"Who… who are you?" The question hung in the suddenly frigid air.
The effect was instantaneous and devastating.
Lord Silas Ravenastra froze.
The profound relief that had begun to soften his features shattered like glass.
The warmth in his silver eyes vanished, replaced by a chilling, disbelieving horror.
His hand, still hovering where Astrael's shoulder had been, trembled violently now.
The color drained from his face, leaving him ashen.
"A-Astrael?" The name was a broken whisper. "Boy… it's me. Silas. Your grandfather." The desperation in his voice was a physical ache.
Behind him, Viktor's impeccable composure cracked. A minute flinch, a sharp intake of breath barely audible. His analytical gaze, previously assessing health, now scanned Astrael's face with laser intensity, searching for any flicker of recognition, any sign of deception or damage.
The silver tray in his hands wavered, just perceptibly.
Elara's happy sniffles choked off.
A small, wounded sound escaped her. Her hands flew to her mouth again, but this time to stifle a gasp of pure distress. The radiant joy dissolved into terrified confusion.
"Young Master?" she whispered, tears now flowing for a different reason. "No… no, you know Lord Silas…"
The room, which had held its breath in hope, now held it in crushing shock.
The silence was thick, suffocating.
Silas stared, unable to process, the foundation of his fragile hope crumbling to dust. Viktor's mind visibly raced, reassessing the situation with cold, grim logic.
Astrael pushed the act, letting genuine panic, fueled by his own chaotic situation and the guilt of causing this pain, bleed into his voice. He shrank back against the pillows, eyes wide and frightened, scanning all their faces.
"Where… where am I? What is this place? " He looked, the confusion real even if the source was a lie.
"Fetch Healer Brom," Viktor commanded, his voice low but cutting through the stunned silence.
It wasn't directed at anyone specific, but Elara jolted as if struck. She gave one last devastated look at Astrael, then fled the room, her footsteps echoing frantically down the hall.
Silas sank heavily onto the edge of the bed, his movements stiff, like an old man.
He reached out again, slowly, cautiously, as if Astrael were made of spun glass that might vanish. His voice was hoarse, stripped bare.
"Astrael… look at me. Please. Try to remember. The manor… the stables… your lessons with Master Ferren…" He listed familiar things, his eyes pleading, willing the memory to surface.
Astrael met his gaze, letting his own eyes remain clouded, lost.
He shook his head slightly, a gesture of helplessness that felt like a knife twisting in his own gut.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words tasting like ash. "I… I don't know those things. I don't know you." He glanced towards Viktor, then back at Silas.
"Who are you people?"
The broken sound Silas made wasn't quite a sob, but it was close.
He bowed his head, his broad shoulders slumping under an invisible, unbearable weight.
Minutes crawled by, thick with tension and Silas's silent anguish.
Viktor stood like a grim statue, the medicinal tea forgotten, its bitter steam curling uselessly into the charged air.
Then, swift footsteps.
Elara returned, ushering in a thin, harried-looking man in practical grey robes, carrying a worn leather satchel.
"Healer Brom."
His sharp eyes immediately took in the scene.
The distraught Lord, the stoic but tense butler, the pale, frightened boy in the oversized bed.
"My Lord," Brom murmured, bowing briefly before approaching the bed.
His voice was calm, professional, a counterpoint to the emotional wreckage.
"Young Master Astrael. I am Healer Brom. May I examine you?" His gaze was gentle but probing.
Astrael nodded mutely, playing the scared, confused child.
Brom's hands were cool and dry as he checked Astrael's pulse, felt his forehead, looked into his eyes with a small, glowing crystal lens.
He asked simple questions
Did his head hurt? (Yes, throbbing). Did he feel dizzy? (A little). Could he remember anything before waking up? (Only… darkness? And cold? Maybe water? He let the memories of Aarav's death and Astrael's near-drowning blur together vaguely).
Brom listened intently. He performed a few more checks, channeling a faint, warm light from his fingertips that brushed Astrael's temples.
Astrael focused on projecting sheer mental confusion, letting the jumble of two lives create a genuine sense of chaotic disorientation.
Finally, Brom stepped back, turning to Silas and Viktor. His expression was grave but not hopeless.
"The fever was severe, Lord Silas," Brom stated, his voice low.
"The body has recovered, remarkably so, but the mind… the mind is a delicate thing. The trauma of the accident, the prolonged unconsciousness, the high fever…" He sighed, rubbing his temple.
"It has likely caused a profound dissociation. A protective measure, perhaps, shielding him from the immediate shock."
"Dissociation?" Silas rasped, forcing the word out. "You mean… he doesn't remember?"
Brom nodded slowly.
"Amnesia. Yes, my Lord. Retrograde amnesia, most likely. Memories prior to the traumatic event , the accident by the pond ,appear inaccessible. His core faculties seem intact. He knows how to speak, how to understand… but the personal memories, the connections… they are buried. Perhaps deeply."
Silas closed his eyes, a muscle working in his jaw. Viktor's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze lingered on Astrael, thoughtful now, rather than purely horrified.
"Will it… will it return?" Silas asked, the hope fragile, desperate.
"It's possible," Brom said carefully.
"Often, memories trickle back. Triggers , familiar places, objects, people ,can sometimes help. But…" He hesitated. "We must prepare for the possibility that some, or even all, may be lost. The mind's defenses can be… absolute. Patience and gentle reintroduction are key. No pressure. No forcing."
He turned back to Astrael, offering a kind, if weary, smile. "You've been through a great ordeal, young man. Your body is strong. Rest now. We will help you. One step at a time."
He picked up the cup Viktor still held. "This will help with the headache and settle your nerves. Please drink."
Astrael took the cup again, his small hands dwarfed by it.
He looked over the rim at his grandfather's shattered face, at Viktor's assessing stare, at Elara's tearful worry, at the Healer's clinical concern.
His family.
His mess.
His impossible second chance… built on a lie that already felt like a millstone around his neck.
He lifted the cup.
The bitter liquid, now lukewarm, touched his lips. He drank, the taste mirroring the complicated dread settling in his stomach.
Brom snapped his worn satchel shut.
"Rest is the only medicine now, Young Master," he stated, his tone gentle but final.
"The mind… it needs silence. To heal, or simply… to endure." He bowed stiffly to Silas.
"My Lord." His departure was a quiet shuffle, leaving behind the heavy scent of bitter herbs and despair.
Silas didn't acknowledge the healer's exit. His eyes, stripped of hope, remained locked on the boy in the bed. The silence thickened, choked with grief.
Finally, he moved. One heavy, leaden step towards the bed. His hand twitched, a phantom impulse to reach out, but fell uselessly to his side.
"Rest, boy," Silas rasped. The words were gravel in his throat, an order stripped of command, spoken by a general surveying a lost battlefield. It was the sound of utter defeat.
"Just… rest." He couldn't bring himself to say the name. Not to this hollow echo. His gaze flickered towards the door, a silent command for Viktor.
The butler, a shadow given form, offered a shallow, silent bow.
His sharp eyes raked over Astrael one final time , noting the tremor in the too, small hands, the carefully blank confusion masking something sharper underneath , before he turned and flowed soundlessly from the room.
Silas lingered, a monolith of grief.
He seemed carved from the mountain in Astrael's dream, weary beyond measure. He opened his mouth, perhaps to plead, perhaps to curse the uncaring heavens , but only a ragged breath escaped.
He turned, the movement stiff, his broad shoulders bowed as if bearing the weight of the manor itself. He walked towards the door, each step echoing dully on the thick rug. Elara pressed herself flat against the wall, her violet eyes wide pools of shared sorrow.
At the threshold, Silas paused. He didn't look back. His voice, low and scraped raw, was directed at the empty air beyond the ornate wood.
"Elara." It was less a name, more a weary command. "Outside." A beat, heavy with the unsaid.
"If…" He swallowed, the sound audible in the stillness. "...if he needs something."
The door clicked shut behind him with awful finality. The lock didn't turn, but it felt like the sealing of a tomb. Astrael held his breath, muscles coiled tight, until the heavy tread of Silas's boots and the unsettling silence of Viktor's passage faded completely down the distant stone corridor. Only then did the air explode from his lungs in a ragged, shuddering gasp. He collapsed back against the suffocating pillows, the fine linen suddenly abrasive against his clammy skin.
"Gods," the whisper scraped out, trembling. "What have I done?"