The moment they heard the scream —
Both men were already moving.
No words. No questions.
Just footsteps — and fast ones.
---
The door swung open.
What they saw made both of them stop — just for a moment.
The boy — who had been lying in bed — was on the floor.
Two servants were trying to lift him back up. His entire body was shaking. He was whimpering. Breathing in short, broken gasps.
Both men crossed the room in seconds.
"What happened?"
One of the servants spoke — hesitant, voice unsteady —
"I had just finished cleaning him with warm water and stepped outside for a moment. Then suddenly — he tried to get up. But..."
The servant's voice stopped.
"He fell."
---
"My Lord."
Jorald's voice was quiet.
"Look at his hands. His feet."
The merchant turned.
And looked.
The boy's hands — both of them. His feet — both of them.
Completely bent out of shape.
Not twisted from the fall — twisted 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 followed behind him.
The merchant looked up.
"Where is Master Aldous?"
"He's in the library." Clad said. His eyes had already found the boy, and his voice had gone quieter. "I came as soon as I heard—"
"Leo."
"My Lord."
"Get Master. Bring a healer with you."
"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 it 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 together.
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 the hands and feet.
A little warmth. A little comfort.
It was all that could be done for now.
---
The door opened again.
Drake — and Jack right behind him.
"What happened, Father? Uncle — we heard someone scream."
The merchant looked at him.
"It's nothing, son." His 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 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.
Two people with him.
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."*
---
And at that same moment —
Somewhere very far away.
---
A cave.
No light from outside. Only a few torches — and even those were nearly dead.
Three shadows.
All three badly wounded. All three with their faces hidden beneath the hoods of dark cloaks.
---
One man's hand had been severed.
Blood dripped steadily from beneath his hood — 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 unsteady, 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 slowly slumped backward. 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 said — breathing jagged. "I twisted his foundation. Poisoned the roots. Even if he survives..." A pause. "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 more.
*"...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 behind —
A voice. Cold. Flat.
*"Enough. He's gone. Stop the performance."*
The man fell silent instantly.
The desperation drained from his face — like dust swept away by wind.
He looked to the side.
The second figure was dead too.
---
A silhouette stepped forward from the deeper dark.
The faint torchlight touched the edges of a cloak.
Nothing else.
"The remaining vessels — the ones still intact — I've already moved them somewhere safe." The voice was calm. Unhurried. "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 deal left to do."*
---
**[Chapter 9 — End]**