Chapter 18: Eclipsing Fates

The dimly lit chamber was thick with tension. Six figures sat around the heavy wooden table, their faces shadowed by the flickering candlelight, the air heavy with an unspoken urgency. The recent death of Velior had sent ripples through the Fate Council, and now they were grappling with the aftermath.

"Velior's death from the Aurora Order has been a blow," Thaddeus said, his voice rough with frustration. "But the real issue is their apprentice. The 'artificial vampire'— Sequence 7 of the Moon Pathway lost control and went missing. If the Sanguines find out, this will be more than a political nightmare. It'll be our heads."

Nyx leaned forward, her sharp eyes scanning the group. "The Sanguines are already on edge. If they find out we've had one of their kind—an 'artificial vampire'—we won't just be dealing with them."

There was silence as the gravity of their situation settled over the room. The eyes of the councilors met, each one weighing the cost of their next move.

Finally, Orin spoke, his voice low but carrying an eerie certainty. "There's an out."

Everyone turned to him, an air of disbelief hanging in the room. "An out?" Althea's voice was tinged with skepticism. "And what do you propose?"

Orin's lips curled into a cold, calculating smile. "The Primordial Moon."

The moment the name left Orin's lips, the room was flooded with a sickly crimson moonlight, as if the very air shifted in response.

Beside him, another council member, a tall woman with sharp features, matched his intensity. Her hand slid beneath her cloak, drawing out an orb of darkness, crackling with energy as though it was being shaped into something weaponized.

"What's the use in pretending?" Orin spat, his voice rising. "The president's been gone for months, and now we're left in the dark! No, we're too close to unraveling the truth, and the Primordial Moon is our guiding light!"

At his words, the other members, seated across the table, shot up from their seats. Firearms gleamed in their hands, and they aimed them at Orin and his companion, their eyes burning with resolve.

Without warning, the room erupted into chaos. Gunfire, darkness, and shouting filled the air.

In the kitchen, the shepherd's pie he'd prepared the night before was ready for its final touch. Asher just had to heat the dish, his eyes drifting to the fresh cut on his finger. He hissed softly, flexing it.

The damn sweet nut had fought back when he tried to crack it open earlier, the shell slipping and nicking him with just enough force to draw blood.

Otto entered a moment later from his trip to the hospital, his movements precise as ever. He sat down without a word, murmured a quiet prayer, and began eating.

Kaspar, ever the chatterbox, was the first to speak, eyeing Otto. "So? We like, yes? Good food?"

Otto set his fork down, his sharp eyes glancing at Asher.

"It's… acceptable," his tone carrying a grudging approval.

With Kaspars endless enthusiasm he smiled, staring at Asher. "Otto say, 'Great job!'"

Asher grinned, though his amusement faded as Otto's gaze lingered on his bandaged finger. "What happened there?" Otto asked, his voice calm but probing.

Asher glanced down at his hand. "Just cut myself on one of those nuts this morning. They're tougher than they look."

Otto's expression darkened slightly. "Be more careful. Blood is valuable, Asher. Many Beyonders can use it to craft curses, bindings, or other unnatural things. Leaving it behind—intentionally or not—can be a risk."

Asher rolled his eyes at Otto's words. "I mean, sure, I'll be careful. But why would I want to be wounded in the first place?"

Otto gave him a long, unreadable look before returning to his meal. "See that you remember," he said simply.

Asher chewed on Otto's advice—both literally and figuratively—as he ate.

Once the meal was finished, Otto cleared his throat to address them. "After lunch, you and Kaspar will head to the hospital. They need extra hands."

Asher blinked, caught off guard. "Why the hospital?"

Otto replied, his tone firm. "You'll learn some useful skills. I've already made the arrangements."

Kaspar perked up, though their enthusiasm seemed tempered. "You stay?"

"Yes," Otto said, adding with a note of finality, "Bring the music box with you."

The mention of the music box shifted the atmosphere in the room. Kaspar's usual energy dimmed, replaced by something more subdued. "Box! You sure?"

Otto nodded. "Please contact me if anything goes awry."

Asher finished packing, folding his clothes into a neatly organized suitcase. Across the room, Kaspar was less meticulous, shoving clothes and odd trinkets into their bag with reckless abandon.

Asher's attention lingered on the small, ornate box Kaspar was carefully tucking away. Its intricate carvings shimmered faintly in the dim light, a hint of mystery clinging to its surface.

"What's with the box?" Asher asked, raising an eyebrow.

Kaspar's head shot up, their eyes gleaming with excitement. "Music box! Special. For Otto." They cranked an invisible handle with one hand for emphasis. "You crank, make cloud. Can't see cloud—no, need spirit vision. Cloud listens. Takes words to Otto."

Asher squinted, trying to parse the explanation. "So, it's like… a phone?"

Kaspar tilted their head, their expression puzzled. "Phone? What… phone?"

"It's a thing people use to talk to someone far away," Asher explained, gesturing vaguely.

Kaspar's face brightened. "Yes! Yes, that. Like phone! But better. Cooler. Spirit-y."

"Of course," Asher muttered under his breath.

Kaspar's explanations always seemed to raise more questions than they answered.

Asher and Kaspar strolled through town, their suitcases in hand. Vendors greeted them warmly, and townsfolk called out with curiosity.

"Off somewhere, Asher?" the butcher's son asked as he unloaded a cart.

"We're gonna check up on your mother," Asher replied, offering a polite nod.

Kaspar added with a grin, "Big trip! Exciting!"

Asher ignored the comment, their mismatched pace leading them down a quieter street. Suddenly, Kaspar stopped abruptly.

"Wait. You stay here," Kaspar said, their tone unusually serious.

"What are you—"

"Back soon!" Kaspar interrupted before darting into a narrow alley.

He craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of Kaspar, who had vanished into the narrow alley moments earlier.

The street was quiet here, the market's lively hum reduced to a faint murmur in the distance. Asher's impatience grew with every second.

"Kaspar, what are you doing in there?" he muttered, glancing around.

From his angle, he could see only Kaspar's silhouette, shifting as they spoke with someone further in the shadows. A familiar hunched figure—dirty and indistinct—loomed just out of clear sight.

Their muffled voices didn't carry far enough for Asher to make out the words, though Kaspar's occasional gestures, animated as always, were unmistakable.

Asher frowned, leaning forward slightly. Kaspar extended their hand, and the shadowy figure passed something small and metallic into their grasp.

A sudden glint of light caught Asher's eye, reflecting off whatever Kaspar was holding.

Is that… a gun?

A few more seconds passed before Kaspar finally emerged, grinning ear to ear and swinging their suitcase as though nothing unusual had occurred.

"Back!" Kaspar announced cheerfully, walking up to him.

"What was that about?" Asher demanded, glancing toward the alley.

"Friend," Kaspar replied cryptically, brushing off the question.

Asher's gaze dropped to their hand, where the faint outline of a pistol was just visible before Kaspar slipped it into their coat pocket.

"What's that then?"

"Gift," Kaspar said, as if it explained everything.

"From that sketchy homeless man?"

Kaspar shrugged, their tone unconcerned. "Best friend. Good man. No coins needed."

Asher raised an eyebrow, his unease deepening. "And you just… took it?"

Kaspar grinned, seemingly oblivious to the bloodied streaks faintly visible on the weapon's handle. "For me. Perfect match!"

"You can't just—" Asher started, but Kaspar waved him off, already rambling about the gun's features in their disjointed, excited manner.

"It's old. Strong! Bite still sharp. Lovely barrel—perfect shape, see?" Kaspar mimed holding the gun up. Thankfully they didn't draw it again before terrifying any nearby passersby.

Asher shook his head, too tired to press the issue further. "Right. Just… keep that thing away from me."

Kaspar laughed, their suitcase swinging as they resumed walking. "Safe hands! Best place, yes?"

"Sure," Asher muttered under his breath, falling into step behind them.

As Asher and Kaspar continued down the road, the buildings of the town gradually began to thin, their once neat facades giving way to more weathered structures. The quality of the cobblestone beneath their feet began to deteriorate, the smooth stones replaced by cracked patches and uneven surfaces as the road slowly turned to dirt.

A sudden clattering sound interrupted the quiet, and a hurried carriage thundered past them, its wheels kicking up dust and gravel. The horses, frothing at the mouth, strained with all their might, their muscles trembling with exertion as they sped by. Blood dripped from the carriage's door, splattering across the dirt road as the terrified driver whipped the horses relentlessly.

Asher's gaze lingered on the chaotic scene for a moment before he turned away, uneasy. The frantic pace of the carriage contrasted sharply with the peaceful rhythm of the nearby wilderness.

In the distance, the road twisted around a bend, and there, looming on the horizon like a grand monument, was the hospital. The three-story building was imposing, its brickwork aged but still grand, rising up from the uneven path like a dark sentinel guarding the town's edge. Despite the sun, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch unnaturally, the building held an almost eerie, yet ornate, presence—its stone walls etched with designs that whispered of wealth and power, even in their decay.

It stood there, silently waiting, as Asher and Kaspar approached, the tension in the air palpable as they neared the hospital.