The Delvil´s Inheritance

Chapter III

Arthur woke to the sound of the door latch clicking. The morning light was thin and grey, filtering through the blinds. His mother stepped in, carrying a small tray. She looked exhausted, her eyes rimmed with the remnants of yesterday’s tears, but she wore a brave, practiced smile.

"Good morning, my love," she said, her voice soft.

"Morning, Mum," Arthur replied, his throat feeling dry and coated in the residue of a restless, dream-filled sleep.

"I brought something light for you," she said, placing the tray over his lap. It was just a small bowl of broth and a piece of dry toast. "Eat a little, please? You need the strength."

Arthur picked up the spoon. The broth was tasteless, but he forced himself to swallow, trying to keep his hands from trembling. He was thinking of the circle, the North, and the words that had haunted his dreams.

A nurse entered, her uniform crisp, her expression bright. "Good morning, Arthur. How are we feeling today?" She reached into her pocket, pulling out a small plastic cup. "Just one more to help with the inflammation."

Arthur stared at the pill, then at the empty, white-curtained space next to him. "Where’s the mister?" he asked, his voice suddenly sharp.

He heard the rustle of movement as other nurses entered the ward. They walked past his bed, heading straight for the side where the man had been. They began stripping the sheets with brisk, efficient movements.

"Where is he?" Arthur repeated, his heart hammering. "Did he… did he pass away?"

The nurses exchanged a look and laughed, a light, dismissive sound that filled the room.

"Oh, goodness no, dear," one of them said, tucking the corner of a fresh sheet. "Mr. Elias was cleared for discharge early this morning. He couldn't wait to get out of here. He’s back home by now."

Arthur let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Relief.

Then, the door opened once more, and his doctor stepped in. He offered a brief, professional nod to Arthur’s mother before moving to the side of the bed to check the monitors. He frowned, tapped the screen, then looked at the results again. He seemed genuinely puzzled.

"Your readings are… remarkable," the doctor muttered, looking at Arthur with a raised eyebrow. "The systemic failure seems to have hit a plateau. I’ve never seen a recovery curve like this, but if your vitals remain this stable throughout the day…"

He looked at his chart, then back at Arthur.

"I think we can talk about sending you home, Arthur."

Arthur sat frozen. The doctor’s words were the answer to every prayer he’d ever had.

"Home," Arthur repeated, the word tasting like lead in his mouth.

His mother let out a sharp, joyful gasp, her hand flying to her chest. "Did you hear that, Arthur? You’re going to be okay!" She turned to the doctor, her eyes brimming with tears of pure, unadulterated hope. "I knew it. I knew he was stronger than this."

The doctor gave her a thin, professional smile, though his eyes remained fixed on the data scrolling across the monitor. "It’s… unconventional, certainly. We’ll need a full follow-up in forty-eight hours, but for now, his levels are trending toward normal. It’s almost as if he’s had a complete physiological reset overnight."

Arthur barely heard them. He was staring at the empty space where Elias’s bed had been. The sheets were tight, the pillows perfectly fluffed, and the curtain was pulled back to reveal nothing but a sterile, vacant square of linoleum.

"Arthur?" His mother squeezed his shoulder, her touch light and electric with excitement. "Are you listening? We'll have you home for dinner. I’ll make that soup you like—"

"Mum," Arthur interrupted, his voice hollow. "Did they say where he lived? Mr. Elias?"

His mother blinked, caught off guard by the non-sequitur. "The man from the other bed? Arthur, honey, we don't know him. Why on earth are you worried about—"

"I just… I needed to ask him something," Arthur said, struggling to keep his voice steady. He looked at the doctor, who was already scribbling notes on his clipboard. "Sir, is there a way to reach him? For a consultation? I feel like he… he understood things about my condition that weren't in the charts."

The doctor looked up, his brow furrowing. "Mr. Elias? He’s been a long-term patient, Arthur. His records are quite extensive, but I’m afraid patient confidentiality prevents me from sharing his private contact information. Besides," the doctor added, clicking his pen shut, "he’s a very private man. I’d suggest you focus on your own recovery. That is the priority."

The doctor retreated, and his mother immediately began to bustle around, gathering his meager belongings into a plastic bag. She was humming—a soft, nervous sound of relief.

Arthur sank back into the pillows, his heart sinking with him. He watched the sunlight creep across the floor. Elias had said the ritual tethered the breath. If he was already recovering without the ritual, what had happened at 3:00 AM?

Had he done it in his sleep? Or had something else reached out to hold him to the earth?

"Arthur, stop staring at the wall," his mother said, laughing as she folded his sweater. "We're leaving."

Arthur stood up, his legs feeling sturdier than they had in months. As he stepped away from the bed, he looked down at the floor. In the harsh, morning light, there was no chalk, no blood, no markings.

The transition out of the hospital was a blur of paperwork and bright, artificial hallway lights. They took a cab through the city, the urban noise sounding distant and muffled to Arthur’s ears.

When they finally arrived at their house, it felt alien—a sanctuary he no longer belonged to. His mother, caught in a whirlwind of maternal relief, began moving with a frantic, happy energy.

"I’ll get your bath ready, Arthur. Nice and warm. You’ll feel brand new," she chirped, heading toward the bathroom.

Arthur stood in the hallway, the walls seeming to pulse with a low, rhythmic thrumming. When he stepped into the bathroom, the steam from the tub was thick and cloying. He stripped, his skin looking pale and strange in the mirror.

He stepped into the water, and for a moment, the heat was grounding. But then, the room began to tilt. A heavy, grey blur rushed over his vision, swallowing the edges of the room until there was nothing but a void. He felt his head dip toward the water, the surface rising to meet his lips.

I’m going under, he thought.

Then, with a sickening jolt, the world snapped back into focus. He gasped, his hands gripping the porcelain edge of the tub, his knuckles raw. He was still there. He was still here.

He dressed in shaking silence, his movements stiff and mechanical. When he walked into the kitchen, the sunlight hitting the table was blinding. His mother had laid out a spread—a feast of simple, nourishing things—but the sight of the food made his stomach turn.

"Eat, love," she urged, her voice radiating a warmth that made him feel even more isolated. "You need your strength back. You're home now, Arthur. You're safe."

He forced down a few bites, the food tasting like ash. His pulse was erratic, a fluttering bird against his ribs.

"I need to rest, Mum," he murmured, pushing the plate away. "I just… I need to sleep."

His mother’s expression softened into one of complete, tender understanding. She didn't press him; she smoothed his hair back, her touch light as a feather. "Of course, baby. Sleep as long as you need. I'll be right downstairs if you need anything at all."

He climbed the stairs, each step feeling like a mountain. But the moment he shut his bedroom door and collapsed onto his bed, the facade of recovery shattered.

He didn't feel rested. He didn't feel healed.

His lungs felt hollow, as if the oxygen wasn't quite reaching his blood. The room felt cold—unnaturally so—and he could feel the same static pressure that had hovered in the corner of his hospital room. His heart rate slowed to a crawl, a heavy, dragging pace that felt like a dying machine.

He wasn't just tired. He was, with terrifying clarity, feeling as though he were truly dying.