Chapter 007

  “That is all, my son.”

  Ethan leaned back comfortably in his chair, tilted his head, and rubbed his weary eyes before fixing his gaze on the wooden ceiling, as if seeking answers there. Belmond, meanwhile, stared at the yellowed pages of the journal. The silence in the study seemed to thicken with every passing second. The words written by Armen’s trembling hand still resonated in the boy’s mind, painting a picture of a tragedy centuries old. He leaned toward his father, straining to see the lines inked on the parchment. He traced a finger over the final, cut-off entry marked with that impossible date.

  “Thirty thousand days...” he whispered, his eyes following the faded ink. “If Hardin wasn’t lying, he must have reached his hundreds when he wrote these words. But why did he strike out ‘I’?”

  “That is precisely the riddle I am trying to solve, son. I have been searching for information on him for some time now,” Ethan replied calmly, though a note of excitement bled into his usually composed, analytical voice. “Legends claim that Hardin did not merely escape. He changed, and all that time, he sought revenge. These notes were found in the marshlands of Sheya. That is the very source of the intriguing legends about an old man who aided the Dark Elves.”

  “So you believe it, Father? Immortality? You think the alchemists are right and there is a way?” he asked, turning abruptly. His face, usually full of enthusiasm, was now taut and grave.

  “Immortality? Unlikely. But longevity? Most certainly.” Ethan stood and walked to the map of Haalbara. “Look at the other races: Elves live three, four hundred years. The Dark ones? Barely half that. Dwarves and Orcs—around two hundred. And do not forget the Arketons, scattered across the continent—they exist for so long that some worship them as demigods, though they too are mortal.” Father returned and sat in his chair. “Only we humans live such painfully short lives. Which is unjust. Yet, exceptions exist. Look at vampires, which appeared some four hundred years ago. Only a human can succumb to that transformation. These creatures can live very long, so long as they feed on blood. They are driven by hunger, yet they still think and plan, which proves that consciousness has survived. Ways exist, therefore, though we do not yet fully understand them.”

  Father paused, as if recalling old records.

  “The Elves keep interesting legends. They claim that long ago, before the Great Conflagration, the world looked different. Their ancestors, and reportedly humans too, lived even to a thousand years. But everything changed after the first cataclysm. According to their lore, we now live in the Fifth Turn; the previous eras were ended in sequence by: the Great Conflagration, the Fall of the Firmament, the Great Winter, and the Great Flood.”

  “So you suggest the alchemist became one of them? That he turned into a vampire?” Belmond asked, arching a brow.

  Ethan laughed softly, shaking his head with amusement.

  “I cannot rule it out entirely, son, but my intuition suggests something far more refined. Vampirism is a mutation and a slavery to hunger, whereas Hardin was a man of science. I believe the solution to his riddle lies in the works of his mentor.” He looked at his son searchingly. “Armen...” Ethan spoke the name with reverence. “You saw his signature beneath the entry about the Queen’s madness. Have you ever heard of him elsewhere?”

  Young Blackwood fell silent. Ethan watched him with patient attention. Belmond searched his memory for a moment, sifting through hundreds of lessons and stories his father had regaled him with, but finally spread his hands helplessly.

  “No, Father. Only what you read to me from these pages.”

  “I am not surprised. In our circles, he is known almost exclusively as ‘A.’, for that is how he signed his works,” Ethan explained, adopting his lecturer’s tone. “It was his notes—often incomplete—that served to create the first Auranite weapons. Armen had theories that Artifacts are not mere objects, but something enclosed, trapped within matter. According to him, Auranite is not just ore. It is the building block of a vessel. The Ancients could create containers capable of holding their power. We, however... we have lost that knowledge.”

  Ethan tapped his finger on the desk, accentuating every word.

  “If the black pyramid managed to transfer a soul from one body to another, then I believe Hardin followed the same path. He was, after all, Armen’s only pupil. Perhaps he was the one who discovered how it is done.”

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  Belmond felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He looked at the map, then at his father, with a sudden, dawning fear in his eyes.

  “If you are right...” he began quietly, his voice catching in his throat. “Then are we... truly searching for a ghost that could be anywhere?” He swallowed hard, trying to master his nerves. “But Father, how can you be certain that what you hold is authentic? How do you know these notes speak the truth?”

  “An excellent question, Bel!”

  Ethan smiled with the corner of his mouth, then reached into a massive drawer of the desk. He rummaged through a pile of documents for a moment, until finally, he slid his hand under the papers and pulled out an old necklace. The pendant was shaped like a coin, reddish-brown in hue, crusted in places with a layer of old verdigris.

  “Look at this. It was found on the shores of the Miradon Expanse.”

  Belmond followed the object with his eyes, then shifted his gaze to the map. Staring at the contours on the paper, he realised the monumental vastness of the Miradon waters. This massive body of water, surrounding the capital on almost every side, was entirely man-made.

  Father placed the necklace in his son’s open palm. The metal was cool and strangely light.

  “Do you know what this is, son?”

  “No.”

  “It is a regulus, a sample of Auranite alloy,” Father explained. “Look at the other side.”

  Belmond obediently turned the pendant over. On the reverse, gouged into the hard metal, was a distinct letter ‘H’. Young Blackwood jerked his head up, looking again at the map, then at his father. Ethan smiled broader, seeing the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place in the youth’s mind.

  “Does that mean Arendel... lay where the Expanse stretches today?”

  Father slowly nodded.

  “And now, look closely at the initial and compare it with the handwriting in the journal.”

  Belmond leaned over the desk, heart pounding as he brought the metal disc close to the yellowed pages. He searched feverishly for a similar letter shape in the text. When he found it, the resemblance was undeniable—the same angle, the same sharp finish, the first line longer than the second. The same hand! He straightened up, feeling scepticism leave him, replaced by a cold thrill of excitement.

  “The journal is real...” he whispered, unable to tear his eyes from the metal.

  “Son, I know that this...” Ethan began, but the words died on his lips. He looked deep into Belmond’s eyes, as if seeking the strength to confess a truth that had long weighed on his heart.

  Young Blackwood’s heart beat faster. He stared at his father’s tired yet emotion-filled face, sensing that what he was about to hear might change their lives forever. Ethan drew breath to continue, but in that same instant, the heavy oak doors of the study burst open.

  Aria stormed in—a force of nature clad in blue fabric and a storm of black hair. With her, the savoury scent of roasted meat and aromatic herbs invaded the stuffy, old-paper-smelling room, instantly dispersing the thick atmosphere of mystery. The woman crossed the room in a few springy strides, the air seeming to vibrate with her inexhaustible energy.

  “My loves! Have you lost all sense of time?” she called out, hands resting on her hips. She walked to the tall windows and, with one fluid motion, swept back the heavy curtains, letting in the last dregs of daylight.

  “The sun is already setting,” she announced, rapping her knuckle against the glass with theatrical disapproval. Her voice, though seemingly light, carried a note of maternal firmness that even a grown son dared not ignore. “And you two sit here like statues, while poor Ness slaves over the pots to keep everything warm for you. You should have been downstairs long ago.”

  She shifted her gaze to her son, raising one eyebrow in a gesture balancing between severity and amusement.

  “And you, young man?” The brow climbed even higher. “Did you not promise to clean yourself up after training?”

  Belmond looked abashed, running a hand through his slightly dishevelled hair. Aria couldn’t suppress a peal of laughter at the sight of the confused expressions on both men’s faces. Ethan lifted his head from the pile of maps and books, then sent his wife an apologetic smile. Despite his promise to spend the evening with the family, he had once again allowed the chase for history to claim his time.

  “You are absolutely right, my dearest. I apologise,” Ethan admitted, his voice full of genuine contrition. “We are coming down for supper immediately. We cannot let Ness wait any longer, can we, Bel?”

  The youth started, as if woken from a trance. Instinctively, he tightened his hand around the cool medallion, concealing it within his fist before his mother could spot it. He nodded, though his thoughts still swirled around the sunken Arendel. He forced a pale smile. Ethan raised a hand to his face, feigning a stifled yawn. Under this makeshift cover, he leaned in slightly and whispered so only his son could hear:

  “Take it.”

  The boy replied with an almost imperceptible nod.

  Aria moved across the study like a shadow—soundlessly and with a lethal precision worthy of the Vesperon heritage. Before Ethan could take another breath, she loomed right behind him and leaned in with a teasing smile.

  “My dear,” she purred, nuzzling his neck. “It seems you too should take a refreshing bath, for that is certainly not the smell of books.”

  Ethan raised an arm and sniffed the sleeve of his tunic. When the specific odour reached him, feigned astonishment painted his face.

  “Ah, my sweet, it is hard to disagree with you,” he replied with a tender smile, stretching slowly. His joints cracked in protest after hours spent in an unnatural position over the journal.

  “Come now, my gentlemen,” Aria laughed, patting her husband lightly on the shoulder. “Ness won’t wait forever. And then straight to the tub. Move it.”

  She winked conspiratorially at her husband, subtly nodding toward Belmond, who was reluctantly rising from his chair and heading for the exit. This barely visible gesture, unnoticed by their son, betrayed that the parents shared worries of which Belmond had no inkling yet.

  When the boy disappeared beyond the threshold, Aria’s smile dimmed. She leaned down to her husband’s ear.

  “Have you taken your medicine, love? Because I took mine... And did you tell him?” she whispered with a note of anxiety, watching Ethan’s reaction.

  “No, I haven’t had the chance yet,” he replied with a heavy sigh, slowly shaking his head. His fingers nervously clutched the hem of his tunic. “I know I should have done it long ago... but I am still looking for the right moment.”

  The man’s gaze involuntarily drifted toward the open door where their son had vanished. He took his wife’s hand, intertwining his fingers with hers.

  “Let us go. Before Ness comes with the rolling pin.”