The room was silent, like someone important had died.
Nothing moved. No one spoke. Even the air felt frozen. Everyone stood still, not daring to breathe too loudly.
Then the doctor arrived.
His name was Dr. Arius Aether, a well-known neurologist of Grimsford City. He was famous for treating cases others had already given up on.
A servant of the Ravenshade château guided him inside.
Dr. Arius placed his dark leather toolbox on the floor beside the bed where Kael lay resting. He sat on the chair offered to him and opened the box slowly, as if rushing would disturb the fragile state of the room.
From inside, he took out a strange device.
It was called a Pectoral Amplifier.
(The Pectoral Amplifier:-
At first look, the device resembled a short metal horn, like something a sailor might use to listen to distant waves.
It was about nine inches long.
The body was made of polished brass, smooth and shining, wrapped at the center with dark leather so it would not slip from the doctor's hand. The lower end opened wide like a bell. The upper end narrowed sharply and ended in a flat ivory disc, shaped to fit the human ear.
It looked old, but not weak.
Craftsmanship
The Pectoral Amplifier was not magical.
It was built through pure skill.
The brass body was hammered by hand, not poured into a mold. This made the metal harder and better at carrying sound. Inside, the surface was polished until it was almost frictionless, so sound could travel freely.
Across the wide bell at the base was a thin, pale membrane made from treated animal skin. It was stretched tight and sensitive enough to react to the smallest movement inside the body.
The ivory disc at the top was carved carefully to seal against the ear, blocking out all other noise.
How It Works
The device worked using sound and pressure, not mana.
When the bell was placed against the chest, the sounds inside the body caused the thin skin to vibrate. These tiny movements were carried into the brass tube.
As the sound moved upward, the narrowing shape of the tube forced it into a smaller space, making it stronger and clearer.
When the doctor pressed his ear to the ivory top, the sound traveled straight into his skull, cutting out all noise from the room.
It allowed him to hear things no normal ear could.
Its Purpose
With the Pectoral Amplifier, a doctor could hear the true state of the body.
A steady heart. A weak pulse. Fluid in the lungs. Damage hidden deep inside.
It let the physician listen to the body's quiet truth)
Dr. Arius placed the wide bell of the Pectoral Amplifier against Kael's chest.
At that moment, Kael was awake.
His eyes were open. He could see the doctor clearly. He could hear the faint sounds of the room. But just before Dr. Arius fully adjusted the device, Kael's strength gave out. His body slackened, and he slipped into unconsciousness once more, collapsing against the bed.
No one moved.
Dr. Arius pressed the membrane firmly against Kael's chest.
"Silence," he said quietly.
The room obeyed.
Even the servants stopped breathing too loudly. Everyone knew that even the smallest noise could disturb the internal sounds the device was meant to capture.
Dr. Arius placed the ivory disc to his ear.
A sound reached him.
Steady. Rhythmic. Clean.
A normal heartbeat.
No distortion. No irregular echoes. No signs of internal collapse.
After several long seconds, Dr. Arius straightened. He removed the Pectoral Amplifier from both his ear and Kael's chest. His expression returned to neutral, controlled, professional.
Rowan Ravenshade stepped forward, unable to contain himself.
"What happened, Doctor?" he asked. "Is everything alright?"
Dr. Arius looked at him, then smiled lightly.
"Yes," he said. "Everything is fine. He is completely stable."
Rowan's shoulders loosened, just slightly.
"He only needs rest," Dr. Arius continued. "Nothing more."
Then he added, his tone calm but precise, "He entered the coma during puberty. Because of that, his body will feel unfamiliar to him. Changes will feel sudden. Strong. Confusing."
He closed his toolbox.
"But it is natural," he said. "With proper medication and care, he will recover fully."
Dr. Arius looked once more at Kael's unconscious form.
"He will run again," he said. "Just like he did in his childhood."
The room remained silent.
Dr. Arius wrote the list of medicines carefully, his pen scratching softly against the paper. He handed the note to a servant, gave Rowan a short nod, and gathered his tools.
Without another word, the famous neurologist of Grimsford left the Ravenshade château, his footsteps fading into the long halls.
Silence returned.
The room felt heavy, as if time itself had stopped moving.
After a while, Kael stirred.
His eyelids trembled before slowly opening. A dull pain throbbed inside his head, spreading like a slow wave. He tried to move, but his body felt weak, distant, as if it did not fully belong to him yet.
Rowan noticed immediately and moved closer.
"How do you feel?" his father asked, keeping his voice low.
Kael swallowed. His throat was dry.
"I'm… fine," he said after a pause. "But my head hurts. A lot."
Rowan exhaled softly, relief mixed with worry.
"That's normal," he said gently. "Dr. Arius said you need rest. Once you sleep, it will ease."
He placed a steady hand on Kael's shoulder.
"You've been asleep for a long time," Rowan continued. "Your body needs time to remember how to live again."
Kael closed his eyes, listening to his father's voice.
For the first time since waking up, the pain in his chest felt slightly lighter.
Sleep took Kael again.
When he opened his eyes later, the room was unchanged.
Rowan still sat beside the bed. Zara was near him, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The servants stood where they had been before, silent and watchful, like statues carved into the walls. No one had moved. No one had left.
It felt as if the world had been waiting only for him.
Kael shifted slightly and felt something new.
Hunger.
A deep, aching hunger, as if his body was reminding him how long it had been forgotten.
He looked at his father.
"Dad," Kael said quietly, "it feels like I haven't eaten anything for a very long time."
Rowan stared at him for a second, then a small laugh escaped his lips. It was soft, tired, but warm.
"Alright, alright," Rowan said, waving a hand lightly. "You don't need to explain it like that."
You're right. If you don't define it, readers will guess or get confused. That's weak storytelling. You fix it once, cleanly, inside the narration. No info dump. No textbook tone.R
owan turned his head toward the tall man standing near the door.
"Mercer," Rowan called.
The man stepped forward at once. Thaddeus Mercer bowed deeply.
He was the steward of the Ravenshade estate—the man who managed everything under this roof. In old times, a steward was more than a servant. He controlled the household, the servants, the stores, and the daily running of the lord's land. Orders passed through him before reaching anyone else.
"Prepare food for my son," Rowan said. "Make it proper."
Mercer straightened and turned sharply toward the servants.
"You heard the lord," he said in a firm voice. "Move. Prepare a meal worthy of the young lord."
At once, the servants hurried out of the room.
Beyond the chamber, the great kitchen of the château came alive. It was vast, built to serve a family that ruled more than just land.
The Ravenshades owned the port of Grimsford—the only path through the mountains that surrounded the city like towering walls. Trade, travel, and wealth flowed through that water route alone. For generations, the Ravenshade name had controlled it, passed down from father to son.
Across the country, the name Ravenshade was known.
And now, after seven lost years, its heir was finally awake.
The kitchen slowly came alive.
Servants moved in practiced silence, knives tapping softly, fire crackling low. At the center of it all stood Steward Thaddeus Mercer, his posture straight, his sharp eyes watching everything at once.
"Not too much flame," he said calmly.
"You, skim the surface. Again."
"No oil. If I see even a drop, start over."
A steward, in the old world, was not merely a servant. He was the keeper of order. The man who guided hands, time, and discipline. And tonight, Mercer allowed no mistake.
Thirty minutes later, the dish was ready.
It was called Double-Clarified Amber Consommé.
A servant entered Kael's room quietly and placed a shallow, wide-rimmed porcelain bowl on the bedside table.
At first glance, it did not look like soup.
It looked like melted topaz.
The liquid was perfectly clear. No herbs floated inside. No oil shimmered on the surface. It was a deep amber color, glowing softly as candlelight passed through it, like a jewel trapped in porcelain.
Thin steam rose gently, carrying a rich scent. Roasted pheasant. Slow-cooked onions. A faint trace of aged sherry. The smell was deep and heavy, strange for something that looked lighter than water.
Rowan watched closely.
"Slowly," he said. "Don't rush."
Kael lifted the bowl with trembling hands and took his first sip.
The feeling shocked him.
The liquid was thin, almost weightless on his tongue, but the taste was overwhelming. A deep, rich flavor flooded his mouth. Warm. Salty. Alive. His body reacted instantly, saliva forming as the dull, metallic taste that had haunted him for years vanished.
There was nothing to chew. No grease. No heaviness.
The soup slid down smoothly, warm and steady, spreading through him like quiet fire. It felt less like food and more like something repairing him from the inside.
Kael let out a slow breath without realizing it.
This was not ordinary cooking.
In this world of steel and steam, it was nutritional science.
After seven years in a coma, Kael's body could not handle solid food. His stomach had forgotten how to work. Meat would cause pain. Fat would make him sick.
So the kitchen had removed all danger.
The soup had been clarified again and again, using egg whites to pull away every solid and every heavy fat. What remained was only essence. Flavor without burden.
The broth carried natural salts drawn from bones and vegetables. Sodium. Potassium. The sharp taste Kael felt was not discomfort—it was his nervous system waking up. Electrolytes flowed through him, clearing the fog in his head.
The bones had been cooked slowly under pressure, breaking collagen into simple amino acids. Protein, already broken down. Ready to be absorbed without effort. His wasting muscles received fuel without strain.
Even the temperature was exact.
Neither hot nor cold.
Perfectly warm.
Close to human body heat.
His body accepted it without resistance.
Kael lowered the bowl, his hands steadier than before.
"…It's good," he said quietly.
Rowan's shoulders relaxed for the first time that day. A small smile appeared on his face.
"Eat slowly," he said. "You've waited seven years. Another few minutes won't hurt."
The servants watched in silence.
And in that quiet room, as Kael drank the amber liquid, something long broken inside him began, piece by piece, to return.