Dr. Aris cleared his throat, a dry rustle across the telephone line. “Indeed, Mistress Thorne. Young Lord Ashworth—Silas—continues in this unprecedented somnolence.” “A blessing, truly,” Elara breathed, her voice a little too light, a shade too buoyant. She gripped the cold receiver, knuckles white. A profound relief surged through her, nearly overwhelming. “Thank you, doctor. Your vigilance is a comfort.” Across the village, in his small, cluttered surgery, Dr. Aris slowly lowered the receiver into its cradle. He stared at the brass mechanism, a faint frown etching his brow. Mistress Thorne’s sudden cheer felt… misplaced. Almost giddy. He thought of Silas Ashworth. For two years, the manor had held little more than a living ghost, a form draped in sheets, breathing but unseeing. A fall from a horse, a blow to the head, and the Veiled Moors had claimed another of its sons, or so it seemed. Then, a week ago, the miracle. Silas had stirred. His eyes had fluttered open. A robust constitution, the doctor noted, even after such long disuse. His limbs, kept flexible by diligent, paid attendants, responded with surprising vigor. A man reborn, if only briefly. But the rebirth had faltered. For twelve days now, Silas had slept. A profound, almost unnatural slumber, as if existence itself had become a burden too heavy to bear. He drifted in a world of dreams, an almost vegetative state once more. Dr. Aris had mulled over Silas’s case. Memory fragmented, consciousness elusive. The brain, a delicate instrument, rarely survived such trauma without some lasting damage. This protracted sleep, this peculiar relapse, must be a sequela. A consequence of the skull fracture, no doubt. Yet, a nagging disquiet settled in his gut. Just before the deep sleep claimed him, during a fleeting moment of lucidity, Aris had sat by Silas’s bedside. He’d leaned close, testing the fractured mind. “Can you tell me your name, young man?” he’d asked, soft as a conspirator. Silas’s eyelids had quivered. A guttural sound, like stones grating. “Can you hear me now?” Dr. Aris pressed, perplexed. “Speak anything that comes to mind.” “Si…” “Yes, good. Splendid.” A small, encouraging smile had touched the doctor’s lips. Progress, however halting. But then, moments later, the words had come, ragged and breathy, repeated again and again in that dim chamber. Dr. Aris could not shake them, even now. “Please… don’t… wake.” Silas Ashworth had begged for oblivion. A peculiar request, indeed. Dr. Aris walked the deserted corridor of his surgery, rubbing his chin, a furrow deepening between his brows. “Lord Ashworth, Silas’s elder brother, must be sorely vexed,” he mused aloud. It was strange. Silas should have been moved to a grander infirmary in the city, where specialists could attend such a rare case. Instead, his elder brother, a man of considerable influence and cold renown, had insisted Silas remain at Blackwood Manor, isolated on the very edge of the Moors. Not his place to question, Aris reminded himself. His wages, paid by Lord Ashworth, were exceedingly generous for a village physician. Enough to turn a blind eye to the peculiar circumstances of his charge. “Ah,” he suddenly snapped his fingers, a small sound echoing in the stillness. “A detail I quite forgot to impart.” The peculiar malady afflicting Silas Ashworth was more than just excessive somnolence. It had a name, a newly coined term, though the old folk in the Moors might have whispered of similar afflictions for centuries. *Hypersomnia Periodica Recidiva*—what some jestingly called the ‘Sleeping Prince’s Affliction.’ Or, in more academic circles, Klein-Levin Syndrome. It was often accompanied by other symptoms. Peculiar behavioral abnormalities. An uncontrollable, ravenous hunger. Fits of aggression. And, in certain unfortunate cases, a pronounced, even savage, increase in carnal desire. “Still,” Dr. Aris yawned, stretching his back until it cracked. “He’ll be perfectly dormant for another day. Nothing could possibly happen. It’s just one more day.” --- Elara hummed a tuneless melody, a rare lightness in her step as she ascended the creaking stairs of Blackwood Manor. The doctor’s news was a veritable reprieve, a stay of execution. Silas, confined by sleep, posed no immediate threat. She had escaped a snare, if only for a time, a vicious man’s potential grasp averted. Her fingers, surprisingly agile despite the cold, found the old iron handle. She pushed open the heavy oak door to her chamber, a sense of eerie familiarity settling over her. A flicker of disquiet, like a cold draft against her skin. DONG. DONG. DONG. The manor’s ancient clock tower chimed a discordant midnight. A chill, more profound than the night air, swept through the hall. Elara’s breath caught. Beneath the clock’s final, mournful toll, a more visceral sound reached her ears. A low, rhythmic creaking. Not the house settling, but something else. Something forced. She descended the stairs, her heart an unbidden drum against her ribs. In the dim lantern light of the ground floor, a gaping void mocked her. The heavy, bolted back door, usually secured with a crossbar thick as a man’s arm, hung ajar. Splintered wood marred its frame, a raw wound on the manor’s aged face. It looked as if it had been struck by a carriage. Silas was gone. For nearly half an hour, Elara walked the dark, rutted track that led from the manor into the wilderness of the Moors. The skeletal branches of ancient trees clawed at the slate-grey sky. Only a few flickering lanterns, long neglected, offered any pretense of light. She clutched her satchel, her mind a whirlwind. Should she rouse Lord Ashworth? Alert him to his brother’s escape? A bitter taste coated her tongue. Silas’s elder brother, the man who held her precarious existence in the palm of his gloved hand. The man who might use such a confession to tighten his leash, to assert further control over her life at Blackwood. She tightened her jaw, rubbing her gloved palm against the rough wool of her cloak. No. Not yet. She would find him herself. Her gaze, sharp and practiced, swept the narrow, winding paths that crisscrossed the desolate landscape. A strange track marred the damp earth. A wide, shallow groove, as if a monumental serpent had dragged itself from the manor’s threshold, carving a path through the tall, desiccated grasses. An absurd image, yet undeniably unsettling. She laughed, a dry, humorless sound that was instantly swallowed by the vast, silent night. Horrible. Truly horrible. But she followed the trail. The raw earth, recently disturbed, led away from the manor, towards the whispering woods that skirted the distant village. As she drew closer to the edge of the tree line, a fluttering sound reached her. A frantic, desperate thrashing. Her heart began to pound, a frantic rhythm in the ominous quiet. “Silas Ashworth! Put that down at once!” she shouted, the words tearing from her throat. He knelt in the meager moonlight filtering through the branches, a hunched, primal shape. His face, when he lifted it, was a blank, shadowed mask. His eyes held no recognition, only a glazed, animal vacancy. Blood smeared his chin, his lips. His jaw worked, slowly, methodically, chewing at something raw and red. With a wet gurgle, he spat out a piece of glistening flesh. Elara choked back a gasp of revulsion. Her stomach churned. At his feet, a prize rooster, its iridescent feathers matted with gore, lay broken, its neck snapped at an unnatural angle. Her hands began to tremble, a fine tremor she could not suppress. He stood there, heedless of her, a nonchalant predator in the moon-drenched darkness. Blood glistened on his lips, a grotesque ruby ornament. This, then, was the other face of the 'Sleeping Prince’s Affliction.' This uncontrollable hunger, this feral aggression. His gaze, unfocused and distant, confirmed it. He was not truly present. His mind wandered through a darkened maze, disconnected from the horror he wrought. “It must be difficult for you to move, Silas,” Elara forced herself to say, her voice trembling only slightly. She feigned concern, a practiced mask of care. Her true purpose was to gauge his awareness, to reinforce the lie of their bond. “Why have you come out here?” “Let us return to the manor. You should not be out in this cold.” Silas dropped the remains of the rooster. The thud was sickeningly soft. He turned his head, his blank gaze sweeping over her. A shiver, not of cold, ran down Elara’s spine. His eyes held no warmth, no recognition, only a chilling, fathomless depth. He stood within the shadows, where the moonlight struggled to pierce the dense canopy of ancient oaks. He seemed taller, broader, his silhouette imbued with a preternatural menace. He took a shuffling step, then another, a crawling motion more than a walk, towards her. His sleeves, the legs of his trousers, even the front of his ragged nightshirt, were coated in damp earth and dark, dried streaks. A sudden gust of wind tore through the woods, rustling the skeletal branches. His tattered clothes fluttered, briefly revealing the lean, powerful musculature beneath. A surge of primal dread pulsed through Elara. He was like the mythical Dragon’s Blood tree, whispered of in distant lands—a gnarled, ancient form that bled scarlet sap. A creature of raw, terrifying power, always stained crimson. Two years ago, when she first saw him, he had been swathed in blood from the fall. Now, he was again. Always blood. “Silas Ashworth…” Her voice was a bare whisper. His head tilted, a slow, deliberate movement. His eyes, fixed on her now, were like shards of ice. Then, a single word, rough and fragmented, scraped from his throat. “Name…” “What?” Elara’s breath hitched. “What’s… your name?” His cold, empty gaze pierced her. Reading his thoughts was impossible. Think, Elara. Think. The fabricated marriage, the carefully constructed safety net, teetered on the precipice. Her tongue felt thick, useless. What was her name, in this new, terrifying reality he had created?

Chapter 10: The Serpent's Awakening