Nicholas Vials: The Case Of Michael Vials

The murmur of patients seemed to blend in perfectly with the noise in Emberline's head. There were moans of pain, others spoke utter nonsense in their sleep and some patients were in protest of their confinement. It was as if they collaborated to make the chaos in her mind louder. Emberline tried to drown out the thoughts in her head but it provided little consolation. Her fingers trembled as she poured liquid into a syringe, the weight of countless stares and whispers pressing down on her like a vice.

They know.

Her mind hissed over and over again. She could still see it—the way the market vendors glanced at her as she left the station, the way Sergeant Rourke smirked as he passed by her this morning.

A sharp cough snapped her back into the present. The elderly woman in the cot next to her was clutching her side, her pale lips moving faintly. Emberline took a deep breath and approached, forcing her face into a mask.

"Let’s get you sorted," she murmured, her voice unsteady but kind. She reached for the medicine tray, the labels blurring together as her thoughts tangled in panic.

What if they tell the hospital board? What if Nicholas—

"Miss Sterne."

She flinched. The voice startled her. One of the junior nurses was standing beside her, her gaze darting between the syringe in Emberline’s hand and the patient.

"That’s the wrong dosage," the girl whispered, her tone urgent.

Emberline froze. Her eyes fell to the vial in her hand—one meant for pain relief but in a strength far too high for this patient. Her chest tightened as she set the syringe down quickly, her hands trembling. She had attempted to learn the dosage but in her inexperience, she had almost blundered.

"I... I need some air," she stammered, backing away from the bed. The patient looked at her in concern, but Emberline didn’t meet her gaze. She fled into the hall, leaning against the wall, her breaths came in shallow and quick intervals. Nicholas's words were eating away at her. She was losing control. If he had found her truth with such ease, maybe it wouldn't have taken long before they all knew. Her mind went numb at just the thought of Nicholas Vials, the contents of her stomach threatened release if she did not calm herself.

Nicholas was aware of the effect it had on Emberline. He had been present in the hospital, watching her the entire day, but she was not able to disassociate with her mind to find him. She was paler and her eyes had sunken into her skull. It was subtle but undeniable. Perhaps he expected such a response from her, but it was fascinating to watch nonetheless.

He had observed many people in a state of mania and shock. Many would become incredibly conscious, take on difficult tasks to complete, laugh, cry, and perhaps even break something. Emberline was incredibly still and lifeless. Her eyes showed little movement, even as she hastily filled the syringe with the medicine. Her movements were almost mechanical, as though guided by intuition rather than reasoning.

She soon excused herself, leaving the hall to find a quieter space to mope in.

There was no interaction, no conversation. Nicholas could as well have been observing her from a glass window from far away.

He sighed. The purpose of his visit was to find Eva and ask for a written sick note so he could excuse himself from the institute for a week, but he was disappointed to find that Eva had been absent herself on an urgent basis. He could no longer bear the sight of sickness and gore and no sooner than that, he walked out.

Ferguson, the decorated caretaker of Doane, lived directly opposite the hospital doorway. He had been given a modest room, the door to which lay wide open at all times. One glance at it could make one assume he was being held against his will. A small bed was pushed against the wall, and a tall table and chair had been squeezed into a corner beside it. Countless items were cluttered on it, keys, papers, scissors. One could only assume all items were of importance, but Ferguson took little care.

Nicholas wondered what could buy the loyalty of such a man for thirty consecutive years.

His steps became inaudible as he walked up the never-ending set of stairs. Nicholas mapped the entire building as he approached his dormitory.

The first floor was where everything was run. The principal's office, the hospital wing, the conference halls, the teacher's room (used for anything but teaching), the dining room, the church, and the reception. Much of the smaller rooms were either empty or given to the caretakers of different quarters.

If the map had been accurate in its illustration, the second floor had the laboratory, the indoor garden, and a few offices were stationed at the far left of the castle. Most science classes were taken in the remaining rooms. The third floor seemed to follow the same pattern, having the vast library which would remain empty for a great part of the year. The fourth floor was unique in its design. It had grand windows that would overlook the grounds. Large halls were standard in the castle but the halls here were exceptionally large. Unfortunately, they were only ever used for the clubs that would hold conferences once a week, or perhaps a competition or two. It was even odd to find that only one teacher had been given an office on this floor. Nicholas was sure that it was because of Charles's introverted nature that he chose to agree on the piece, but it was unsettling and disconcerting. What was fascinating about his office was that it was just a floor below Olaf and Benjamin's room. He wondered if he could hear them walking about in their room, if he could hear him if they ever stomped. He was sure to try it today.

The fifth floor was a mixture of open and private spaces, offering rooms that seemed both lavish and worn. A set of elaborate corridors led to the art rooms, where paintings and sculptures hung loosely on the walls as if abandoned mid-creation. Despite the artistic purpose, there was an absence of creativity in the air. The rooms were often unoccupied, with only a few dedicated students using the spaces to practice or for independent study. The entire floor had an eerie silence, almost as though it were waiting for something to come alive again. In the evening time, some students venture about, but there is no greater appeal than sightseeing. Trophies adorn the walls, showcasing the achievement and brilliance of all graduates of Doane.

On the sixth floor, the air shifted dramatically. Here, the students' dormitories were in the quieter corners of the castle. The rooms were small, dark, and damp in places, with only the faintest glow from the tall windows illuminating their surroundings. Despite the beds and furniture in place, the floor lacked the warmth one might expect. It felt like a place that simply existed, with no sense of joy or community, a floor that the students only ever occupied reluctantly, when they had no other place to go. The seventh floor had been of a similar kind, housing all the remaining students of the institute. This floor had the tallest ceilings, the most freedom, and the least restriction. Nicholas needed a little introduction. His eyes jumped from one corner of the hall to the other. It was the closest thing to a home he had.

The eighth floor, however, was a floor seldom spoken of, almost forgotten by most. The stairs leading upstairs were narrow, the walls lined with strange tapestries and symbols, their meanings unclear. It was said that most rooms were sealed shut, doors locked with chains, while others appeared empty. He looked up at the stairs that led up to it. No one ever seemed to go here, not without reason. Even the castle map that Nicholas had in his right pocket was missing the map of the floor, and Nicholas could not find a reason to see it. Its entrance had been sealed shut, and there were strict rules against vandalism, which tickled a part of his brain.

He had to ignore it.

Nicholas frowned as he approached the end of the corridor, his footsteps faltering when he saw a cluster of students lingering near the stairs, leading up to the entrance of his room. Their voices were hushed but tense, their faces shadowed with unease.

"What's all this?" he called out, his voice sharp enough to scatter them like startled birds.

The door to his room was ajar, and he pushed it open to find chaos. His bed was overturned, the contents of his trunks thrown across the floor in heaps. Hooks on the closet door hung empty, and even Clyde’s neatly arranged books lay in a broken mess.

Nicholas’s expression darkened as he stepped inside, his eyes scanning the wreckage. He crouched, picking up a broken inkwell, the dark stain spreading across one of his papers.

Clyde stood by the door, his face pale as he took in the sight.

"What the hell happened?" Nicholas questioned his voice tight with disbelief.

"Good question," Benjamin said coldly, tossing the ruined inkwell onto the desk. "Do you know who did this?" Clyde asked around, hoping for a semblance of clarity.

"It was Donny," one of the students said from the doorway.

Nicholas straightened, his brows furrowing. "Donny?"

The boy nodded. "He— He just lost it. Went straight for your room and tore everything apart. It wasn’t just yours—he ripped through Clyde’s stuff too."

Clyde looked even more aghast. "Donny? He’s a saint! Why would he do this?"

"I don’t know," the boy admitted. "He didn’t say anything. Just kept going until someone dragged him away. But it was— unlike him. He looked like he wasn’t in his senses."

Nicholas’s lips pressed into a thin line. He subtly pressed against the left pocket of his trousers, where he had hidden the Golden Cat insignia.

He felt that he could not leave it alone for a moment, ever since he found his trunk opened, with the chain of the insignia missing. There had been a robbery attempt, evident from the faint blood-set claws of the emblem, but he was sure they would certainly return. He exhaled a relaxed sigh.

At least he was right.