The moon hung low. It seemed closer than ever before. Teras sat on his window bench, lost to the world of the book in his lap. His eyes drew across each word and diagram like a brush on canvas. He paused a moment, then raised his pen to write something. A wind fluttered through the open window and drew his gaze from his book to the night sky.
The moon gleamed an almost blue light and Illuminated the figure of a woman solemnly seated by the pond in the garden. Her features were difficult to make out in the darkness. Her distinct curly hair shook with her shoulders as the faints sounds of crying carried in on the wind. Her soft whimpers drew Teras's attention from the dazzling stars.
Teras stopped and stared.
He, for all his intellectual prowess, could not come to fathom why this simple scene of sorrow made his throat constrict and his blood seem to thicken in his veins. It took his every experience of pattern recognition to tell that the lonely figure he could not quite make out was crying. As well as the fact that seeing them cry made him... Sad?
Teras sat for a moment and just watched as she cried. Mustering some form of will power within himself, Teras turned his face away. His gaze then landed on the book that had lain forgotten on his lap. He traced a finger along the strange symbol carved into cover of the leatherbound book; an inverted sunrise symbol that elongates downward with a circle just above it. The mark of-
A strange fog filled his vision before the thought could be completed. His heart rate rose as his chest tightened. His red eyes darkened. His breaths came ragged and sharp. Teras attempted to stand. But it appears he was doomed to fall. Struggling to his knees, Teras' gaze tried to pierce the strange fog. Looking past the veil before his eyes, he caught a glimpse of a series of peculiar shadows. Shadows belonging to beings long since forgotten by this world.
Before Teras could be dragged to face them, a head-piercing scream tore his focus back to reality. He turned his head to find the source of the scream and met the teary eyes of Guinevere, Guinevere. Her mouth, however, was shut. It dawned on him then, as Aberdeen came barrelling through the door. The ungodly scream that clawed at his ears had wrenched itself from his own lungs.
Teras looked on in confusion. He was the hunter, the one who made creatures scream the way he was. So why? Why was he screaming like this? As his parents held Teras in their arms, Mitra knelt before him and wiped it of the black Ichor that poured from his eyes. Looking down, the Ichor seemed flow from his thickly Ichor coated arms and pooled in with the shadows that seemed to roil beneath him like a pit of inky snakes.
As he stared deep into his suspiciously lively shadow, whispers began to break through the din of his screaming. the screaming morphed into words. Words that felt slimy to hear and sticky to say. Incoherent and grim, these words spoke of blood and brimstone and burned Teras' throat with an unseen fire. As the words came more frantically, the whispers came louder. Three voices howling over each other, each calling out words of comfort and affirmation.
As the voices grew more distinct, Teras' shouts began to subside. He could identify each voice; Guinevere, Aberdeen and Mitra, all huddled up around him in worry. His vision cleared up enough to make out the tears in the eyes of his family. Even in the usually stoic eyes of Aberdeen. Soon, Teras was completely silent aside from his gentle, rough breaths.
Teras lowered his gaze to see his arms coated thickly in iridescent red blood. As the blood hit the floor, it seems to react with the Ichor and both dispersed into thin wisps of smoke. Teras grimaced in pain as the remaining blood seemed to flow back into the gashes along his arms. These wounds seemed to coil around his biceps and slither down to the back of his hands like crimson serpents. The wounds began to close slowly, fading back into his skin.
Teras attempted to stand with the assistance of Aberdeen. As if a switch was flipped, Teras keeled back over and a wave of black Ichor escaped his mouth, turning to smoke on contact with the floor, filling the air with the scent of oak and burnt hazel. "Snakes breath..." Aberdeen trailed of in disbelief. Guinevere froze with fear at the words. Teras' consciousness began to fade.
"How the Hades does Teras have Snake's Breath?" Guinevere queried fearfully, though the fear in her eyes didn't seem to be for herself, but for Teras. "I-... I knew he was talented, but... at this age?"
"It seems he was right. He might just learn to Weave sooner than we thought." Aberdeen observed calmly. It seemed he knew more about what was happening than he cared to share. "Fetch the preachers," he said to the maid as he glowered at the leatherbound book on the floor, "and the Seer. We'll need to make some changes to the campaign." He turned and began to leave.
"Where in Gaia's name are you going?" Guinevere called out in outrage.
"To adjust the forecast, there are things that need my attention... urgently" He replied coolly
"What could possibly be more urgent than our SON!" She retort with anger.
"He's my son, he can handle it." He attempted to counter.
"HE'S NINE!"
silence.
Not a soul made a sound. Not a soul could make a sound.
As if time had frozen before Teras' closing eyes. The halted world began to dim as Teras's field of view shortened slowly. And soon, darkness was all he knew. When Teras opened his eyes again, the world had returned to normal. He gazed up at the ceiling of the sterile smelling room with a plain expression.
His mother, Guinevere, asleep in a chair beside his bed. A strange man in clerical robes; a preacher, if Teras remembered correctly, was stood hunched over him, examining, his eyes with feverish fervour.
The preacher stepped back as Teras' father entered the room "My Lord! I have splendid news!" He shouted with reverence, for whom was still to be discerned. "Would you like the Young Lord to hear it as well?"
"No, have him taken back to his room." Teras' father instructed.
A team of maidservants entered and carried Teras through the castle halls, passing by the ornate stained glass windows that lit up the long walkways with a kaleidoscope of colours. It hadn't been long since they left the medical ward. With uncanny speed, the team of maidservants had reached Teras' quarters. Setting him on his bed and leaving him to his hazy thoughts.
In the King's study, Aberdeen; the King, Guinevere; the Queen, the seer; a man in similar yet more ornate robes than the preacher from before, the preacher and one of his colleagues sat around a blackwood desk. The atmosphere in the room was tense. All gazes fell upon the seer, some with reverence, some with anticipation, and some with fear.
"Talk, seer. We do not have all day." Aberdeen spat.
"Very well, my Lord." the Seer began softly, "Your son, Teras, has a gift. A *divine* gift."
"Explain!" Guinevere demanded sharply.
"He was getting to that, dear-" Aberdeen began.
"That's enough out of you." Guinevere cut him off.
"Yes, my Lady." The Seer began anew. "Your son has been blessed by our Lord, the Chaos God; Eris, he-" he trailed off at a fever pitch, taking deep breaths as if to calm himself.
Taking this opportunity Aberdeen cut in. "What on Gaia does that mean?" He rose abruptly, knocking his chair to the floor. "What the Hades does that have to do with our Son?"
"Calm down-"
"How? Explain. Now!"
"Yes my Lord..." The Seer took in a breath. "Your son has received Divine Grace. A-A favour from Lord Eris themself. They have been bound by fate to save th-"
Ccrraaaacck
Aberdeen's fist buried deep into the skull of the preacher on the Seer's left, blood, bone and brain matter painted the left side of Seer's robes red and grey. The fragments of bone tangled in the seer's hair and blood smeared across his face. The partially headless corpse slid from the King's fist, the black ring on his finger pristine, unlike the rest of his hand.
"Take your bull crap about 'Fate' and leave." The King shifted his gaze onto the Seer. "You and your cabal are no longer welcome."