Two Pair of Eyes

In the heart of Ebonridge town, nestled behind a stone walls of an old infirmary, lay the morgue where Dr. Eliza Carmichael plied her somber trade. The morning light, filtered through the narrow windows, cast a pale glow across the cobblestone floor. Eliza moved with purpose, her dark robes brushing silently against the stone as she made her way to her workspace. Her reputation as a diligent and skilled mortician preceded her, a figure of quiet authority and meticulous precision in a world where death was a constant companion.

Today, her task was both routine and fraught with the potential for unsettling discovery. A list of newly arrived corpses had been delivered to her a few days prior, awaiting her confirmation of their identities. As she unrolled the parchment and began to read, one name leapt out, stark against the page: **Lucian Valebrook**.

Her heart quickened at the sight of it. The Valebrook family was not just known, but revered. Their influence stretched across the land, their name synonymous with power and privilege. The idea that one of their own, especially one so young, might lie cold in her morgue was almost beyond belief. Lucian Valebrook, a mere seventeen years old—his life, once filled with the promise of nobility and future grandeur, now reduced to a name on a list.

Eliza found it hard to believe that a Valebrook could end up here, in her care, without a parade of knights and nobles demanding explanations and revenge. She clung to the hope that this was a mistake, that the name was a cruel coincidence rather than the bearer of such weighty implications. Nevertheless, her duty was clear. She must confirm the identity, no matter how unsettling the prospect.

The room where the bodies were kept was dim, the air thick with the mingling scents of herbs and decay, meant to mask the stench of death. She approached the row of shrouded figures, her mind a whirl of thoughts and prayers. Each body held a story, a final act in the drama of life, and it was her solemn responsibility to ensure that each tale was told accurately and with respect.

Eliza's fingers traced the list with a practiced precision, each name a somber note in the symphony of her duties. The parchment crackled softly beneath her touch, a testament to the weight it carried—names of those who had passed through her care, waiting for final confirmation.

With measured steps, Eliza approached Lucian's resting place, her mind a fortress against the emotions threatening to breach its walls. But as she drew ever closet, her breath caught in her throat. Two pairs of eyes met hers, vibrant and alive, defying the stillness of death. It was Lucian Valebrook, unmistakably so, his gaze piercing through the veil that separated the living from the departed.

The realization crashed over her like a wave—a scion of the Valebrook family, a name synonymous with power and privilege, staring back at her with eyes that should have been closed forever. Lucian's eyes held a spark of life, their clarity and alertness defying the fate that should have claimed him.

A scream tore from Eliza's lips, primal and raw, shattering the silence of the morgue. She stumbled backwards, her heart pounding in her chest as the impossible reality unfolded before her. Lucian's eyes followed her, a haunting reminder of the mysteries that lay beyond her understanding, a testament to the boundaries blurred between life and death in that fateful moment.

Eliza burst through the heavy oak doors of the dead-house, her heart pounding like a war drum. The frigid morning air bit at her skin, but she barely noticed, her mind reeling from what she had just witnessed. Her breath came in panicked gasps as she raced across the cobblestone courtyard, her voice ringing out in the silence.

"Alistair! Alistair Darkwood!"

The name echoed against the stone walls, a summons that carried a weight of urgency and dread. Moments later, a figure emerged from the shadows of the adjacent building. Tall and imposing, with a mane of silver hair and eyes that seemed to hold the secrets of ages, Alistair Darkwood stepped into the light. His presence exuded a calm authority, a man who had seen and understood the mysteries that lay beyond the veil of death.

Alistair's face, lined with the wisdom of countless years, showed a flicker of concern as he took in Eliza's disheveled state. She stumbled toward him, words tumbling from her lips in a frantic rush.

"Lucian Valebrook... he's... his eyes... they're open!"

Alistair's expression hardened, a steely resolve settling over his features. He placed a reassuring hand on Eliza's shoulder, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of her fear.

"Show me," he said simply, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

Together, they hurried back to the dead-house, Eliza's heart still racing. Alistair moved with a purposeful grace, his steps unhurried but filled with a quiet determination. As they re-entered the cold, silent room, he took in the scene with a practiced eye, his gaze falling on Lucian's body.

But Lucian was no longer lying lifeless on the slab. He was sitting up, his eyes wide and confused, staring directly at them. Eliza's breath caught in her throat, and she clutched Alistair's arm for support.

The boy's gaze was intense yet bewildered, as if he was trying to make sense of his own existence. Then, in a voice that was unexpectedly steady, he spoke.

"Do you have any food?"

The simplicity of the question was jarring, slicing through the eerie atmosphere like a knife. Eliza felt her world tilt on its axis, her mind struggling to grasp the reality before her. This must be a mistake, a very big mistake.

Alistair, however, remained composed. He stepped closer to Lucian, his eyes scanning the boy with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"Lucian Valebrook," he said, his voice calm and measured. "You should not be here."

Lucian's brow furrowed, his confusion deepening. "I don't understand," he replied, his voice trembling slightly. "I remember... darkness, and then... I'm so hungry."

Alistair nodded, his mind clearly racing through possibilities and explanations. "Eliza," he said quietly, "fetch some food. We need to keep him calm and gather more information."

As Eliza hurried away, she couldn't shake the feeling that they were standing on the precipice of something extraordinary, something that defied the natural order of the world.

* * *

Lucian pushed away the empty plate, the fourth in a seemingly endless line of servings. The remnants of his meal were a testament to his relentless appetite, yet the gnawing sensation in his stomach persisted, a void that no amount of food could fill. He glanced towards the kitchen, where the morticians had so kindly prepared the feast. The aromas still lingered in the air, tempting him to ask for more.

He wrestled with the impulse, his hand half-raising before he let it fall back to his side. He couldn't bring himself to voice the request. Four plates were already an extraordinary generosity, especially from strangers who owed him nothing. The morticians had taken him in, clothed him, fed him – it was more than he could have hoped for. To ask for more would seem ungrateful, and he couldn't bear the thought of appearing so, not after everything they'd done.

He silently thanked them, his heart swelling with a mix of gratitude and embarrassment. How had he ended up here, a ravenous boy with no memory of his past, yet treated with such kindness? The questions loomed large, but for now, he was content to savor the warmth of the food and the unexpected comfort of their hospitality.

Clad in new clothes that felt both strange and familiar against his skin, Lucian stood before a tarnished mirror. The image reflected back at him was almost unrecognizable: a clean, well-dressed young man, his hair neatly combed, and his face scrubbed free of the grime that had clung to him for so long. He reached out, touching the glass as if to confirm that the figure staring back was indeed himself.

The transformation was stark. Just hours ago, he had been a bedraggled and disheveled boy, lost and confused. Now, he appeared almost noble, his new attire lending him an air of dignity he hadn't felt in what seemed like an eternity. The mirror, though old and spotted with age, captured every detail – the fine fabric of his clothes, the cleanliness of his hands, the clarity in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

Lucian's gaze intensified as he tried to reconcile this new appearance with the disjointed fragments of his memory. Who was this young man? What life had he led? His mind was a labyrinth of shadowy corridors, glimpses of faces and places that flickered and vanished before he could grasp them. He strained to remember, to make sense of the disparate images – a grand hall, a stern face, a whispered name – but they eluded him, slipping away like mist.

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AN: Hello there,

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