The moment they heard the scream, both men were already moving.
No words. No questions. Just footsteps, and fast ones.
The door swung open — and both of them stopped.
The boy who had been lying in bed was on the floor. Two servants were trying to lift him. His entire body was shaking, his breathing coming in short, broken gasps.
Both men crossed the room in seconds.
"What happened?"
One of the servants spoke, her voice unsteady. "I had just finished cleaning him and stepped outside for a moment. Then suddenly... he tried to get up. But—" She stopped. "He fell."
"My Lord." Jorald's voice was quiet. "Look at his hands. His feet."
The merchant looked.
Both hands. Both feet.
Completely bent out of shape. Not from the fall — from long before that. Like someone had broken every bone while they were still soft and let them harden that way. Like clay left to dry in the wrong shape.
He was crying softly. Trembling. Whimpering between breaths.
A chill ran through both of them.
Footsteps at the door. Clad came in slightly out of breath, Arthur and Leo behind him.
The merchant looked up. "Where is Master Aldous?"
"The library." Clad's eyes had already found the boy. His voice dropped. "I came as soon as I heard—"
"Leo."
"My Lord."
"Get Master. Bring a healer."
"Yes, My Lord." And he was gone.
Silence fell over the room. Only the boy's soft sounds remained — the trembling, the quiet crying that couldn't stop itself.
"Clad," Jorald said, without looking away from the boy.
"Mm." Clad pulled his attention back.
"What do you think?"
Clad was quiet for a moment. "His bones were already shattered before. The regeneration was knitting them back — slowly. But they weren't strong enough yet." A pause. "When he tried to stand, they couldn't hold the weight."
No one spoke.
Jorald and the merchant moved closer. Carefully, slowly, they began to straighten the boy's bent hands and feet — every movement deliberate, every adjustment gentle. Then the servants were signaled. Warm cloth was brought and laid softly over his hands and feet.
A little warmth. A little comfort. It was all that could be done for now.
The door opened. Drake, with Jack right behind him.
"What happened, Father? Uncle, we heard someone scream."
"It's nothing, son." The merchant's voice was calm. "Our new guest isn't feeling well."
Drake tried to look past him into the room. "I want to—"
"Go with Jack."
No harshness. No raised voice. But the conversation was finished.
Drake stood still for a moment. Then he lowered his head. "Alright." He turned and walked out. Jack bowed once and pulled the door shut behind him.
---
A few minutes later, Leo returned with two people.
The first was an old man — somewhere around seventy. White hair. No hurry in his step, but a deep, settled weight that had nothing to do with age. The second was a healer, closer to Arthur's age.
The moment Master Aldous stepped into the room, every head lowered. Without a word.
He walked directly to the boy. Crouched down. Studied him — his face, his hands, the rhythm of his breathing.
A long, quiet moment passed.
Then he said, "Interesting."
---
Somewhere very far away.
A cave. No light from outside — only a few torches, and even those were nearly dead.
Three shadows. All badly wounded. All with their faces hidden beneath dark hoods.
One man's hand had been severed. Blood dripped steadily from beneath his cloak, hitting the cold stone floor, drop by drop.
The cloaked master drew a long, rasping breath.
"That madman..." The words came out hollow, scraped clean of everything but exhaustion. "He found out about us. Years of work. All of it... gone."
The second figure leaned against the wall, trembling. "I didn't think..." His voice was barely held together. "Just one man. With a handful of soldiers... he slaughtered our entire group."
He couldn't finish. He coughed dark blood and began to slip. The third figure caught him before he hit the ground.
The master's voice dropped lower. "The child." Each word cost him something now. "The last of that bloodline. Did you finish it?"
"Yes, Master." The standing figure's breath came in ragged pulls. "I twisted his foundation. Poisoned the roots. Even if he survives... death would be a mercy. He will never hold a sword. He will never awaken."
Silence.
"Good." A faint, broken sound escaped the master's lips — almost like a laugh. "A lion's cub..."
He coughed once.
"...is still a lion."
His body went still.
"Master—!" The man lunged forward, voice breaking. "You can't leave. Not like this. Our revenge—"
From the dark behind them — a voice. Cold. Flat.
"Enough. He's gone. Stop the performance."
The desperation drained from the man's face like dust swept away by wind. He went silent. The second figure was dead too.
A silhouette stepped forward from the deeper dark. Faint torchlight caught the edges of a cloak. Nothing else.
"The remaining vessels — the ones still intact — I've already moved them somewhere safe." The voice was unhurried. Calm. "But that child you dealt with... he was a failed experiment. They fed him too much poison. Whatever power he was supposed to inherit—"
A pause.
"It's dead."
Outside — thunder. A long, deep roll of it moving through stone, through silence, through everything.
The figure took one step toward the exit.
"Well."
A quiet exhale.
"There is still a great Work left to do."
---
**[Chapter 8 — End]**