The Delvil´s Inheritance

Chapter I

The exam hall was stifling, but for the first time in years, Arthur didn’t mind the heat.

He moved his pen across the paper with a steady, fluid rhythm. The questions that had seemed like unsolvable riddles just a few months ago now made perfect sense. He felt a rare, quiet pride blooming in his chest. I’m doing it, he thought, his pulse calm and regular. I’m actually going to pass. I’m going to make it to university.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, enjoying the feeling of his lungs expanding without the usual hitch of pain. He looked up, glancing around the room. A few rows ahead, a girl was chewing the end of her pencil, her brow furrowed in genuine distress; to his left, someone else was staring at the ceiling, looking defeated.

A small, genuine smile touched Arthur’s lips. It wasn't arrogance—it was relief. For so long, he had been the one struggling, the one falling behind, the one defined by what he couldn’t do. Today, he was just another student. Today, he was a boy with a future.

He turned his focus back to the page, his mind sharp, ready to finish the final section.

But then, it started.

It wasn't a warning, just a sudden, heavy thud in his chest, as if his heart had skipped a beat and landed on something solid. He paused, his hand hovering over the paper. He waited for it to settle, but the rhythm didn't return. Instead, a wave of heat washed over him, followed immediately by a jarring, icy shiver.

Just a flutter, he told himself, gripping the desk. Just breathe.

He tried to inhale, but his chest felt suddenly tight, like a corset being pulled too thin. His vision wavered. The crisp black ink of the exam paper began to stretch and blur, the words dissolving into dark, unreadable rivers.

Panic flared—not just for the exam, but for the life he had only just started to feel he owned.

"Not now," he whispered, his voice sounding thin and distant to his own ears. "Please, not here."

He tried to push himself upright, to signal for help, but the world suddenly tipped sideways. His chair scraped sharply against the floor—a sound that echoed like a gunshot in the silent room.

His forehead met the cool, hard surface of the desk with a dull, sickening thud.

"Arthur? Arthur, are you alright?"

Mr. Henderson’s voice was urgent, moving closer, his footsteps frantic against the linoleum. Arthur wanted to answer, he wanted to say that he was fine, just a little tired—but the darkness was already moving in, soft and absolute, swallowing the room, the sound of the pens, and the fragile, beautiful hope he had held just a second before.

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The sterile, white glow of the hospital ceiling was the first thing to greet him. It was a stark contrast to the warm, golden light of the examination hall. Arthur blinked, the rhythmic beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor sounding like a countdown he didn't want to hear.

He didn't need to ask where he was. The smell of antiseptic and the heavy, dragging sensation in his limbs told him everything. He was back in the cycle.

Just outside the half-open door, the muffled, sharp tones of conversation drifted in. Arthur turned his head slightly, his neck feeling stiff.

"It’s not just a flare-up," the doctor’s voice was low, clinical, and stripped of the warmth Arthur had grown accustomed to. "Arthur’s condition has taken a rapid, aggressive turn. The organ failure is systemic now."

"That’s impossible," his mother’s voice cut through, trembling with a sudden, jagged fear. "He’s been stable for five years. Since he was thirteen, he was doing so well! He was sitting his exams, he was… he was fine."

"We all knew this was a possibility, Mrs. Pendelton," the doctor replied, his voice heavy with the exhaustion of delivering bad news. "The pathology of this disease is unpredictable. It’s a slow-burning fuse. Unfortunately, it was always going to happen sooner or later. The body can only compensate for so long."

Arthur’s mother let out a small, broken sob. "But why now? Why today? He was so happy."

Before the doctor could answer, the frantic rustle of a nurse’s uniform approached. "Doctor? You’re needed in the East Wing. Patient in Room 402 is crashing, it’s an emergency."

"I have to go," the doctor muttered.

Arthur heard their footsteps retreating, fading down the linoleum corridor until the hallway was silent once more.

His mother stood alone in the hallway for a moment, her silhouette framed by the harsh light. She pressed a hand to her mouth, composing herself, then turned toward his room. Through the small, reinforced glass window of the door, she caught his gaze.

Arthur looked at her—at the way the fluorescent light caught the grey in her hair, at the way her shoulders slumped with the weight of her grief—and a wave of crushing shame hit him. He saw the future she was already mourning, and he couldn't bear the pity in her eyes. He quickly averted his gaze, staring intensely at the IV drip beside the bed as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

He heard her sigh—a long, shaky sound that vibrated through the quiet room—before the door creaked open.

She walked in, her footsteps tentative. She didn't say a word, just pulled the plastic chair closer to the bed and sat down. Her hand reached out, hovering for a moment before it gently rested on his, her skin cool and trembling.

Arthur remained still, staring at the ceiling, feeling like a stranger in his own body. He was eighteen, he was supposed to be starting his life, and instead, he was here, watching his mother’s heart break all over again.

"Arthur?" she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. "My love, look at me."

Arthur didn't move. He felt the cold truth settling into his bones: he didn't have any time left to lie to her, or to himself. The fuse had finally reached the powder.