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DATE:9th of December, the 48th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Genova
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Tuesday stretched before me, empty and colorless. Emily was absent, and without her, the school felt like a prison again. Strange how quickly I'd grown accustomed to her presence, how I found myself scanning the hallways and classroom for a flash of green hair.
I sat at my desk, textbook open but unread, my mind elsewhere. In the past, I would have dutifully studied, head down, invisible. That had been the safe choice. But now, knowing there was something else—someone else—I felt the day slipping away, wasted.
The blood-soaked apron still hung from my shoulders, my father's mark of shame. Three days, he'd said. This was only the second. What was strange, though, was the smell. Blood typically rots, turns dark and putrid. But this... this seemed to grow stronger, more metallic. The scent of fresh blood intensified rather than faded, as if the fabric was somehow producing it rather than merely stained by it.
That couldn't be normal. But who could I ask? Not my father, certainly. Not my mother, who wouldn't even look at me during breakfast, her eyes sliding past me as if I were a ghost. Her avoidance was puzzling. If she was angry, she would have used the mallet. Instead, she didn't even summon me for evening prayers.
The distance in her eyes reminded me of my uncle's fear. The snake marks. The sacrifice he'd mentioned. Were they connected?
As the final bell rang, I gathered my books, nodding politely to the teachers who pretended not to notice the blood-stained apron or the strange isolation that had formed around me. Even Matteo and his gang kept their distance today, their eyes wary when they fell upon me.
At home, the silence continued. My mother busied herself in the kitchen when I entered, her back deliberately turned. My father remained in the butchery until late, the sound of his cleaver rhythmic and distant.
I retreated to my room earlier than usual, the revolver a cold comfort beneath my pillow. As I lay in the darkness, I found myself wondering where Emily was. If she was safe. If she would return tomorrow.
Sleep came eventually, but it was fitful and shallow, filled with dreams of snakes, blood, and green eyes watching from the shadows.
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DATE:10th of December, the 48th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Genova
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The sensation hit me before I fully woke—something cold and sharp at my throat, like talons digging into my skin. My eyes flew open, heart hammering against my ribs.
The room was empty. Dawn light filtered through the thin curtains, casting familiar shadows across my sparse furniture. Nothing out of place. No intruder. Yet the pressure at my throat remained, invisible but undeniable.
I stumbled to the small mirror hanging on my wall, wiping away a layer of dust with a trembling hand. What I saw made my blood run cold.
Indentations marked my throat—not scratches or wounds, but clear impressions as if unseen claws were actively pressing into my flesh. I raised my hand to touch them, but felt nothing beneath my fingers even as the mirror showed the pressure deepening.
"What's happening to me?" I whispered, voice cracking.
First the snake markings, now this? Was I truly cursed? The shape of the indentations suggested some kind of bird—a raven perhaps, or an eagle. I remembered stories from my uncle's teachings about divine messengers, omens of fate.
An overwhelming sense of danger pressed in around me, though the room remained empty. The air felt thick, charged with malevolent energy I couldn't see but somehow sensed, like a storm building just beyond the horizon.
My legs threatened to give way as I made my way downstairs, one hand sliding along the wall for support. The trembling wouldn't stop. It felt as though my bones were trying to escape my skin, vibrating with primal fear.
The kitchen was empty.
I froze, momentarily forgetting the phantom claws. Mother was always here at this hour, preparing breakfast with mechanical precision. In all my years, she had never once deviated from this routine—not even when ill.
The hearth was cold. The table unset. The silence deafening.
Something was terribly wrong. Was this connected to the snake markings?
Fear made a simple decision for me—I grabbed half a loaf of bread and fled the house, unable to bear the crushing emptiness a moment longer.
Outside, the morning air bit at my skin, but I barely noticed. The talons maintained their grip as I hurried toward school, crumbs falling from the bread I mechanically shoved into my mouth.
I found myself scanning the streets for a flash of green hair, desperate for Emily's return. She would know what this meant. Or would she? I didn't get the idea that she understood what was happening. For one, she was too vague in her supposed help.
As the school came into view, a raven landed on a nearby fence post. It turned its head, fixing me with an onyx eye that reflected nothing.
For a moment, I could have sworn it laughed at me.
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I stumbled into the classroom, still shaken from the morning's strange marks and the cold, invisible grip on my throat. No one even looked at me. Emily was in school, but we didn't have much time to talk. I was feeling strangely tired and the day blurred by until Mister Figaro's class.
He entered with a peculiar energy, chalk already in hand. "Today," he announced, "we discuss the raven-a bird both feared and revered." He launched into the myth: how Apollo's white raven, once a divine messenger, brought news of Coronis's betrayal and was scorched black in the god's fury. "From then on," Figaro said, "the raven became an omen of bad luck, a messenger of misfortune."
He paused, eyes sweeping the room-lingering, I thought, just a moment too long on the window. "But even as an omen, the raven is still a divine messenger. The Normandians, in their ignorance, call them demonic, simply because they eat what others leave behind. Because of that they think that these beings spread disease. They hunted them to extinction in Upper Francia, foolishly believing they could silence the gods' messengers."
A low chuckle escaped him. "Most animals are scavengers, but only the raven was wrongly charged as a demon. This is the tradition of the Normandians: to target the messenger and call it virtue."
His words seemed to echo in the silent classroom. Was he talking about the myth, or just finding a way to critique the Hegemony?
I sat frozen, the weight of his lesson pressing down on me. Why did it feel like I was being singled out, marked by something I couldn't see? What was it trying to tell me?
Despite my dread, nothing happened. The rest of the day passed in a haze. My classmates ignored me, the teachers barely acknowledged my presence. I drifted through the halls, haunted by the feeling that I was carrying some message I didn't understand-and that, like the raven, I would be blamed for it.
When the final bell rang, I started walking home alone, the myth of the raven circling in my mind, the shadow of its wings never far behind. I nearly jumped when Emily appeared behind me, her hand touching my left shoulder.
She wore a wide smile that somehow softened my worries. "You look exhausted," she said, her voice gentle.
I let out a shaky breath. "I am. It's been a rough day. Probably this stupid apron," I added, forcing a weak chuckle.
Emily leaned in, wrinkling her nose playfully. "It smells even stronger than it did two days ago."
I couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, I noticed."
I glanced at her. "Do you have any idea what's going on with it? Or with… any of this?"
She shook her head, her expression turning more serious. "This space is unfamiliar to me. If anything's out of place, it's probably something conjured by your own mind." She still continues saying that what I see is fiction... If all of these are memories, then who am I?
We started walking together. I offered, "Want me to walk you home?"
She shook her head, smiling. "No, I actually prefer the road to your house more than the one to my apartment." So she did stay somewhere in the city. I thought she just appeared at school...
Emily let out a soft chuckle, and I glanced at her, curious. "What's so funny?"
She looked thoughtful, touching her chin with her index finger. "I was just thinking about Figaro's lesson. He left out a few things when he talked about the Normandians."
I grinned, playing along. "Oh yeah? Like what?"
She just smiled, eyes distant, as if sorting through memories I couldn't see.
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Emily cocked her head at my comment and gave me an awkward smile. "Ravens weren't the only creatures the Normandians targeted," she said. "They've developed airborne diseases to wipe out flies and mosquitoes, and their buildings are designed so that rodents and house bugs can't get in at all."
She continued, her tone almost clinical. "They're obsessed with preventing disease. Anyone entering Upper Francia, even Normandians themselves if they've been away, has to spend time in special quarantine neighborhoods. They take it very seriously."
I shook my head in disbelief. "They must be crazy to obsess so much over something that's just… part of the world."
Emily's smile turned a little sad. "Four hundred years ago, the continental Normandians were almost wiped out by the Black Plague. After that, it became a national obsession to make sure it never happened again." She glanced at me. "The plague came here too, but the Normandians suffered much worse than the rural Ventians. Their cities were packed and filthy. It was a disaster."
I remember that the Normandians were the first to industrialize. The filth that build up from unquestioned expansion was famous and a reason for the disrespect that the Ventians gave them. That time the Plague struck was the worst period in their history. Mr. Nathan taught us about it, but I didn't realize the connection to animals.
I let her words sink in as we walked. The idea of a whole society shaped by the memory of a single catastrophe made my own worries seem small-but it also made me wonder what kind of future people like us were being prepared for. Anarchy most likely.
When we reached the butchery, Emily waved goodbye and turned back down the street as I made my way upstairs. I dropped my bag in my room and tried to focus on my studies, but before I could even relax, I heard heavy footsteps creaking on the wood. My father pushed open the door without a word. He didn't even look at me-just jerked his thumb toward the hallway, his lips barely moving as he mouthed a silent order.
I followed him out and down the street, past the shop and toward a patch of ruins a hundred meters away-crumbling walls and broken stones that nobody had bothered to repair or tear down. My father wasn't drunk, but his steps were different today-slower, more uncertain, as if something disgusted him. That was the only word I could find for it.
Beside the ruins, two battered barrels waited like old sentinels. My father sat on one, the wood groaning under his weight, and turned his face directly to the sun. He stared at it without blinking, as if daring the light to blind him. I'd always heard that staring at the sun could make you go blind, but my father seemed immune to such rules-he'd always been the kind of man who challenged the world to break him and never flinched.
For a long moment, he just sat there, the sunlight painting harsh lines on his face. Then he looked down, clicked his tongue, and finally spoke.
"Something's been gnawing at me for a while now, boy."
He turned his gaze at me, making my feet instinctively stumble backwards. Despite staring at the sun, his eyes were cold. They lacked any kind of love or heat. My father had eyes more similar to an animal's than someone of his own species.
"You don't act how you did in the past" He said, not even bothering to hide the apathy in his tone. "Is it perhaps that green haired witch that took you mind away?" How was I supposed to answer him? I was terrified.
"No. She didn't d-do anything to me."
He clicked his tongue, but the gesture seemed more to mean that he was holding back from spitting. Was he really so disgusted?
" I don't know where I went wrong in educating You…"
We remained silent while I averted my eyes from him. Why does he think I am a failure? Because I am not strong like him? But how is it my fault? All these years he looked down on me, but because of what? So in spite of his muscles, of his hate and his gaze that made my skin crawl, I opened my mouth and asked him what I had in mind.
"Why have you never trained me?" He was almost confused by my brazen attempt to face him, or at least that is what I could figure out from his expression. Seeing that he didn't respond, I pressed on. " You always say how I am weak or unskilled, but you never once made any attempts to have me learn dagger work or train m-my b-b-b-body." I lost my breath when I saw his eyebrow twitch.
The pace of my heartbeat made me nauseous. I was scared of what he was about to do to me, but there was no point in hesitating. I might never get to talk to him like this again. With trembling lips I followed "You let my mother do what she wanted to me, trying to make me a priest a-and… then you show anger at how I become?"
I thought he might hit me in anger, but instead he chuckled. He raised from the barrel and went in front of me, towering over my body by at least three heads. He placed his strong arms on my shoulders, pressing lightly. Even his smallest of efforts made me feel pain, but I didn't dare to move.
He kept glaring at me, as if seeing within my soul, but I couldn't match his eyes.
" Look at me." He said. I tried, but my head didn't want to follow.
" I SAID-" My head flinched upwards and I locked eyes with him, trembling. He had such a cold expression… How can a father look at his spawn like that?
"I am not sure when you came across this notion, but Men aren't born equal. They never were. " He let go of my shoulders and turned towards the ruins.
"Ever since you were young I recognized your inadequacies. You weren't supposed to live. Your mother is a sickly person and you barely even survived your first few months of life. You have a weak body, a slow mind and a pathetic state of mind. Those aren't things you can train or practice." He grabbed a piece of debris from the ruins before us and crushed it with his hand in anger.
" A dog trained for a thousand years will still only be a dog. " He showed me his face and I jumped back from the veins that appeared on his face. He was clutching his teeth in anger.
" People like you and your mother who defy death and go on to pollute the Ventian blood are the reason our empire fell. Not the corruption and neither the wars. We bred ourselves into a lower race, fighting against the natural order of the world.
We humans always try to meddle with the order that the gods created…"
He gestured for me to sit on the barrel and I followed his order, almost falling when I stepped on a rock. He cocks his hand backwards and punches me in my stomach, sending me into the ruins. I felt bruises form on my back from the impact of the rocks. Then, in a single movement, he jumps on what remained of a wall and looks at me from above
"The science of the Normandians also proves it. The natural order of the world is that the Weak die against the strong. Only the strongest, most adaptable of animals survived the catastrophes that faced Terra, but what do humans do? They cushion the lives of genetic liabilities like you for the sake of 'morals', 'love' and upholding 'civilization'... Don't you see where this took us!?"
I felt tears fighting to escape my eyes and I didn't think I could hold them inside. He would surely be angered if I appeared weaker, but how could I even defend against what he said? I am too young to even disprove what he said.
I wanted to lie there between the stones, to wait for him to get bored and leave so I could cry, but the force pressing on my neck became tighter, making me gasp for air. Then I felt it raising me onto my feet in a choke.
Glancing upwards, my father almost lost his balance from surprise. He didn't know what was happening either and it was clear he didn't see the spirit choking me.
It didn't take long for his eyes to flare again.
"You think this means something? Does standing up change anything? Come here!" He jumped from the wall down near the barrels and the invisible figure dragged me, almost above the ground in his direction, until we were once again face to face.
"I wanted to forgive you at least for the sake of your mother, but you escaped far too long from my hand. You want to become a man? For me to train you? Fine! Here is your first lesson." The next thing I knew I was on the ground, clutching my head. Everything was spinning around me. He had most likely hit me with a jab, but it was too strong of an effort for me to understand.
" If people like you want to defend themselves, then training their body is meaningless. Even being skilled with a knife won't save you when you are too slow to react. Do you understand?"
I felt my neck being choked again as I am forced back on my feet. The claw keeps me standing even as I have no hold over balance from his earlier punch. My father punches me in the stomach, but I am not allowed to fall and struggle in keeping my feet straight to stop myself from being choked to death. I am so nauseous that the environment around me turns black. But my father, I can still see him. He is synchronized breathing, the heat emanating from his skin, The formerly dark glare from his eyes now filled with anger…
" Even if I trained you since you were born, you would have been killed by any thug on the street. Don't you get that?!"
He jabs me in the face with his right arm then hits me again with his left in the stomach, sending me backwards from the momentum he built and into the ground as the claw loosened its grip. My father was so angry that I could see his skin turning red. He was like a red figure in a black background, standing as a mountain before me.
I Was in so much pain that I wanted to let the darkness embrace me and fall unconscious but I couldn't. I wasn't allowed to. The claw once again tightened, and dragged me into standing up, keeping me like this more so by its Force than that of my own body. I felt empty. What was this torture about?
I could distinguish some sort of bewilderment on my father's face. He wasn't scared. He didn't have the ability to feel so, but it was clear that he didn't understand how I kept standing up. In his mind I was a weak coward, and he was right. If it wasn't for this spirit… I was in so much pain that I couldn't speak, but he was also at a loss of words so we stayed like that…
Until….
The claw made me step forward. I used whatever strength I had left to slow myself, but another claw grabbed my left arm and pulled me forward.
And this made the red figure before me take a step back, shocking me. It appears that he understood that something was wrong with my body. I was so bruised that many would find it hard to think I was still alive, but his pride didn't seem to let him run away, no matter how bizarre these events were. He prepared a right hook and kept that position, almost as if to scare me away, but the claws kept dragging me in his direction, making him release his hand into my left cheek. My head spun around and I could hear my neck crack, but the claw kept it from breaking and didn't let the force push my body back. Instead, the other claw raised my hand in the direction of my father and gestured a punch. Of course, it didn't land, but my father still defended himself with both arms. Then I saw a large cut form across them both as he jumped back.
I can barely follow what is happening. My father fell to his feet, clutching his fists as his forearms bled heavily, the red mixing with his own overt coloration. Did I cut him?
No, it wasn't that…
It was then that I realized. When the claw raised my left hand, one of its bladed fingers let go. It must have pointed towards my father and cut him when it forcefully gestured my punch.
The claw dragged me forward so that for once in my lifetime I was the one above my father. I wonder what expression I was having. I was sore enough that I couldn't feel my face. Even then, it must have been quite a sight. My father's eyes lowered and for once I saw a spark of weakness. He didn't tremble, but he didn't know how to react. He was cautious.
If he didn't defend as harshly as he did he would have died… My father almost died….
The Champion of Genova…
Marcellus, the son of Dramaticus…
The spirit almost killed him. Or was it myself? Emily said that these abnormalities were made by my own mind. Did I want to stand over him, triumphant? Preposterous. A son striking his own father?
I felt pathetic.
It seemed that the spirit thought the same, or perhaps it got bored.
The claws let go of me and I hit the stone path with a heavy thud, losing consciousness.-*-*-*-*-*