A guttural cry tore from Lieve’s throat. She dropped beside Nio, her hands scrabbling over his soaked forehead, brushing away the lank strands of hair plastered with cold sweat. His eyes were rolled back, showing only milk-white sclera. The black fluid pulsed from his mouth, viscous and foul with chemical brine, spreading across the white flags. “Nio!” Her fingernails bit into the wet wool of his sleeves. She pressed her ear to his chest, the faint, stuttering beat of his heart a terrifying counterpoint to the panicked whispers of the socialites. Her fingers, conditioned to hold scalpels without twitching, slipped against the clammy cords of his throat. Tazio was already barking orders, his voice stripped of its usual melodic drawl, sharp and commanding. “Clear the way! Get my physician, Dr. Solani, to the private wing immediately! No, not the manor physician – Solani! He’s at the Veridia Clinic, tell him to come now!” He scooped Nio into his arms with surprising gentleness, the boy’s head lolling against his shoulder. Tazio’s gaze fixed on Lieve, his pupils blown wide against the glare of the chandeliers. “He’ll be alright, Lieve. We will fix this.” They moved through the stunned crowd like a storm front, Tazio’s guards forming a tight perimeter around them. Lieve’s eyes remained locked on Nio’s pale face, her hand gripping Tazio’s arm with a vise-like strength, as if to anchor herself in the sudden, terrifying plunge into chaos. Lady Cresta stood frozen by the gilded entrance, her face a mask of appalled outrage, the exposed wire of the comms device dangling uselessly by her side. Dr. Solani arrived within twenty minutes, brass instruments rattling in his valise. He worked behind the frosted partition of Tazio’s private infirmary, an isolation chamber fitted with filtration units rarely seen outside private research hubs. Tazio paced outside the closed door, a restless shadow, his tailored coat discarded, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms. He kept glancing at the chronometer on his wrist, not for an appointment, Lieve realized, but for a sign of Nio’s fading time. “My apologies, Tazio, Lady Sordoni,” a deferential aide appeared, clutching a datapad. “The delegation from the Veridian Maritime Guild is waiting. The contract for the offshore drilling rights…” Tazio didn’t even glance at him. “Send them away,” he cut in, his voice flat. “Tell them I’m indisposed. Tell them it’s urgent. Tell them anything you need to, just get rid of them.” The aide’s mouth gaped. “Sir, that’s a billion-florin deal. The Cresta family has been pursuing this for years…” “Are you deaf, Gael?” Tazio snapped, turning, his eyes burning with an intensity Lieve had only glimpsed. “Or do you enjoy seeing me repeat myself? Leave.” The aide vanished, leaving the heavy oak door to swing shut with a soft click. Lieve watched Tazio, a tremor of something alien stirring within her. This was not the careless hedonist, nor the rage-filled protector. This was a man stripped bare, his priorities laid out with stark, unyielding clarity. He valued Nio’s life, and by extension, hers, over the very foundation of his family’s empire. Past midnight, the physician stepped out, stripping off grey rubber gloves. “He’s stable. Barely. The toxins in his system… I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s a cocktail of heavy metals, petrochemicals, and something else… organic, but highly corrosive. It’s ravaged his lungs and kidneys.” He looked at Lieve, his gaze softening. “He’s asking for you.” Lieve rushed inside, Tazio a silent, watchful presence behind her. Nio lay on the pristine white bed, his small frame almost lost amidst the pillows. His eyes fluttered open, weak but lucid. He managed a faint, watery smile. “Lieve… I told you it was bad.” She took his small, clammy hand in hers, tears blurring her vision. “What did you find, Nio? What happened?” His voice was a mere whisper, each word a struggle. “The water… the samples. I tested them. From the pipes here, from the public fountains… even from the rain filters… the readings were clean. But the samples from the lower districts, where the runoff collects…” He coughed, a brittle, wet rattle scraping against his ribs. “It’s the Cresta factories. Grandfather’s textile mills, the chemical plants near the Old Docks… they’re not just old pollution. They’re still active. They’re dumping. Directly into the Arven River, into the groundwater. It’s not just a legacy of poison, Lieve. It’s happening *now*.” The words hung in the air, cold and heavy. Lieve’s mind reeled. Maresco had said Tazio’s grandfather poisoned his district to build their empire. But Nio’s words painted a far more horrific picture. This wasn’t history. This was ongoing genocide, masked by the opulent glass towers and the constant rain that washed the evidence downstream. Her goal, once a desperate flight from this poisoned world, twisted and solidified into something far more dangerous. She would not just escape the system; she would tear it down, brick by toxic brick. Nio deserved more than to merely survive; he deserved justice. Beside her, Tazio stood utterly still, his face draining of all color. The careless posture he wore like armor had buckled, leaving behind an ashen, hollow stillness. His chin hung slack, his pupils dilated toward the ceiling's gilded mouldings. He, who had always viewed his family’s wealth as an unfortunate but unchangeable fact of existence, now saw it for what it truly was: a monument built upon the mass graves of the innocent. A sudden, jarring alarm shrieked through the manor, piercing the quiet sorrow of the sickroom. A high-pitched, metallic wail that signified a perimeter breach. Not just a minor infraction, but a full-scale incursion. Tazio snapped out of his stupor, his hand instinctively going to the small, concealed comms device on his belt. “What in the blazes…?” Before he could even speak into it, the heavy, reinforced door to the medical suite burst inward with a deafening crash. Iron hinges sheared away, showering the tiles with warped brass screws. Maresco Galt stood in the entryway, his dark eyes like chips of obsidian, his silhouette framed by the menacing forms of a dozen heavily armed syndicate enforcers. They wore rubberized coats scored by harbor silt, carbines glinting under the pale fluorescent strip. There was no sign of struggle, no frantic guards, no alarm blaring at *this* door. Someone had let them in, disabled the internal security, pointed them directly here. Then, from behind Maresco, a figure emerged, stepping into the stark light, her face a mask of cold triumph. Lady Cresta, immaculate in her gala gown, a venomous smile curving her thin lips. Her gaze slid from Tazio to Lieve, then finally rested on Nio’s fragile form. “The Cresta empire,” she announced, her voice dripping with cruel satisfaction, “requires a new steward, dear nephew. One who understands true power, not fleeting affections. And certainly not one who allows a gutter rat and her diseased brother to threaten our legacy. Maresco and I have reached… a rather amicable arrangement.”—””

The Poisoned Legacy