Chapter 3: Testing the Gift (72 AC, Age 4)
The year Maric turned four was the year he became a scientist. His laboratory was the muck-drenched, refuse-strewn alley behind his family's hovel. His subjects were the vermin and strays that eked out a miserable existence in the labyrinthine filth of Flea Bottom. His field of study was death, and the impossible, intoxicating reward it bestowed upon him.
The initial hypothesis, formed in the wake of the rat's accidental demise, had been proven correct. Several more rats, lured into the hovel's dark corners with a dropped crumb or a piece of fish gut, had met their end under a carefully dropped stone or a quick, vicious stomp from his increasingly steady feet. Each kill brought the same result: that warm, golden surge of vitality, a stolen moment of strength that burned away the slum's perpetual chill and gnawing hunger. The effect was addictive, a narcotic more potent than any he had known in his previous life. It was power, distilled to its purest form.
But Marco Bellini had not been a common addict; he had been a builder of empires. He understood that raw desire, unchecked, led to ruin. This gift—this potere oscuro, as he had begun to call it in the quiet solitude of his mind—was not a vice to be indulged. It was a resource to be managed, a weapon to be understood and honed. And for that, he needed more data. Rats were a known quantity. They provided a baseline, a small but reliable deposit of life force. But they were simple creatures. To truly understand the scope of his ability, he needed to diversify his portfolio. He needed to escalate.
His physical development was now an asset rather than a prison. At four, he was still small, but he possessed a sturdiness that other children of the Gut lacked. The stolen essence had knitted his bones stronger, woven his muscles denser. He rarely got sick. While other children were listless with hunger or fever, Maric's eyes were clear and sharp. His coordination, honed through relentless, secret practice, was exceptional. He could move with a quiet sureness that was uncanny in one so young.
His mother, Lara, saw it as a blessing from the Seven. "My strong boy," she would murmur, her calloused hand stroking his hair. "The gods smile on you, little one." He would accept her affection with the placid expression he had perfected, a mask of childish innocence that hid the cold, calculating mind of a predator. Her love was a shield, her ignorance a cloak of invisibility. He weaponized it daily.
His first experiment beyond rodents required a specific set of criteria. The target had to be isolated, weak, and its absence unlikely to be noticed. It was a risk assessment, the same kind he'd once applied to rival capos or nosy politicians. The answer presented itself in the form of a pigeon with a broken wing, huddled miserably in a nook where the wall of a neighboring shack had crumbled. It was a pathetic creature, its feathers matted with mud, its movements a frantic, useless flutter.
Getting to it required cunning. The alley was a thoroughfare of sorts, used by beggars, whores, and other bottom-feeders. He could not be seen. He began by creating a pretense. He "played" near the hovel's back entrance for days, scratching patterns in the dirt with a stick, humming tuneless songs. He became part of the scenery, a harmless toddler lost in his own little world. His mother would watch him from the doorway, her face etched with a weary fondness, before the demands of a coughing Elara or a leaking roof pulled her attention away.
He observed the pigeon's routine. It never strayed more than a few feet from its nook. It was terrified of the packs of stray dogs and the feral, slinking cats. It subsisted on worms and insects it found in the damp earth.
The plan was simple, a basic ambush. He waited for the mid-day lull, a time when most of Flea Bottom was either working, drunk, or asleep. The alley was empty. With his heart beating a steady, calm rhythm, he took a stale crust of bread he'd painstakingly saved and crumbled it, creating a small trail leading from the pigeon's refuge into the shadow of a large, discarded rain barrel. He then armed himself with his chosen weapon: a heavy, fist-sized rock, its weight feeling solid and purposeful in his small hand.
He retreated into the shadows and waited. The patience he'd cultivated over a lifetime of complex negotiations and surveillance served him well. He became utterly still, a small statue carved from grime and determination. The pigeon, driven by a hunger that overrode its caution, eventually began to peck its way along the trail of crumbs. When it was in the optimal position, its head down, its attention consumed, Maric moved.
There was no sound, no wasted motion. He stepped from the shadows, his bare feet making no noise on the damp ground. He raised the rock high and brought it down with all his concentrated force. There was a dull, wet thud, a spatter of blood, and the bird collapsed into a broken heap of feathers.
He immediately felt the rush. It was different from the rats. Lighter. It felt less like a warm honey and more like a champagne fizz, a bubble of energy that seemed to lift him, making him feel almost weightless for a moment. With it came a bizarre, fleeting instinct. He found himself looking up, his eyes scanning the rooftops, a phantom awareness of wind currents and aerial pathways flashing through his mind. He instinctively understood the geometry of flight, the feeling of catching a thermal. It was gone in a breath, but the data was logged. Essence carries instinct. The nature of the instinct is tied to the nature of the creature.
The vitality, however, was less potent than a large rat's. Weaker. The bird was frail, already close to death. The strength of the transfer is proportional to the vitality of the source. Another crucial piece of data.
Disposal was the final, critical step. He couldn't leave the body. Kael, with his scavenger's eyes, would find it. He quickly wrapped the pigeon in a large, rotting cabbage leaf from a nearby refuse pile, carried the grim parcel to the deepest part of a midden heap, and buried it deep within the stinking mound. He then returned to the kill site, using a handful of dirt to obscure the bloodstain. He was meticulous. He was leaving no evidence. It was the work of a professional.
He spent the rest ofthe day playing quietly near Elara, a perfect portrait of a loving younger brother, while his mind cataloged the results. The experiment was a success. He had proven he could hunt, kill, and conceal his actions. He was ready for the next phase. He needed a more complex subject, something with more vitality. Something that fought back.
His gaze settled on the feral cats of Flea Bottom. They were true survivors, sleek, silent predators who thrived in the squalor. They were intelligent, wary, and armed with claws and teeth. Killing one would be a genuine challenge. The potential reward, he calculated, would be significantly greater. He would be absorbing the essence of a fellow hunter.
He selected his target after a week of careful observation: a large, scarred tomcat with one cloudy eye and a brutally effective method of hunting rats. The cat was a king in its own small territory, a patch of alleyway two streets over from his own. It was too strong, too smart to be cornered or taken by surprise with a simple rock. He needed a trap.
The idea came from watching his father, Borin, ineptly try to patch a section of their roof. A simple deadfall. A heavy object, a trigger, and bait. It was a mechanism of elegant, brutal simplicity.
Constructing it was a feat of childish ingenuity and adult cunning. His primary material was a heavy, splintered crate that had once held fish, abandoned behind a shuttered alehouse. It was too heavy for him to lift, but he could tip it. He spent two days painstakingly dragging and rolling it into a secluded, dead-end alley that his target cat often used as a shortcut.
The trigger mechanism was the hardest part. He needed a stick to prop up the crate, with a string tied to it. A simple pull would dislodge the prop and bring the crate down. The string was a length of sinew he'd carefully gnawed from a piece of boiled pork knuckle. The stick was a sturdy branch, whittled to the right length with the sharp piece of slate he now carried with him everywhere.
His cover story for spending so much time away from the hovel was his sister. He would tell Lara he was going to find "pretty rocks" for Elara. It was the sort of innocent, childish mission that she would accept, her mind too preoccupied with her own misery to question it further. He would even bring back a few smooth pebbles for his sister, playing the part to perfection. Elara's frail smiles were a small, insignificant price for the freedom his deception purchased.
He baited the trap with the head of a fish he'd managed to snatch from a discarded bucket behind the fishmonger's. The stench was potent. He placed it carefully under the propped-up crate, ran the sinew string around a corner, and took up his position in a dark, foul-smelling alcove.
And then he waited. He waited for hours. The sun began to set, painting the sky above the rooftops in hues of orange and purple that were mostly lost in the permanent grey gloom of the slums. The night traffic began to pick up—the shuffling of beggars, the low laughter of whores, the angry shouts of a drunk. Several times, he had to melt deeper into the shadows as people passed, his heart pounding not with fear, but with the cold thrill of the professional avoiding detection.
Finally, he saw him. The one-eyed tomcat slunk into the alley, a fluid shadow against the deepening twilight. It moved with the silent arrogance of an apex predator. It caught the scent of the fish head immediately, its nose twitching. It approached the trap cautiously, circling it, its good eye scanning for threats.
Maric's entire being was focused on the sinew string clutched in his small hand. He slowed his breathing. This was the moment of truth. He felt a flicker of what his old associates would have called buck fever, the adrenaline surge before the kill. He crushed it. He was a surgeon, and this was a delicate operation.
The cat, its hunger winning out over its caution, darted under the crate and snatched the fish head.
Maric pulled the string.
The stick flew out. For a split second, the heavy crate seemed to hang in the air before it crashed down with a deafening WHUMP. A choked, strangled yowl was cut short.
He didn't move for a full minute, his eyes scanning the entrances to the alley. No one came running. No one had heard, or if they had, they didn't care. Unexplained noises were the music of Flea Bottom.
He crept forward and peered under the edge of the crate. The cat was pinned, its spine clearly shattered. Its one good eye stared up at him with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. It was still alive.
A pang of something—not pity, but a cold, professional respect—went through him. This was a true survivor. He couldn't leave it to suffer, not out of kindness, but because a prolonged death might alter the quality of the essence transfer. He needed a clean, final kill. He found a large, heavy brick nearby. Hoisting it with both hands, he brought it down hard on the cat's head. The crunch was sickening, final.
The rush was immediate and overwhelming.
It was a torrent, a flash flood compared to the trickle from the rats and birds. It was a fierce, wild energy, sharp and electric. It flooded his limbs, making his muscles feel coiled and alive. He felt a surge of raw, predatory grace. The world seemed to sharpen, the shadows deepening, the muted colors of the slum gaining a startling vibrancy. For a moment, he felt he could see in the near-darkness as clearly as he could at noon. He felt an instinctive, breathtaking awareness of his own body, a perfect sense of balance and agility that made him want to leap onto the nearest wall and run along its edge.
He had absorbed the essence of a hunter. The vitality was immense, but the echo of its instincts was the true prize. This was a qualitative leap in his understanding of the gift.
The euphoria was quickly replaced by cold practicality. He had to dispose of a much larger body now. He couldn't lift the crate. He used the brick as a lever, painstakingly raising the edge of the crate enough to drag the cat's limp body out. It was a heavy, awkward weight. His destination was the sewer grate at the end of the alley, its iron bars rusted and bent. With a grunt of effort, he managed to shove the carcass through a gap, sending it into the stinking, dark water below. Evidence gone.
He was turning to leave, his mind already cataloging the results of the experiment, when a shadow fell over him.
"What're you doin', Maric?"
His blood ran cold. He spun around. It was Kael. His brother was standing at the mouth of the alley, his arms crossed, his face a mask of suspicion. He held a half-eaten, stolen apple in one hand. How long had he been watching?
Maric's mind raced, cycling through a thousand possibilities, a thousand lies, in a microsecond. He couldn't show fear. He couldn't show intelligence. He had to be four years old.
He looked at Kael, put his thumb in his mouth, and gave him the most wide-eyed, innocent, stupid look he could manage. "Playin'," he mumbled, the word slurred and childish.
Kael took a step closer, his eyes darting around the alley. He saw the crate, the brick, the disturbed dirt. He sniffed the air. "Smells like fish. And blood."
Maric pointed at the crate. "Big box," he said, his voice a simple, awe-filled whisper. "Made a boom." He mimed an explosion with his hands, a clumsy, childish gesture.
Kael's suspicious gaze lingered on him for a long moment. He was smart, Kael. Street smart. He knew something was off. But the creature in front of him was his four-year-old brother, a boy who was known for being quiet and strange, a boy who still sometimes wet his pallet. The evidence didn't line up. A four-year-old couldn't have engineered this. It was impossible.
Finally, Kael seemed to come to a conclusion. He likely thought Maric had just stumbled upon the aftermath of something else, a dog fight or a dispute between beggars. "You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice losing some of its edge. "It ain't safe." He grabbed Maric's arm, his grip surprisingly strong. "C'mon. Ma will be worried."
Maric allowed himself to be led away, his face a perfect mask of childish obedience. But inside, his mind was a storm. It had been too close. Far too close. Kael's suspicion was a new, dangerous variable. His meticulous planning had been nearly undone by a random encounter. He had been arrogant. He had underestimated the risks.
That night, as he lay on his thin straw pallet, the echoes of the cat's predatory grace still humming in his veins, he re-evaluated everything. The gift was more powerful than he had imagined. But the world was more dangerous, the web of observation more intricate. His own family was his biggest threat.
He needed to be more careful. He needed to be more cunning. His hunts would have to be more infrequent, his methods more subtle. He could not afford another close call. The secret was everything. It was the foundation of the empire he would one day build.
He stared into the darkness, listening to the sounds of his sleeping family—his father's ragged cough, his mother's weary sighs, his sister's quiet breaths, and Kael's restless tossing. They were his cage, his cover, and his responsibility.
His eyes drifted towards the alley, where the real world lay in wait. Out there, in the darkness, were other, bigger creatures. Mangy dogs that ran in vicious packs. And beyond them, men. Men like Galt, the enforcer who had broken his father. The thought of the essence he could harvest from a grown man, a trained fighter, was a dizzying, terrifying prospect.
It was too soon. He was not ready. But the day would come.
For now, he would be Maric, the quiet four-year-old. He would play with rocks, and he would smile his vacant, childish smile. He would learn, he would plan, and he would continue his silent, secret harvest, one stray creature at a time, building his power drop by precious drop, waiting for the day he was strong enough to hunt bigger game.