Chapter 05 The Visit

  After three days of relentless rain, the early dawn finally stretched its fingers across the sky, brushing it with soft hues of gold and rose. The air was thick with the scent of warm earth, rain, and something more profound—renewal, as if the world had taken a breath and exhaled after the storm.

  Inside the stillness of a quiet room, a boy stirred from the shadows of sleep.

  His eyes followed the thin beam of the morning's light slipping through the heavy curtains, a glowing thread that spoke of new beginnings. A silent promise that the darkness passing, and the day was finally here.

  His flesh, frail and unresponsive, felt like a prison, yet his mind stirred with the same routine he had followed since waking here. First, he sought them—those objects on the shelf near the door. Relief, they were still there. That comforted him. Then, the small shoes. And finally, the peculiar stain on the ceiling that seemed familiar, though he couldn’t name it. He clung to these small rituals as they kept the panic at bay.

  A strange urgency pressed against his mind—an instinct to move, to escape the invisible chains binding him to this bed. His right hand twitched. The fingers trembled, then curled ever so slightly. A melody, distant yet insistent, hummed in his mind, urging his body to remember movement, to will itself free.

  The caretaker would arrive soon. He knew this from the way the sunlight inched toward the second knot in the ceiling beam. He turned his gaze toward the door, waiting.

  Footsteps. A familiar sound. But something was different.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Two women followed her inside, baskets in their arms. His breath hitched. Fear slithered through him like a living thing. This was not part of the routine. He watched them, his pulse hammering in his throat as they moved about the room. The sudden rush of air startled him as one of them yanked open the heavy curtains.

  No! Stop!

  A strangled squeak escaped his lips, far too weak to carry the force of his terror. Yet, somehow, they heard. The room stilled, and all eyes turned to him. The two women stared, their shock quickly dissolving into animated chatter, and their voices rose in excitement.

  His caretaker smiled—a broad, triumphant smile—as she approached the bedside. Her voice was slow and deliberate, her words measured, waiting, expecting.

  He didn’t understand.

  He didn’t know what she wanted from him. He only knew that the light was too bright, the room too full, and the presence of these strangers unwelcome. He wished for the curtains to be drawn again, for silence, for the comfort of familiarity.

  When they realized no answer was coming, the women returned to their work. They moved around him, taking down bundles of dried plants and replacing them with fresh ones. They bustled about, dusting, sweeping, rearranging his small world. He watched them and listened. A pattern emerged—a sound they used only when speaking to his caretaker. The same sound, again and again. A name?

  His mind latched onto it, filing it away.

  For the next twenty minutes, he observed, his earlier panic retreating into quiet study. They spoke in rhythms he didn’t yet understand, but he followed their words with sharp eyes. Sometimes, flashes of recognition flickered through him, though he couldn’t grasp the meaning; he knew there was meaning to grasp.

  The caretaker remained watchful, measuring his reactions. When they touched certain things, unease gripped him. His shoes. They couldn’t move his shoes. He needed to see them, always.

  And yet… he did not react to his own name.

  ….

  The carriage rolled steadily down the damp, winding road, its wheels whispering against the glistening stone. Ahead loomed the grand manor, its towering presence stark against the silver-streaked sky. Within the carriage sat Doctor Samole, three young disciples, and the ever-smiling, golden-haired Reiki Master Havlo. His disciples—two young men and a woman—observed their master, who, despite his usual composed demeanor, truly radiated the excitement of a child on the cusp of discovery.

  Master Havlo’s mind buzzed with anticipation. This was no ordinary examination—it was a once in a life time chance to observe, perhaps even unravel, the mysteries surrounding one of only two known survivors of the Eternal Punishment sickness.

  If he could glean even a fragment of insight from this encounter, it might pave the way toward a treatment—or at the very least, bring him one step closer to understanding the nature of this elusive, harrowing affliction.

  Somanta, his most perceptive student, studied him with amusement, her anticipation tempered by curiosity. It was rare to see him so visibly enthused and rarer still to sense his mind moving at such a feverish pace. But then, just as suddenly, his demeanor shifted. His ever-present smile dimmed, not into fear, but into something far sharper—calculation. His gaze flickered toward the doctor, gauging if the man had sensed what he had just.

  As the carriage entered the manor grounds, a flicker of something ethereal rippled through the air, barely perceptible yet undeniable to one as attuned to Essence as he. It was not merely a mundane illness that had afflicted a child. No, this was something more. This was the trace of the divine—an ethereal presence lingering over the estate like a spectral veil.

  The understanding struck him with chilling clarity: This will not be a simple examination. The illness is a Heavenly curse; only the Heavens can alter it.

  He would have to tread carefully. Somanta, sharp as she was, would realize it soon enough. Too soon. And she was not ready for this revelation. He needed her away, if only for a short time.

  Feigning a weary stretch, he yawned and suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, how careless of me! I forgot the journal of Master Zecjob.”

  Somanta’s brow furrowed slightly, catching the unnatural cadence of his words. “Master, surely we do not need—”

  “I need you to return to our lodging and retrieve it from the traveling trunk,” he interrupted smoothly, his voice carrying the effortless authority of one who is rarely questioned. Please take the carriage back.”

  Her frown deepened. She saw through him—he knew it—but she also knew better than to defy him outright. A brief moment of tension passed between them before she dipped her head and obeyed. As she sat back into the carriage, her eyes bore into him with an unmistakable accusation: "You are hiding something." He would have to endure her fury later.

  Doctor Samole, oblivious, stepped out first, his coat fluttering in the cool breeze. The remaining students followed, their travel-worn cloaks trailing behind them as boots met the polished stone of the courtyard. Master Havlo descended last, his movements measured, his deep-blue robes catching the sunlight as he straightened them with practiced ease.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The carriage wheels creaked over gravel, then faded into the distance, carrying away his keenest set of eyes. Now, his gaze swept forward, assessing.

  Lord Eldric Avalon stood at the grand entrance, a towering figure in an embroidered coat lined with silver trim. At his side, Lady Seraphine exuded an effortless grace, her gown the color of dusk, pearls catching the light at her throat. His children, a boy and a girl, stood still but poised, their faces schooled into polite indifference. Behind them, a dozen servants stood in perfect formation—hands clasped, posture rigid, expressions carefully neutral.

  The estate rose behind like a monument to old power, its dark stone walls draped in ivy that clung like history itself. Towering glass windows caught the morning light, throwing back golden reflections of the flickering courtyard pools, casting a quiet grandeur over the scene.

  The air smelled of lavender from the courtyard and old parchment, the scent carried from the open halls within.

  Their greetings were warm, their bows precise, their words carefully chosen. Yet Master Havlo saw the truth in the flicker of Lord Avalon’s eyes, in the too-controlled stillness of Lady Seraphine’s hands. Guarded. Watchful. They masked it well, but not well enough.

  “The honor is mine, Lord Avalon,” Havlo intoned smoothly, dropping into a courteous bow. His voice was warm and practiced. “I must apologize for the slight delay—one of my disciples had to return for something vital.”

  A glimmer of inquisitiveness crossed Lord Avalon’s face, brief but unmistakable. Then it was gone, replaced by a nod as he gestured toward the entrance.

  “It is no trouble,” he said, his voice measured. “Please, enter.”

  The parlor was warm and inviting, yet even in its comfort, Havlo sensed the same intangible weight pressing against his senses. It kept him from sensing the weight of the Noble's essence. He kept his expression relaxed as he accepted tea and engaged in small talk, but his mind was focused on the family’s every gesture, every flicker of emotion.

  Doctor Samole, consistently tactless, abruptly interrupted, “Perhaps we should proceed to the examination. The Master’s time is valuable.”

  Havlo gently interjected, “Patience, my friend. If we may impose upon your hospitality a moment longer, I would like to outline my approach first.”

  The servants were summoned, and he carefully laid out his requests. “First, one of my disciples will speak with your staff to determine what food, herbs, and other substances your son came into contact with. Second, another will speak with your other children to understand your sons’ habits and activities before falling ill. And finally, I will examine the boy myself, with your permission.”

  His tone was calm and measured, but he saw the subtle shift in the Lord and Lady’s expressions. A brief tightening of the jaw, a flicker of eyes between them. They knew something. Something that troubled them.

  As they rose to proceed to the boy’s room, Doctor Samole prattled on about his findings, mentioning the Lady’s reaction to the initial diagnosis. Her lips thinned. Lord Avalon’s grip on his cane tightened. Their disapproval was evident.

  They turned a corner into a quiet hallway, and Master Havlo hesitated, his steps faltering.

  Something was here.

  It pressed against reality, vast and unseen, like a storm gathering just beyond sight. The presence coiled behind a simple wooden door, ordinary in every way, yet utterly wrong. Whatever lay beyond was no mere child.

  …

  A cold weight of Essence settled deep in my stomach, heavy as stone. I am a Red Essence holder—the third highest rank a soul can hold—yet I feel small before what waits behind that door.

  Levels exist beyond mine, but I have never known, never even heard of, anyone who has reached them, but in legends. I sense that everything will irrevocably shift forever when I open that door.

  This was exactly the kind of thing I wanted no part of.

  The others stopped talking, picking up on the subtle change in Havlo’s mood—he was hesitating, but just enough to make it look intentional.

  “Sorry about that,” Havlo said calmly, his voice steady and polite, though you could tell he was keeping his real thoughts to himself. “Doctor Samole, would you mind grabbing a bowl of hot water and a towel from the kitchen?”

  The doctor gave a quick nod and headed off without a second thought, not realizing the errand was just an excuse.

  As soon as his footsteps disappeared down the hall, Havlo turned to the parents.

  The warmth vanished from his expression. His voice dropped—low, steady, unmistakably serious.

  “Forgive my bluntness,” he said, “but we don’t have much time. I know your son did not recover by any earthly means.”

  The reaction was immediate. Lord Avalon’s face paled; Lady Seraphine clutched the fabric of her dress. The air in the hallway grew heavy with unspoken truths.

  “We did not speak of it,” the Lord admitted, voice hoarse. “We dared not. We did not purposely hide it, but it all has happened so quickly.”

  “I understand your desire for secrecy,” Havlo said. “But I must know—what exactly will I find behind that door? There is a weight beyond it that is not a fourteen-year-old boy.”

  The silence was thick. Then, at last, Lady Seraphine spoke. “You are wise, Master Havlo. He was not healed by the doctor’s hand. We believe he was given a second chance… by the Vails.”

  Havlo’s sharp gaze did not waver. “You are asking me to accept divine intervention. Do you have proof?”

  The Lady exhaled shakily. “Yes. The night our son began to recover, I awoke to my Gift.”

  For the first time, Havlo felt genuine surprise. He extended his senses, reaching toward her Essence—and there it was—a powerful, undeniable, and raw presence. He knew she was only a Green Essence holder, the lowest in her family, but now a vibrant light was revealed to him. ‘A level jump.. ‘ he paused at that revelation.

  His concern deepened. He knew the Lord had gained Gifts, but his wife had not. Awakening one so late in life—especially a Gift granted solely by divine favor—would send shockwaves through the court. This family would no longer be merely casually observed; they would be scrutinized and tested. With access to an influential new power, every noble eye would fix upon them, analyzing their every move, waiting to see if they were genuinely guided by the divine.

  “How long until the doctor returns?” he asked.

  “Three minutes,” she whispered.

  He nodded. “Then reveal to me your prophecy. I must hear it before I face what is through that door. Fear not; I will assist you if possible based on what I hear and find.”

  A voiceless whisper slithered through the hall as three figures huddled in a secluded corner, their heads bowed in secrecy. Their voices were low, barely more than a breath against the air, yet the intensity in their eyes spoke volumes. Shadows flickered across their faces, concealing fleeting expressions of urgency, doubt, and danger.

  Doctor Samole returned with a servant carrying the tray, which included a pitcher of water and a basin, to find the three still gathered outside the child's door. He was glad to see that the Lord and Lady had finally relaxed in the presence of the Reiki Master, as they seemed to be engaging in small talk without the stiffness they had exhibited before.

  The Doctor sent the servant to the master, who began the process of washing himself. As he did, he began to hum an unfamiliar melody—low and steady at first, then rising with a cheerful lilt; "Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm..."

  “It is that intriguing melody, said the maid. “Master, do you know of it? Is it a new one from the capital? And have you or your people sung it around town?” “Many of us in the house have been humming it without knowing its source,” she continued.

  “No, I do not know where I heard it, but it is a rolling tide of trumpets and voices, bright as the rising sun. Each note steps forward in a procession of light, lifting hearts toward heaven with every resounding beat…" he said, his voice falling off in the end.

  His mind reeled at that understanding. He had never heard this song before and couldn't even identify the instruments that produced its sounds. It was powerful, sweeping the listener along and celebrating the divine. His eyes turned to the door.

  His thoughts demanded he must find the answers within, his pulse hammering in his ears. True, the prophecy did speak of the boy, but its implications stretched far beyond him, whispering of the entire world teetering on the edge of change. The weight of destiny pressed against his chest like an unseen hand, tightening with every step.

  This divine had acted—but not within the normal bounds of order. It should have come, left its mark, and vanished into the void. Yet something lingered—a trace, a whisper, an echo that should not have remained.

  He was ranked in the Red Order, a bearer of power and discipline, the third highest grade of this age. He should have sensed it, should have felt the brush of influence against his soul. And yet, whatever had touched him had done so without his notice.

  That was impossible.

  The thought sent ice through his veins. If something— someone had reached into him, bent the threads of fate without his knowing… then what had it truly changed? And more importantly, was it already too late to stop it?