Eric slowly opened his eyes, his blurry vision eventually making out the world outside his window. Rising from bed, he quickly donned his minimalist attire before leaving his room behind. With a swift channeling of his Aura, his body felt instantly refreshed from his nightly meditation.

Being an Level 5 Aura Warrior, Eric routinely cultivated at night, make small and steady gains to his overall strength. Although with his status he could easily garner a sizable force of Aura Warriors and Aura Saints, a noble's personal cultivation was the source of respect in Alberdan noble society.

His steps steadily sounding off the stone floor, Eric was greeted by Athon, several scrolls and parchments in hand. Exchanging a morning greeting, Athon began to go through Eric's daily agenda.

"The supplies for this month have already been received and stored appropriately. We fixed the Doctor's Den's door problems after that Beast incident. And also the citizens of Morosbo are steadily getting ready for the upcoming festival." Athon looked through several sheets of paper, his marking tool noting each completed task. As Eric's right hand, his years as a student at the Imperial Alberdos Academy were quite valuable.

"Good, Athon. Anything else?" Eric and Athon walked down several flights of stairs, making their way to the main hall for breakfast. Several bowing servants were greeted by his raised hand as he walked past. The duo made their way through the first floor's many hallways before stopping near the main hall.

"There is. It's your father." Athon replied, watching as Eric ended his stride, his back turned to Athon. Through the windows of the hallway sunlight quietly entered, casting Eric's shadow on the wall.

"What does he want?" Eric faced Athon, his brow furrowed. Behind Eric, a servant from the kitchen inside walked out, saluting both of them. His grey uniform had stains and splotches from making meals, but the cook compensated with a beaming smile and an amicable voice.

Eric paid the servant no heed. Waiting for an answer from Athon, several thoughts arose in his mind. What does Father want this time? That lecherous old man.

Athon looked through his notes once more, finding a small blue sheet. "Romice, the servant of the Creation Administrator, has been receiving several private Transmission requests from Lord Faulkner. She immediately reported to me of these occurrences. As of yesterday, there have been eight transmissions." Athon placed the blue sheet back into his pocket waiting for an answer.

Why doesn't he call through my Creation? Eric turned around, entering the main hall to get himself his meal, leaving Athon and the cook servant behind. He always carried a small Transmitting Creation in his pocket, and from it he could be called by anyone. Including his father, yet Lord Faulkner didn't try to contact him in this manner at all.

Within the main hall was a long table spanning the width of the room, decked in the colors of light yellow. Two simple chairs, of a set chosen by Eric, were near the closest end, the table ready for Athon and Eric to eat. Servants stood nearby, awaiting the words of their young master or his assistant to help.

Athon quietly followed with Eric into the main hall, both of them guided by various servants to their seats. Quickly the earlier cook brought forth their plates and silverware before making a final bow. Athon sat beside Eric at the long table, beginning to speak.

"You should talk with Lord Faulkner, Eric." Athon watched as Eric lifted a spoonful of his soup to his mouth. He knew that Eric and his father had perhaps not the best of relations, but it was still better off for Eric to at least maintain conversations.

Eric didn't speak a single word, only trying to finish his meal. It seemed as if Eric was deaf to all of Athon's words, as he easily moved on to a portion of fine bread. His eyes were empty of emotion, and his thoughts void of his father. Breaking off a piece, Eric chewed without releasing a sound from his lips.

"Eric, you should know for Lord Faulkner to request a transmission with you in such an abnormal manner must mean something, no?" Athon spoke once more, giving no mind to his own breakfast. The slight puffs of steam carried into the air, dancing as they disappeared before his face.

Eric placed the bread aside, finishing his final chew before swallowing. His eyes glowing with indifference, he looked at Athon without a trace of his usual smile. "And, Athon? What of it?" His voice was quiet and calm, as if the whole situation didn't affect him in any way.

Eric rose from his chair, having finished his meal at this point in time. Just as he was about to leave through the doors of the main hall, Athon appeared beside him, his hand resting on Eric's shoulder. Eric looked back to his main assistant, his eyes more attentive yet his brow furrowed.

"Eric, he's your father. Regardless of what he has done, he is your father. You should talk to him." Athon's arm returned to his side, looking to Eric with expectation. He knew that if Eric continued on this path, the relations between father and son would only continue to worsen. Worst of all, Athon knew Eric was acting this way because of what neither of them knew: how his mother, the former lady of the Faulkner family, died.

Eric's gaze refused to grow a trace of kindness. His thoughts rapidly fluttered to the brief time he remembered his mother, watching over him. So many years had passed, but he couldn't forget her figure, or remove her shadow from his heart. Although he had grieved, mere grief could not return her to the world. In fact, there was no knowledge of a means to revive the long dead. This only crushed Eric even further.

Speak with him? Eric couldn't bring himself to think of a reason to. His whole life he had been led to believe that his mother died in illness, with his father holding her close. But once he had reached of age as a noble, and becoming privy of the rumors that circulated around the House of Faulkner, his intrigue turned into detest for his father's ways.

Eric thought back to how the family manor quickly lost all proof of his mother's existence, and how all the occupants quietly ceased all conversations about her. Lord Faulkner removed anything that could remind Eric of his mother, and also began to invite several women to his bed. A major lord asking for performances in his private chambers? Eric wasn't naive to understand what was really occurring in the manor.

He knows the truth of what happened, yet frolicked with maidens of Evaline. How many nights went before his father had his ways with another woman? When it began Eric was too young to understand, but now as he thought of the innumerable servants, musicians, ladies, and maidens that followed close behind his father, he only felt waves of shame as the rumors became unspoken facts in noble circles all over Alberdos. Such a history followed Eric wherever he went, as he was cast in the shadow of Lord Faulkner without a choice.

"Talk to him Athon? There is nothing to say. He is enjoying his life, and I am mine. Why should we speak? We have nothing to talk about." Eric's voice was nonchalant, as if the matter was already settled. However, Athon wasn't new the ways of conversation either.

Athon could sense the anger, the rage, the distinct sarcasm that came from Eric's words. Nothing to talk about? That was a blatant lie, and anyone with Athon's experience could tell that the more time Eric and his father spent apart, the greater their rift could grow. Not talking would only lead to further distress in father and son, until both no longer had the will to speak.

Athon only made eye contact with Eric. He understood that if he pushed Eric, eventually the young noble would go and speak with his father. If he tried to hard, chances were Eric would only see Athon as another agent of Lord Faulkner, spying on Eric for information. He didn't want to seem untrustworthy in Eric's eyes.

Eric wasn't sure what to do. Should he go and speak with his father, or abandon trying to find his answers from the man in the center of it all? His mother was nothing more than a silhouette in his memory, but Eric greatly desired to find out much more. But his father was unwilling to tell Eric the truth. Even if he did, Eric wasn't sure if he could trust the man's words now.

Thinking about this situation, a familiar voice echoed into Eric's mind. Be cautious. Mona's words arose in his thoughts, clearing him of his confusion. He knew what he had to do.

Although Eric didn't trust his father, he had very few people he could actually trust. Too many were eager to be allied with Eric for benefits, too many willing to trade sides if the situation wasn't right. At the best, Eric could only approach his father the same way he approached life, with a trace of wariness in his every move. It was better to calculate every step than to dash without a thought.

"Fine." Eric muttered a single word, turning around to leave once more. Athon followed in suit, unsure of what occurred. The Aura Saint was certain that Eric would be more resistant to speaking with his father, and Eric's sudden change was so soon.

Did he make up his mind so soon, or something else? Athon followed carefully behind Eric, trying to find out the cause of Eric's sudden decision. Leaving his untouched meal behind, the servants watched the duo make their way down the hall. Eric making his way to speak with his father, Athon to prevent what he thought was going to be a bitter conversation.

Servants greeted Eric along the courtyard and to another building of the Morosbo estate, but Eric gave them no heed. His steps were light and quick, his Aura assuaging his accelerating heartbeat. Earnestly thinking about what his father would say, several thoughts arose in his mind.

Is it a confession? Or something more? Eric spent much of his life living with his father, and pegged him as one who showed little emotion. It wasn't in Lord Faulkner's nature to explicitly apologize, or even act apologetic to others except to his former wife and his son then. Be it in war or among other nobles, he kept matters of the heart to himself regardless of the consequences. If his father was going to confess after all, Eric was certain to be surprised.

Eric and Athon entered a somewhat secluded tower near the Morosboan plateau. It was made from a dark layer of stone, and gave off a foreboding impression. Channeling Aura, the two passed through Formations and Creations to enter the building, taking notice to avoid specific hallways. Finally the due entered a small room, awaiting a fenced door.

A figure carefully appeared from the darkness of the building, a short woman wearing intricate clothing all over. Several Designs flickered back and forth, emanating a thinly veiled defense. She placed a set of oblong tools on a work bench to the side before making her way to the door, opening it with gloves on each of her long hands.

Athon and Eric entered inside, the slight smell of metal and forging greeting them from within. They took a moment to notice the several casts for Creations nearby, along with the assortment of books on Designs. Although the area was dimly lit and silent, it seemed Romice was quite happy here.

"Welcome, young master Faulkner and sir Athon." Romice bowed slightly, her other hand holding what seemed to be a piece of ore. As one of the disciples of the Creation Administrator, she was able to forge Creations thanks to her rank as a Creator. Her other duty was overseeing Eric's hidden Transmission Creations, serving as a messenger when needed. Although marks of ash and shavings covered the floor, she didn't seem affected at all.

"You have received a Transmission from my father?" Eric spoke straight to the point. The only source of light, an Illuminating Creation lamp, cast his shadow across the room. His sight glanced in the direction of the Creation storage before returning to the Creator nearby.

"Yes, young master Faulkner. Right this way." Romice placed the small piece of ore on the nearby bench, revealing a special item in her hands. Athon and Eric followed behind her, watching as the young Creator placed the item in the center of the Creation storage gate, the gate glowing in response. After several blinks of white light, the gate opened, allowing the three to enter.

This went on several times, Romice placing the same item on five other gates. Each gate followed in suit, except the hallway seemed to grow steadily larger as Eric walked deeper within. The Creation storage was like a cellar for Creations he owned or used, and was tightly guarded. In Romice's hands were one of only three keys in existence able to bypass all the traps, gates, and doors of the hallway.

When the final door opened, a room appeared before the trio. Several Illuminating Creations flickered to life, their light merging to cast a steady brightness inside. Athon and the rest could see several types of Creations within, with a single wall specifically holding Transmission Creations. Among those devices was a one that flickered on and off, giving off an azure glow.

Eric entered the room without a sound, leaving Athon and Romice in the hallway. Athon tried to follow in suit, but Romice barred his entry before she shook her head. She infused her Aura into the gate key, the final door closing once more. She looked to Athon with a steady gaze.

"You should know, sir Athon, that only young master is allowed within. Otherwise, I am, but only to oversee that each Creation is maintained." Romice's slightly cheery voice filled Athon's ears. He only replied with a subtle frown before looking in the direction of the Creation storage.

I know, but Eric isn't sound of mind. He couldn't help but feel that something was wrong about about the young master of the Faulkner family. Eric didn't seem as if he was thinking straight. It only took him a moment to decide to talk to his father. Athon knew that given their strained relationship, Eric should have hesitated far more. Just what changed his mind?

Athon tried getting closer to the door, but he still couldn't hear anything. The door kept out anything that was happening inside through a special Formation built within. Even if Eric was shout at the top of his lungs and wrecking havoc within, neither Athon or Romice would be able to tell. Nor could Eric hear anything happening on the outside as well.

Eric looked over the various items in the room, at times showing a slight smile and other times an aggrieved sigh. Some of these Creations were treasures he received for his merits in Alberdan society, and others were gifts from his father. Gifts that reminded him that his father cared, an idea he couldn't prove or refute.

Looking back to the wall of Creations, Eric could see the lone transmission device glowing over and over. Each of these items were special methods to reach Eric if his personal Creation was missing, or if the caller wanted to avoid eavesdroppers. The wall held several tens of Transmitting Creations, and the one linking him to his father was peering back at him with its lonely light.

Eric walked to the small Creation, lifting it into his hand. Forcing out a deep breath, he injected a wisp of his Aura within the device. The transmitter flashed repeatedly before maintaining a steady light in Eric's hand. He placed the small item near his ear, waiting for a response.

"Hello?" Eric's voice entered the silence, distinct and clear. The device had been apparently flashing several times over, which meant his father was calling repeatedly. The only other possible explanation was that his father's creation was in need of repairs. But knowing his father, that couldn't be the case at all.

The silence continued for several moments before a voice replied from the abyss. "Eric, is that you?" Rigor's voice returning from the device. His tone seemed amicable, and carried a trace of kindness within.

"Yes, Lord Faulkner, it is me." Eric replied in a monotonous tone, emotionless to Rigor's greeting. He didn't notice how different his voice sounded, nor how it contrasted with his father's words. One seemed hospitable and open, and the other bleak and indifferent. The rift between father and son would be obvious to anyone.

Another silence followed, splitting the conversation once more. Rigor, seated at the throne of his manor, was waiting for an equally warm response, only to be disappointed. Living with Eric for so many years, he understood the subtleties of Eric's words.

Lord Faulkner, not father. Rigor's heart plummeted several levels, his face reflecting twinges of pain. After losing his own wife Amela, he didn't want to lose his son as well. The world was wrought with grief and solitude for Aura cultivators, be they of nobility or not. He couldn't imagine living apart from his own child.

Marcus stood nearby, watching Rigor's reactions with utmost attention. Seeing the difficult expression of Rigor, he sighed. He knew that father and son split over the passing of Lady Faulkner, but had hoped a conversation could help heal the gap of the generations. But he didn't know until now that Eric and Rigor were barely on speaking terms, let alone mutually caring for one another.

Eric began to speak again, breaking the silence. "Lord Faulkner, why have you called?" His voice was as empty as before, any trace of familial love missing from his words.

Rigor sighed before showing a tragic smile. "Nothing, nothing at all. I only wanted to speak with you, my son." Rigor maintained amicable tone, seemingly unaware of how Eric was speaking. Thinking it through, he thought it was best he bridged the gap between both of them. Little did Rigor know that the gap was far large than he originally believed.

"Is there anything else?" Eric responded again, a bit of disappointment lurking in his mind. He thought his father called him to explain perhaps why his memory was missing, or even for an urgent situation. In reality he wanted to "talk," to speak and nothing more. How could he and his father "talk" now? To Eric, it was already too late.

"Eric, I'm sorry. As a father, I have failed you in so many ways. To thid day you are growing ever distant, and it is all because of me. I'm sorry." Rigor's voice came from within, bleak and apologetic. He felt the crux of the issue was himself, and because of his own actions his son was leaving him. No parent would want to see their child grow distant without knowing why.

"Sorry? What do you have to be sorry for, Lord Faulkner? You are leading the House of Faulkner and any maiden would beg to be beside you. You haven't done anything wrong, nothing at all." Eric responded with stinging sarcasm, feeling a tinge of anger rise within him. Sorry? After mother passed away, how sorry were you?

Rigor fell silent to Eric's words. Each word harshly struck against his heart, whittling away at his calm and stability. He felt terrible, terrible knowing that each word was true.

Amela died not long ago before he began womanizing all sorts of women from all over. Be they minor nobles or musicians receiving patronage, he let himself wash away in pleasure day after day. He felt grief, and yet forgot his wife each night as another beauty willingly laid in his bed. Rigor knew few women would refuse being fancied by him, the head of the Faulkner family, and yet continued on. He was lucky that with Aura he was able to avoid having children, and avoid the shameful scene of illegitimate heirs laying claim to the House of Faulkner.

"Eric, I'm sorry. I've failed you, you and your mother Amela. Please forgive me." Rigor was on the brink of tears, standing in front of his throne. The anguish of losing his wife resurfaced, casting waves of depression over his existence once more. He missed her, forgot her, and let her die alone. His actions after her funeral showed no evidence of his love for her, and had driven his son to see him as a manipulative womanizer.

Marcus wanted to speak but hesitated. The conversation was growing for the worse, but he wasn't sure if his own words could stoke the flames. Would Eric react to hearing his voice in this conversation? With emotion being showered back and forth, that worst action Marcus could take as Rigor's perhaps only friend was sever their relationship through speaking.

"Mother? Yes, yes mother passed away so long ago, but you should know. Strangely, I can't seem to remember her being ill. In fact, if I'm correct, I have no recollection of her sick, her passing, or her funeral. Can you tell me why, Lord Faulkner? Why I can't remember my own mother's death?" Eric's voice became frigid and cold, his anger filling every word. His suspicion of his father was heavy, and Rigor's admittance of his wrongdoings was nothing more than an implied confession in Eric's eyes. He knows why, he knows.

"Eric, you have to believe me. I loved both you and your mother. I would never do anything I didn't think wasn't best for the both of you." Rigor voice carried his heavy emotions, pouring out from Eric's Creation. He knew his actions were controversial, but he at least tried to act right when Amela was still alive and well. Each of Eric's words singled him out, casting him in a false image that only served to hurt his self-esteem.

Eric turned off the Transmission Creation, a deathly silence returning on both ends. He placed the small transmission back into its socket on the wall. Backing away, several thoughts returned to his mind. Am I right? Does he know why mother died? Why my memory is missing?

Walking towards the doorway, Eric watched as the doors swung open, revealing Athon and Romice on the other side. His expression was similar to when he first arrived, but his thoughts were far different. I was right. Father knows why, he knows everything. Eric walked threw the hallway and out of the Creation tower, giving neither Athon nor Romice a chance to respond. Athon followed soon after him, unsure if the conversation went well.

Back in the city of Evaline, Rigor Faulkner stared at his hands, his face layered with pure misery. Marcus walked forward to Rigor, giving a sympathetic glance at the lord. His assistant could feel the waves of sorrow and despair spreading throughout the room.

After a long pause, Rigor looked up, his face normal but his eyes betrayed his inner feelings. Nodding to Marcus, he used his Aura to calm his body before speaking again.

"Bring in the apothecary." Rigor's words echoed pass the entrance doors, his voice carrying the pressure of the Lord of Faulkner. His noble air infused the room, Marcus feeling his friend and lord emanate the aura of a ruler.

The entrance to the throne room opened, a set of guards guiding in a lone maiden in a hooded robe, dark yet welcoming. Her hair was of a mess, but her eyes carried traces of insight as she looked to Rigor with respect and concern. She knew that there was only one reason for her to be called her.

"You may leave." Rigor ordered the guards to leave along with Marcus out from the room. Marcus hesitated before following Rigor's wishes, unable to tell if Rigor could handle his duties at the moment. Behind him, the doors of the throne room were shut once more, leaving Rigor and the apothecary Narine alone inside.

"The medicine I acquired from you, you told me it rids the consumer of memories." Rigor's voice was heavy, as if the conversation could determine his life. He had requested a specific item from this apothecary once and only once. She was chosen because her talent in Medicine Concoction was great, and she was also secretive as well. Discovering ties between her and Rigor was like

"Yes, my lord. The Forgotten Time Potion rids the drinker of two weeks of memories, and without the antidote it is difficult to undo. Is something wrong?" The raspy voice of Narine replied, contrasting against her youthful features. If someone was told she was a centuries-old warrior ranked Sigil Master who specialized in Medicine, few would believe them.

"Wrong? You lied to me, Narine. I used the concoction on someone, and yet they still have memories. For that, you shall pay with your life." Rigor rose from his throne, his level ten Saint Aura capturing the apothecary in translucent forms of Aura, threatening to end her life.

Narine may have lived hundreds of years, but as a level 3 Aura Warrior it was impossible to resist. Her arms and legs were enchained by Rigor's Aura, her heartbeat accelerating at the thought of death. The Aura then binded her throat, slowly cutting off her breath.

"My master's potion couldn't have failed! It couldn't! Unless they were memories of the heart and not memories of the mind, the potion couldn't have failed!" Narine cried weakly, feeling her vision grow blurry as her body was proceeding towards unconsciousness. In a few moments, she would die from suffocation.

Memories of the heart? Rigor thought back to the possibility. Eric was so close to his mother Amela when he was young. Could he have remembered his mother because his heart still felt the same after witnessing her funeral? It seemed impossible in Rigor's eyes, but from Eric's conversation it was the only explanation.

Rigor withdrew his Aura, the apothecary falling to the floor of the hall, struggling to breathe. Death was close to taking her, and her words were able to drive it away. Although she hated being treated in this manner, her status and Rigor's were as apart as the Heavens and the Earth. She could only give the customary bow before leaving through the hall, bruises hidden by her enigmatic robe.

Rigor sat on his throne, thinking back to what he have done. A grim frown arose on his face as he repeatedly thought about his actions.

Just what have I done, done to my family? He wasn't sure how he could justify his actions. Not anymore.