk, only ruin. It felt like a curse—a slow and creeping doom, a noose tightening around his house with every passing moment.

  And his wife—his wife was keeping something from him. He knew she was protecting their son, but there was more to it. She guarded him so fiercely, looked at the boy with a desperation she never showed before, and held herself—tense, wary, as if waiting for some unseen force to rip everything away. She feared something beyond just illness.

  She feared something he did not yet see.

  And that terrified him more than anything.

  He would have to prepare. The world was changing around him, and he would not be caught unaware.

  First, the Manor house. Control had to be absolute—total, without exception—no room for ambiguity. The loyalty of the staff was not merely preferred—it was essential. Not only disloyalty and spying, but even a single glance, a murmured word, a misplaced hesitation could spiral into unrest. Rumors, like dry grass, needed only the faintest spark to catch. He had seen it before. He would not see it again.

  Doubt was a liability. Discipline is the safeguard. If any among them faltered—if even the possibility of disloyalty emerged—they would be removed. Quietly. Completely. There could be no second chances. Not now. Not when everything depended on control.

  Then, the land. Their holdings, rich fields, and profitable ventures that fed their wealth stretched beyond the town. He would need to send riders to ensure that all was secure. Taxes were collected, security was heightened, and trade routes were monitored. A substantial house did not falter because of external threats—it crumbled from within when it failed to guard its foundation.

  The troops. A house did not rise to power without its own blades. He had trained and paid men who could ensure his will was enforced. But now, he needed more. He would send orders for more drills and stricter discipline. And he would test his captains—loyalty was fickle in uncertain times.

  Then, the money. Wealth was power; he had enough, but gold meant nothing if not wielded wisely. He would test his friends and his enemies alike—subtly, carefully. See who came to offer support, who kept their distance, and who saw this as an opportunity to strike. No one would surprise him. Not now.

  And then… his son.

  It was a cold, hard truth, one he hated even to consider, but it loomed before him like an executioner’s blade. He had to ensure the survival of his family, his legacy, and his house—even if that meant cutting the boy loose. If the weight of whatever afflicted him became too great and the risk to the family grew beyond control, he would make the necessary decision. He was no fool. A sinking ship could not afford to cling to dead weight.

  Lastly, his wife.

  He had never doubted her devotion to their family, but now, for the first time, he questioned how far she was willing to go. How much risk was she willing to take for their son? Would she sacrifice their other children? Their standing? Him? He needed the truth. And if she would not give it willingly, he would take it. There could be no more secrets between them—not now.

  And then there was the unexpected Reiki Master.

  He had never imagined someone of that kind would ever set foot in his home. Their kind were the legend—spoken of in hushed and reverent tones within courtly halls. It was known that they could heal what no surgeon dared touch, touch even the soul itself, and mend what even time refused to.

  But with such power came uncertainty. Their presence was never without meaning, never without consequence.

  What did it truly mean for one to arrive now—unbidden, unannounced? Was it a blessing? A warning? Or something else entirely?

  He felt a quiet unease settle behind the awe, like the still air before a storm.

  A man does not gain the favor of such a being without a cost. He was too old, too experienced, to believe otherwise. Payment would be demanded, whether it would require coin, favors, or something far more burdensome.

  And so, he prepared himself—not just for battle, not just for power plays or subtle threats, but for the storm he knew was coming.

  Because one truth was now clear.

  His family was no longer just another house. They had become the center of attention of something else—something bigger, or even something dangerous.

  And their whole world was about to be shaken by one sick child.