Four days had passed since the massacre that brought House Valtross to its knees. The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the ornate windows of the ducal mansion, its warm light falling upon the elaborate bedchamber where young Eldrin Valtross lay unconscious. The room, designed with the opulence befitting his noble station, now served as a somber vigil chamber for the last surviving heir of the once-proud lineage.
Around his bed, various figures hovered like vultures circling wounded prey. Some wore expensive garments adorned with the insignias of vassal families lesser nobles who had sworn fealty to House Valtross generations ago. Their faces displayed a curious mixture of concern and calculation, eyes occasionally darting to one another with unspoken questions about what the boy's survival meant for their own fortunes.
Standing closest to Eldrin's bedside was a priest, his ceremonial robes emblazoned with the white, gold, and blue colors of the Temple of Divine Light. His weathered hands clutched prayer beads of polished blue stone, lips moving in silent supplication for the child's recovery. The holy man's presence was both spiritual comfort and political necessity the Temple's blessing would be required for the smooth transition of power, regardless of who ultimately claimed stewardship over the Valtross domains.
Near the chamber's entrance stood two figures whose postures betrayed their military and administrative backgrounds: Sir Dorian Kelthar, Knight Commander of the Valtross Guard, and Magister Thorne, the ducal secretary. Both men had served Duke Rowan faithfully for over two decades, their loyalty to House Valtross extending beyond the death of their lord.
"What is the young master's condition, Your Holiness?" Magister Thorne asked, his normally precise voice strained with exhaustion. Dark circles ringed his eyes evidence of sleepless nights spent managing the chaotic aftermath while simultaneously arranging funeral rites for the slain family.
The priest turned from the bed, his expression grave but not without hope. "The physical wounds are minor and have been treated. What concerns me is the shock to his spirit. Such trauma can leave scars invisible to the eye but far more damaging than any blade." He gestured to the sleeping boy. "However, I believe he may wake at any moment. The worst has passed."
Sir Dorian released a heavy breath, his broad shoulders sagging with momentary relief. The knight's weathered face, usually stern and composed, had aged years in mere days. "That is welcome news. The secretary and I remain occupied with funeral arrangements. We had hoped the young master might awaken before his family is laid to rest."
"May the Divine Light of Vaelis grant your wish," the priest murmured, making the sacred circle gesture over his chest. "It would provide some closure for the boy, difficult though it would be."
The solemn exchange was abruptly interrupted by a sharp, nasal voice from the back of the gathering. "And what of the ducal affairs in the meantime?"
All eyes turned toward Lord Kaelion, a lanky man with a perpetually hunched posture as if always bowing to someone higher or reaching for something just beyond his grasp. He was the head of a minor vassal family whose lands bordered the northern edge of Valtross territory. His thin lips curled into what might have been intended as a sympathetic smile but resembled more a predatory grin.
"The boy will need guidance, of course," Lord Kaelion continued, stepping forward with hands clasped before him. "And the duchy's business interests cannot simply remain suspended. The trade routes must be maintained, the tax collections overseen, the vassalage agreements honored." His eyes, small and calculating, darted around the room. "We must be practical about the allocation of resources during this... transition period."
Magister Thorne's face hardened, his diplomatic mask slipping to reveal raw anger beneath. "Are you suggesting we begin dividing the duchy's assets while its heir lies before us, still recovering from witnessing his family's slaughter?"
"Treasonous talk," Sir Dorian growled, one hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. "How dare you covet the duke's wealth when his direct bloodline remains? Have you no shame, Kaelion?"
Lord Kaelion's face flushed, but he held his ground. "I speak only of practicalities, Dorian. I, too, have a family to provide for. We all do." He gestured to the other vassal lords and ladies, some of whom nodded in nervous agreement. "The boy is just that a boy. He cannot possibly manage the complex affairs of a duchy. Someone must step in to preserve what his father built."
The tension in the room thickened like approaching storm clouds. Sir Dorian took a menacing step toward Kaelion, his armored boots heavy against the marble floor. "Your 'concern' sounds remarkably like opportunism to my ears. Perhaps your tongue needs a reminder of the oath of fealty your family swore."
"Gentlemen, please!" Another voice cut through the brewing confrontation. Lord Edric Valerian, head of the most prominent vassal family and distant cousin to the main Valtross line, moved between the two men. Though advanced in years, his presence commanded respect that even the angry knight could not ignore. "This bickering serves no one, least of all the child."
Lord Valerian straightened his immaculately tailored doublet, the silver threading catching the afternoon light. "The royal family will undoubtedly send representative to assess the situation. Royal decree will determine regency until young Lord Eldrin comes of age. Until then, we would all do well to remember our place."
His words momentarily quelled the rising tension, though the glares between Sir Dorian and Lord Kaelion continued to smolder with unspoken hostility. The knight's fists remained clenched, clearly still considering whether diplomatic consequences were worth the satisfaction of breaking the grasping lord's nose.
The political maneuvering might have continued further had not a sharp inhalation from the priest drawn everyone's attention back to the bed. The holy man's eyes had widened, fixed on Eldrin's face where movement had at last appeared.
The boy's eyelids fluttered, struggling against the weight of days of unconsciousness. His breathing quickened, becoming shallow and irregular. Beneath closed lids, his eyes darted back and forth as if witnessing horrors only he could see.
"He wakes," the priest whispered, moving closer to the bedside. "Everyone, step back. Give him space."
The assembled nobles and servants retreated a few paces, but none left the room. Whatever their individual motives, all recognized that the moment of the heir's awakening would be pivotal for the future of House Valtross and their own fortunes within its sphere of influence.
Slowly, painfully, Eldrin's eyes opened revealing irises of striking amber that had been a hallmark of the Valtross line for generations. For a brief moment, confusion clouded those eyes as he stared blankly at the canopy above his bed.
Then memory returned.
The assassination. The blood. His family's broken bodies. The strange man with the shifting face. The mysterious stone melting into his flesh.
Eldrin's body went rigid. His pupils dilated to nearly eclipse the amber around them. His right hand the one that had absorbed the stone clutched at the bedsheets with such force that his knuckles turned white.
And then came the scream.
It was not the cry of a child awakening from a nightmare. It was not even the wail of a boy discovering his orphaned state. It was something primal and ancient a sound that seemed to carry echoes of something beyond mere human grief.
As the scream tore from Eldrin's throat, the windows throughout the chamber vibrated in their frames. The flames of nearby candles wavered as if in a sudden draft. And though none in the room would speak of it later, each felt a momentary chill that had nothing to do with the weather a cold that seemed to reach directly into their souls.
On Eldrin's right hand, visible to no one even the priest who stood closest, faint black lines briefly pulsed beneath the skin, tracing patterns like arcane writing before fading once more into invisibility.
The last Valtross was awake. And something had awakened with him.