Anita staggered back as though an unseen hand had struck her square in the chest.
Her fingers trembled. Her breath hitched.
That name…
No child in this kingdom, no one in this era, should have known it.
Reinhard was not a healer recorded in the guilds, not a mage whispered about in taverns, not a scholar praised in courts. His name had been scratched out of history, burned from records, sealed beneath royal decrees and blood-soaked parchment.
A ghost, an erased existence, a man whose research had crossed a line the world agreed must never be touched again.
And yet... The boy was bleeding out on her floor, whispering that name like a dying prayer.
Anita's knees weakened.
This child…He has been touched by something far older... and far more dangerous, than demons.
"What's wrong, Mrs. Anita?" Rivington demanded, his voice sharp with urgency.
She didn't answer.
"Do you know the man Ethan is speaking of?" he pressed.
Silence surfaced on the air.
Then, slowly, her lips parted, and when she spoke, her voice trembled as if each word burned her tongue.
"Doctor… Reinhard," she said at last.
"A dark mage. A forbidden one."
Her hands clenched into fists, her voice broke.
"He was erased for a reason."
Rivington's expression darkened instantly, he didn't hesitate.
"You," he barked, pointing at one of the royal guards. "Send word to His Majesty. Immediately. Tell him everything."
The guard saluted and vanished at once.
Rivington knelt beside Ethan, gently lowering the boy's trembling body to the floor. Blood stained his hands as Ethan coughed violently, crimson spilling from his lips.
"Stay with me," Rivington muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He looked back up at Anita, eyes sharp, voice low.
"Do you know where this Reinhard is?"
Anita snapped her head up, fear flashing openly across her face.
"No one does," she said quickly. "Not the kings. Not the academies. Not even the ancient councils."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"He exists outside the world's reach."
Lightning cracked faintly in the distance, as if the sky itself recoiled at the name.
Anita looked back down at Ethan, this broken, blind boy radiating mana that refused to be healed, and a chilling thought settled into her bones.
If Reinhard truly existed… if he is still out there... then the world is standing at the edge of something ugly.
Anita's throat tightened at the thought.
She had lived long enough to recognize the signs of a buried calamity clawing its way back to the surface, and this time, it had found a child.
*****
Rivington didn't wait, he stepped out of the mage's home, the scent of broken enchantments still clinging to his clothes, and mounted his horse in one swift motion. The beast reared once before sprinting down Gondolin's stone-paved streets.
"Reinhard," Rivington called out again and again.
"A doctor, an old healer... does anyone know that name?"
Market vendors shook their heads.
Guild clerks went pale and turned away.
Commission halls fell silent the moment the name left his lips.
In trade centers, whispers followed him.
In isolated districts, doors closed before he could knock.
Some pretended ignorance.
Others refused to meet his eyes.
And a few, just a few, looked afraid.
*****
Hours passed. The sun dipped low, bleeding orange across the rooftops.
Rivington dismounted at last, his jaw tight, and stared at a tavern he'd circled twice already. The sign creaked in the wind, its paint chipped, its windows dark.
A place people went to forget.
He pushed the door open, warm air and the stench of alcohol rushed over him. Laughter rang out, forced and hollow. He moved from table to table, voice low, controlled.
"Reinhard," he asked again.
"A doctor. A healer. Anything."
Nothing.
Then.... Movement.
At the corner of his vision, a figure rose from the shadows. A man wrapped in a deep green hood, face hidden, already moving toward the exit.
Rivington's instincts screamed.
He followed.
"Sir," he called, stepping into the doorway behind him. "Please, do you know anything about a man named Reinhard?"
The response was instant.
The hooded man seized him by the wrist with terrifying speed and dragged him down, slamming him against the alley wall outside. Cold breath brushed Rivington's ear.
"Careful," the man whispered. "Names like that get people killed."
Rivington tensed, but the grip loosened just as quickly.
"Two days from now," the stranger continued. "Havens Lounge. Midnight."
A pause.
"I have what you're looking for."
He shoved Rivington back. By the time Rivington looked up, the alley was empty.
No footsteps, no trace of mana, nothing but the echo of a name that should not have resurfaced. Reinhard.
*****
Rivington returned to Anita's residence long after night had swallowed the city.
The once-chaotic storm of mana was gone. The shattered furniture lay still. The air no longer crackled with lightning. On the surface, everything looked calm.
Ethan lay on the bed, unmoving.
His chest rose and fell, slow, shallow, but his eyes remained shut, lashes stained faintly red from dried blood.
"What's wrong with him?" Rivington asked, his voice breaking despite his effort to sound steady.
Anita stood beside the bed, her arms folded tight against herself. For the first time since he'd met her, the great mage looked unsure.
"I stopped the bleeding," she said carefully. "I stabilized his mana. His body… has returned to balance."
She hesitated.
"But his mind hasn't."
Rivington felt his stomach drop.
"…Explain."
Anita exhaled. "He's in a coma. A deep one. The healing ritual didn't just fail, it aggravated whatever is sealed inside him. His consciousness retreated instead of healing."
Silence swallowed the room.
Rivington clenched his fists. The very act meant to save the boy had pushed him further toward death.
They moved Ethan that same night, quietly, to a small apartment hidden between abandoned storehouses.
No guards, no banners, no records. A place meant to disappear.
Days blurred together.
Anita came often, far more often than she admitted was wise. She fed Ethan bitter herbal extracts that kept his body alive, cleansed his wounds, monitored his pulse. Each time she touched him, she felt it, that dormant pressure beneath his skin, coiled and waiting.
On the second morning, a messenger arrived. The Queen wanted Rivington immediately.
He ignored it.
By evening, another came, this time with urgency, still, he stayed.
On the third day, royal guards were dispatched.
That was when Rivington understood.
If the King laid hands on Ethan, he wouldn't heal him. He would drain him, strip that abnormal mana down to the bone, whether the boy survived it or not.
So they vanished. No soldiers knew, no guilds were informed. Not even Anita was told where Ethan had been moved.
Rivington hid him deep beneath the city, in an underground storage basement sealed with old wards, dust thick enough to swallow sound.
When he finally stood at the hidden door, alone, he rested a hand on the cold stone.
"Hold on," he murmured. "Just a little longer."
Then he turned away.
No guards, no escorts, no protection.
Rivington walked into the night alone, cloak pulled low, every step heavy with the knowledge that if he failed,
Ethan Cole would never wake up.
Midnight approached.
The sign of Havens Lounge flickered faintly in the distance, its lanterns casting sickly yellow light onto the street.
Rivington stepped into Havens Lounge, and the door swallowed him whole.
The noise of the city died the moment it closed behind him. No music, no voices.
Only darkness, thick, suffocating, alive.
A single lantern flickered somewhere ahead, its yellow light weak and sickly. Rivington tightened his cloak and pressed forward anyway. Each step echoed unnaturally, as if the walls were listening… counting.
Step. Step. Step.
The air grew colder the deeper he went.
Then—
CRACK!
Pain exploded at the back of his skull.
"What—!"
The world spun. Shapes smeared into shadows, light stretched into streaks, and before his mind could catch up, his body gave in.
The floor rushed up to meet him. Darkness took him whole.
*****
A dull ache pulled him back.
Rivington groaned as his eyes fluttered open, greeted by a single bulb hanging above him. Its light pulsed weakly, casting long, trembling shadows across the room.
His head throbbed, he shifted, and froze. Beside him hung a corpse, hanging.
Skin shriveled tight against bone. Mouth stretched wide in a silent scream. Empty sockets staring straight at him.
"AHH—!"
Rivington jerked violently, chains rattling above him. Only then did he realize, his wrists were bound, arms stretched painfully over his head, rope biting into his flesh.
"What is this?!" he shouted, panic clawing up his throat. "Anyone! Please! I was told to come here, I was sent by a man in a green hood!"
No answer.
Only the corpse swayed gently, rope creaking like a mockery.
Rivington struggled, muscles burning as he fought the bindings. Useless. The rope was thick, old, soaked with something dark and sticky.
"Damn it…" he hissed.
Then, footsteps echoed from the hallway, slow and measured.
From the doorway, a figure emerged, the man in the green hood.
Rivington's breath hitched. "You," he gasped. "Why am I tied up? I just want to speak with Doctor Reinhard. I mean no harm. I swear it."
The man didn't respond. A dagger slid into his hand.
Rivington's eyes widened. "Wait—!"
SHNK!
The blade buried itself into his thigh.
"ARGH—!"
Pain tore through him, hot and blinding. Blood spilled down his leg, dripping onto the stone floor.
"Who sent you?" the man demanded, voice low and venomous.
"No one!" Rivington cried. "I came on my own!"
The dagger withdrew, then the punches came.
One. Two. Three... Each blow crushed the air from his lungs, driving pain deep into his gut.
"I said speak!"
Rivington choked, vision swimming.
Immediately, He felt it. The air thickened, pressing down on his chest. His skin prickled as if needles pierced him from all directions. Breathing became difficult, every inhale heavy and bitter.
This aura…
Rivington's blood ran cold.
This is no demon's aura, this is far worse. Far worse than a demons aura.
The voice came from behind, calm, quiet… and absolute.
The hooded man froze instantly, stepping back as if pulled by invisible strings.
A figure stepped forward, tall, thin. Cloaked in darkness that bent the light around him. His presence alone warped the room, the corpse trembling violently as if terrified.
Rivington's heart slammed against his ribs.
This pressure… this magic…
It felt like standing at the edge of death itself.
"Let the young man be," the figure said mildly.
The hooded man bowed deeply and retreated without a word. Rivington lifted his head with shaking breath, staring at the man before him.
Black eyes, cold, endless.
Doctor Reinhard.
And in that moment, Rivington understood with terrifying clarity, if this man chose to kill him…There wouldn't even be a scream.