Cracks in the Foundation

Arthur felt like the world had just tilted beneath him, like the ground he had always trusted to be solid was now crumbling into an endless abyss. His father's words echoed in his skull, reverberating like a death knell.

"Since the day you were born."

A cold silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating. The crackling fire in the hearth seemed distant, the light dimmer, as if reality itself had darkened around him.

Arthur's voice, when it finally came, was sharp, cutting through the tension like broken glass.

"You knew something was wrong with me," he said, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "My whole life—you knew, and you just… what? Pretended it wasn't happening? Hoped I wouldn't notice?"

His father let out a slow breath, measured, as if carefully choosing his words. "It's not that simple."

Arthur let out a humorless laugh. "Oh, really? Because from where I'm standing, it seems pretty damn simple." He gestured wildly. "You knew. Eleanor knew. Hell, for all I know, Mom tried to kill me because she knew, too. But me? The actual person you're all whispering about? I was just supposed to go on living my life like nothing was wrong?"

His father's eyes darkened at the mention of his mother. "Your mother—"

Arthur cut him off, his anger flaring. "—tried to stab me in the goddamn heart when I was six. You think I forgot? You think I don't wake up remembering the way she looked at me like I was a monster?"

The words hung in the air, raw and unfiltered.

Eleanor flinched slightly but didn't look away. His father, however, remained still, unreadable.

Finally, his father spoke, his voice measured. "She wasn't in her right mind."

Arthur scoffed. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"She wasn't," his father insisted, firmer this time. "But… she saw something. She was the first to notice what was happening to you."

Arthur's stomach twisted.

"What do you mean… what was happening to me?"

His father hesitated for a moment—just a flicker, barely noticeable, but Arthur caught it.

His pulse pounded. "Answer me."

His father's gaze locked onto his. "You weren't normal, Arthur."

A shiver ran down his spine.

His father continued, voice steady but laced with something else—something unspoken.

"You were a quiet baby. Too quiet. Most kids cry, scream, make noise. You didn't. Not once. Your mother thought something was wrong with you. The doctors said you were healthy, but she…"

He trailed off, glancing away for a brief second, as if trying to find the right words.

Arthur felt like his lungs were shrinking.

"She what?" he demanded.

His father exhaled. "She swore you would stare at her at night. Without blinking. Just… watching."

Arthur's breath hitched. A sharp, involuntary flash of memory surfaced—his mother, pale and trembling, whispering over and over, "You're not my son. You're not my son."

His stomach twisted violently.

Eleanor finally spoke. "I remember something else." Her voice was softer, hesitant. "You were three. One night, you woke up screaming. It wasn't a normal cry. It was… unnatural." She swallowed. "When Dad ran into your room, the lights were flickering. And you—you were just standing there, in the middle of the room. Staring at the wall."

Arthur's skin crawled.

"I don't remember that," he muttered.

"You wouldn't," his father said. "You were too young."

Arthur shook his head. "This is insane."

"Is it?" his father challenged.

Arthur opened his mouth to argue—but then the voice returned.

"You're waking up now, Master. Do you feel it? The pieces fitting together?"

Arthur inhaled sharply, a sharp pain blooming behind his eyes. His body tensed involuntarily.

Not now.

Not in front of them.

His father noticed. "Arthur?"

Arthur's pulse hammered in his ears. He clenched his jaw. "I need air."

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and stormed toward the front door.

"Arthur, wait—" Eleanor called after him, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.

The cold air outside hit him like a slap. He inhaled sharply, trying to steady his breathing. But no matter how deep he breathed, it wasn't enough.

The voice laughed.

"You think they've told you everything? How naive."

Arthur clenched his teeth. "Shut up."

"Poor little prince. Drowning in a truth you still don't fully understand. Shall I show you more?"

A sudden, searing pain ripped through his skull. Arthur gasped, doubling over as a flood of visions crashed into him—

Flashes of a towering figure, wings spread wide, eyes burning like twin stars.

A battlefield soaked in blood, the air thick with the scent of death.

A voice—not the one in his head, but another, deep and commanding. "Find him. Before it's too late."

Arthur stumbled, bracing himself against the porch railing. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts.

The voice whispered, almost affectionate.

"The fun is just beginning, Master."

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, his nails digging into his palms. He wasn't ready for this.

But ready or not…

It was coming for him.

And this time, there was no turning back.