THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

Mark couldn't tear his gaze from the mirror. His reflection lay sprawled on a unique bed - black and red sheets adorned the sumptuous mattress, framed by luxurious black curtains tied at each corner. But the bed itself wasn't the captivating element. It was the face staring back at him. A boy, with a body that seemed spun from gossamer, and a face that could be mistaken for a beautiful girl's.

Ash-white hair cascaded down his shoulders, framing eyes the colour of the twilight ocean. Surprise mirrored in those eyes, mirroring his own bewilderment. Before Mark could stammer out a single word, the grand oak doors burst open with a bang. Vivian, her face a mask of terror, scurried back into the room, followed by an old man with a shock of iron-grey hair.

Her voice, shaky with fear, pointed at Mark. "Master David... he's... he's alive!" "Who the hell is David?" Mark thought, a bewildered echo of Vivian's declaration. The old man, clad in a cloak the colour of moss, approached him with an unsettling stillness. His weathered face, though composed, seemed to crease further upon closer inspection.

He reached out, a surprisingly strong hand gripping Mark's shoulder. "Young Master," the old man spoke, his voice gravelly like stones rolling down a mountainside. "Please, lie down." He gently but firmly guided Mark back to the soft, inviting bed. Mark sank back, his mind reeling.

The luxurious room, the bizarre women, the strange old man, and most importantly, the face in the mirror - none of it made any sense. A million questions bubbled up within him, threatening to erupt. He opened his mouth, ready to unleash the torrent, but a strange sense of exhaustion washed over him, urging him back into a confused silence.

The old man's gaze snapped towards the petite maid, who remained frozen in a tableau of terror. "Shay," he barked, his voice firm but laced with concern. "Fetch the Lord now." Shay, jolted from her paralysis, let out a strangled gasp and a vigorous nod. Her legs, finally regaining some semblance of function, propelled her out of the room like a startled rabbit. Mark was a cauldron of questions.

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Who was this 'Lord'? What was going on in this bizarre, opulent room? A tidal wave of confusion threatened to drown him, but the old man's next action cut through the chaos. He began to mutter words that flowed like an ancient, forgotten language. The air crackled with a faint energy as Mark watched, mesmerized.

Suddenly, a sphere of pure light materialized in the room, hovering effortlessly before them. His eyes threatened to bulge from their sockets. Magic! It was the only explanation. He wasn't naive; he knew the difference between parlor tricks and genuine magic, and this... this was the real deal.

"Young Master," the old man said, his voice surprisingly gentle, "please follow the light with your eyes." It took a moment for Mark to register that he was being addressed. He gave a hesitant nod, his mind still reeling. The orb of light began to drift, its path slow and deliberate. Mark's eyes instinctively followed its ethereal dance, the room seeming to fade away at the periphery of his vision.

Once the orb settled in the center of the room, it burst in a dazzling display of tiny, twinkling lights that scattered and then winked out of existence. "Amazing," Mark whispered, the awe barely contained. "Pardon, Young Master?" the old man inquired, a hint of curiosity flickering in his eyes. "Uh... nothing," Mark stammered, desperately trying to regain his composure.

How could he be calm after witnessing such an incredible display? The old man sighed, a deep rumble that seemed to come from the very floorboards. He retreated a few steps, his hand disappearing into the folds of his cloak as he cupped his chin in thought. Wrinkles etched themselves deeper on his weathered face, a testament to years spent pondering weighty matters.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, as Mark and the old man awaited the arrival of this mysterious 'Lord'. Vivian remained rooted by the door, a tremor running through her like a faulty chandelier. The old man, Mage Marvel, sighed at regular intervals, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "What is wrong with everyone in this room?" Mark thought, frustration gnawing at him.

Why did Vivian call him David, and why the dramatics about him being alive? If he hadn't just witnessed magic materialize at Mage Marvel's fingertips, he would've written this entire situation off as a twisted prank. But David, Vivian, Shay... the names echoed in his mind, a chilling familiarity prickling his skin.

Something wasn't right, but before he could unravel the tangled thread of his thoughts, a wave of icy air swept through the room. It crawled down Mark's spine and sent shivers erupting across his skin. A figure materialized in the center of the room, his arrival so sudden it defied logic. He exuded power and mystery, dressed in an elaborate dark Victorian-esque ensemble.

A high-collared shirt and richly detailed waistcoat, adorned with intricate buttons, spoke of a refined taste. A long coat flowed dramatically around him, adding to his already imposing presence. His face, framed by a thick beard and a mane of dark hair, held an air of contemplation. Sharp, chiselled features hinted at a life filled with experience and an undeniable sense of power.

Ice-blue eyes, cold and piercing, bore into Mark, seemingly trying to see straight into his soul. Before Mark could react, Vivian and Mage Marvel bowed low, their heads scraping the plush carpet. The Lord, as Mark gathered, turned his attention to the old man. "Have you confirmed any signs of possession, Mage Marvel?" he inquired, his voice a low rumble that somehow commanded attention.

"Yes, my Lord," Mage Marvel replied, a hint of relief in his voice. "The boy... he lives." The revelation hung in the air like a bombshell. Vivian swayed, clutching at the wall for support, on the verge of fainting. "Hmm, interesting. Boy?

" The Lord mused as he called out, still not turning around. It took several excruciating minutes before Mark realized he was the "boy" being addressed. "Yes?" he croaked out, his voice barely a whisper. The air in the room felt thick and suffocating under the Lord's gaze. Without a word, the Lord issued a soft command.

"Lift your shirt." Mark, feeling like prey under a predator's scrutiny, wasted no time. He tossed the red sheets aside and obeyed. The Lord finally turned, his icy blue eyes scrutinizing Mark's frail body with a predatory intensity. "Strange," he finally commented, his voice devoid of warmth. He turned back to Mage Marvel. "Take care of my son," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

"And bring me a report to my office tomorrow." Without even a backward glance at Mark, the Lord vanished from the room as silently as he had appeared. Mage Marvel bowed deeply. "Of course, Lord Hilton," he confirmed, but the Lord was already gone. Left alone with the bewildered Mage Marvel, Mark couldn't help but wonder: who was Lord Hilton?

And more importantly, who was David, and was he, Mark, possibly connected to him? of course, he was, this were the names of the characters in the shitty novel 'Trials of Valor'.