PART 2: PROLOGUE
812 Words
November 1882, London
His footsteps in the catacombs of the tower caused a deafening din. The nauseous humidity crept into the lungs of
the servant, who could not suppress retching as he paced down the corridor leading to the dungeons. His Lord and Master Hand was standing upright, thoughtfully glancing at the bars of the jail.
“Master, your son has decimated the rebels of the North,” he shouted, his voice somewhat shaken from having to announce the news to his master in such a place.
“And why are you telling me this?”
“But… They were a hundred, my Master!”
“So what?!”
“I just thought you would be interested,” the servant murmured in incomprehension.
His master seemed to ignore the case, yet a hundred of his fellows had risen against his authority. The action of his son Carmichael should have been greeted with praise, but the leader of the castes remained placid.
“Did you hide the vials?”
“Yes, my Master. The plan is operational as requested. The greatest chemists in town work for us now.”
“Good, the survival of our species depends on it.”
“Should I send a letter to your son, congratulating him on his victory?”
“My son is incapable!” Magnus said, sitting down on the armchair. “His immoderate taste for women is a weakness.”
The servant thought to himself that this wasn’t the worst of Carmichael’s faults. The eldest of the Burton Race sons had faults that were legend among the castes, for his actions but also for his uniqueness.
Then, seeing his master give an impatient wave of his hand, the servant understood that he had to withdraw quickly. He didn’t say another word and left in a breath of relief. How it stank, in this place! he said to himself before taking the exit stairs.
Magnus Burton Race looked back inside the dungeon. Lately, he often stayed here, in the London catacombs, which he had converted into a prison a long time ago. A shiver ran through him. He kept thinking about how disappointed his family was.
Of all his children, only three showed potential almost equal to his and none were affected by the prophecy on the advent of the castes.
Certainly, Connor was the one who resembled him in character, but he was also the youngest of his three surviving children, so he had to come to terms with the fact that his peers would never give him all the trust he deserved. As for Prisca, she certainly shared similar physical traits, but her overly thoughtful temper tended to exasperate him. Over time, his own daughter had become a disappointment, too.
Carmichael, the eldest, was the most powerful and arguably the most disturbing. His magnetic power remained an enigma that still tormented the Grand Master, so much so that one day he had even considered Carmichael’s assassination because he was jealous of his son for this oddity. He hadn’t taken action because, in his heart of hearts, Magnus hoped that this gift would one day be useful to him and that it would be madness to part with such an asset. Egeria had always been suspicious of him. She had noticed that Carmichael concealed some of his powers from his enemies as well as did his own father.
Magnus was beginning to wonder about the threat of his own son. The possibility of Carmichael overthrowing him one day had already crossed his mind, but the lack of ambition so far displayed by his son did not give him proof of his apprehensions. In the end, he had put his own children at the head of the three large territories and it was better that way. Thoughtfully, he looked back into the depths of London. He didn’t hear Egeria’s footsteps coming toward him. She too stopped at the shabby sight inside the cell. Magnus knew well that his oracle had difficulty witnessing the occupant’s suffering under these conditions, but the resentment he felt prevented him from being concerned about it.
“What are you still doing here?” Magnus asked dryly.
“He can’t stay here any longer, execute him, it’s better for him.”
“Is he sleeping?”
“I don’t feel his conscience. I would say yes.”
Silence. Magnus gazed at the prisoner’s inert body. The wretch no longer looked like a man.
“He’ll stay.”
“Let’s take him to Amsterdam,” said Egeria turning to Magnus, “I’d rather know him away from us.”
“I won’t send him within five hundred kilometres of your accursed family!” Magnus thundered. “He will rot here!”
She blanched and looked down. Once she left, Magnus stayed another two hours watching the man locked in his cage. His brother.
- Writer
