Antiquated streets overlapped each other through twisting corridors, alleyways, and bridges, leading up and down their countless passages on the ostensibly vertical yet sprawling city-state of St. Valencia. Its myriad of edifices were built upon each other by blackened wrought iron and to be only further stacked with innumerous dark-washed bricks and slabs of polished, fine Rosewood, constructed into capacious spires and skyscrapers that evoked the emotion of being nugatory in its grace. Its eminence was amplified by the precipice it was perched above, looming over a vast, perpetually crystalline lake, serving as another dizzying defense to the impregnable city. Where the cliffs sunk stood a hoary forest, blanketed in moss and horrors of the night, warded only by the incensed streetlamps that stamped the Farewell Road and its linkage to the nearby villages.
Driving out of the imposing forest was a sumptuous, gilded carriage, drawing down the cobbled, mossy roads to the constellation of lanterns and witching fires of a nameless village. So late into the night that many were asleep when it arrived unnoticed—its only sound being of mud and hooves and the soft rattle of metal and wood. For those who were conscious they dared not peek—understanding curiosity was a privilege best not tested to the shadows of the night. The carriage went further past the village and came to a halt upon the fringe of the cottage's property. It was almost unremarkable except for the flicker of candlelight in its window.
"This is it," the scraggly man rapped his knuckles against the door, "be careful—the incense is cheap here. I will try to be quick."
The carriage creaked as he strode down the folding step and onto mud. It squelched under his boots as he strode to the cottage's threshold, knocking thrice.
It did not take long for the artless door to open, revealing the pale face of a beautiful woman.
"You've returned," she exhaled, eyes lighting up in the candlelight as she parted the door, beckoning him inside.
In minutes, she had stoked the fire to a roar, casting the meek room aglow, whisking to and fro from the joint kitchen, heating a pot of tea.
Not once did the woman speak, but her silence was just as penetrating as her imploring thoughts, waiting for the news she feared.
"The College was not fond of my experiment," he told her, eyes staring at the darkened hallway, "once the professor had discovered my research—I was thrown out."
She dropped the cup of tea, spilling and breaking it on the ground, but he was unperturbed as she shakily picked up the scattered pieces.
"However," he finally added, "the professor was fond of me—enough to where the worst he did was throw it to the flames, saving my reputation and innocence from discrimination."
The woman didn't stop trembling as she deposited the pieces onto a table, grabbing another cup of tea for the gentleman, and succeeding as he took it from her unsteady hands.
"I also kept copies. I think he knew so, but he did not ask as I was discharged from my studies, and irrevocably suspended." He sipped it, refusing to taste its insipidness
"T-That's good," she scarcely whispered, sitting on a crude stool off to the side of him.
"So you believe," he forgave her ignorance, "but it seems that it only complicated our situation."
"O-Our?" She inhaled, nearly tottering off as she stood, quaking.
"Certainly, doctor, you mean that it's your problem…" She reminded him of their contract.
"Not quite yet," he exhaled, almost feeling responsible for her atrociousness, "my cohorts have yet to contact me about our arrangement. When I learn of it, I will make haste at once."
Her shapely face soured as she glimpsed at the ground.
"But, I do require more blood to present and argue my research—some men believe with only their eyes." He pulled out an empty vial and purified emblem.
The woman clicked her tongue in a hiss, stamping and leaving into the hallway which his eyes never strayed from. It was quiet for moments until she emerged from its shadowy recesses, towing her daughter in hand. The little child was no less than seven, bandaged up and down her right arm, legs wobbly and bruised, eye swollen with a raspy cough.
Her mother threw the girl's bony arm to his lap, presenting the many rivers of veins to be used, and showcasing her cubital fossa to be ridden with stormy marks of previous ministrations.
Despite after the thousand times he pricked her, the child still meekly cried, tensing up.
"I-It hurts," she hoarsely begged but did nothing to move, too fearful of the penetrating needle as he drew from her, taking all that he safely could and adding a new bandage to her left arm.
"In time, you will no longer suffer this," he promised because her eyes were of a child's, and, he was a guilty father, having left his wife and his son many years back for the life of conspiracy and research—for her eyes to yield the potential of what his son might one day express to him was too much to dwell upon. It was best shut upon empty promises.
The child held her left arm close, ignoring his failed words as her mother stepped forward once more.
"Next time, I wish it to be the last—and that you finally take this bastard away." She forcefully pushed the child to him.
"Yes, Alma, I understand," he corked the vial of blood and began to quickly and efficiently clean his tools with disinfectant, packing it away in his medical bag.
"Do you remember our set price?" She pressed as the little girl began to quietly sob—her tears shining in the roaring firelight, shedding onto the dusty, stone floor.
"Yes, Alma," he repeated, "As we agreed, you will be given a summons to the Queen's wedding along with a lifelong pension for your suffering."
"Good."
She swiftly turned, glaring at the child.
"Well, what are you doing, girl? Off with you." She raised her hand and the child flinched away, fleeing back into the shadows whence she came.
"Perhaps… you should be kinder to her," he had his equipment stowed away.
"It does not matter how I treat her," she rumbled, setting to clean the used pot and cups. If he did not know her case, he'd say she was a violent woman without cause, but he knew her—she was a woman promised of wealth and power. The only thing in return she had to give was a child and her forged love for the man—but her investment came too late upon his untimely death. Or, perhaps, he never did intend to legitimize her child, or ever recognize her more than a mistress.
"It might once she's older and realizes she may have the opportunity to punish your actions." He put on his hat and bidding her goodnight.
Regardless of his forewarning, the woman would still hold contempt for the child—a blinding envy that the child still had a stake in riches and fame—a sore reminder than Alma the Maid would forever be impoverished and forgotten, but Historia Reiss the Bastard and all her gory afterbirth was worth more than her mother ever would be.
~X~X-O-X~X~
"It's incredible," he said under his breath, staring at the concoction brewing into a pearly white liquid, sealed tightly into its bottle. If it was to open it'd dissipate like steam in seconds.
He swirled it once more as his colleagues gasped at its preternatural glow, flinching back.
"A bastard," one whimpered under his breath, "it cannot be—"
"Rod's passing on the day of the Saints was an omen! An omen!" Another cried out, holding onto himself as the calmer men only observed, anxious.
"It is not that which we should fear," the man turned, placing the vial upon a gas capturing contraption hooked up to a large container of blood.
"Rod's infidelity and defilement," the man cautiously popped open the vial, sending the cloud of gas through the vent, perfuming the collected blood, "is not the reason for this meeting."
The other men grew restless, waiting for minutes as the mist settled until they began to see a reaction—the blood began to steam itself, almost broiling in the glass.
"What is going on? A scholar asked, quieting another outburst from the priests.
"Now, I want you to view this—"he gestured and revealed another glass chamber where an infected rat sat, balled up, stressfully watching the group—its teeth yellow and orange, bloody froth foaming from its lips as a tiny maggot fell from its putrid mouth. Every now and then it would go in a frenzy, screeching and clawing at the glass.
He twisted a knob, making the blood drain through a tube, circling and winding to the rat's prison, leaking it in.
By the disease, it hungrily ate and lapped until it began to sizzle—it began to lose its slow hemorrhaging and became less and less involved with the blood itself until it left it alone altogether, searching for an escape instead.
"It—"
"The Bloodlust," one whispered, "it…"
"What illusionary magicks are you attempting to deceive us with!?" A priest barked, fear showing in the number of veins that were throbbing in his neck and face as he sputtered, lip quivering.
"None can cure the damned! None may ever atone for the sins of our incompetence! Our soiled hands had sent Heaven's wrath upon us and we must pay, Jaeger, we must pay!"
"Jaeger!" A man shot up, frowning—causing everyone to bow their heads in respect. Even Grisha, the man representing his evidence, obeyed the command.
"What have you done!?" His bark echoed throughout the spacious research chamber.
Grisha did not look up as he stared down at his own feet—the very two that led him to this unspeakable horror and repulsive truth.
"What have I done?" He almost chuckled.
"Sir, it is not what I've done—it is what Rod has done, that madman—that brilliant dead man."