It was an ordinary night, the kind that carried a storm's breath before its arrival. The air was heavy with dampness, thick with the weight of rain yet to fall. Marcellus was conducting his usual rounds within the family's vault—a chamber that housed the treasures and secrets accumulated across generations. Jeweled swords, dust-laden tomes, crowns forged of ancient weight… every relic radiated the splendor and legacy of his bloodline.
And yet, when he reached the furthest corner of the chamber—an alcove nearly swallowed by shadow—his eyes were suddenly caught by a shimmer unlike any other.
It was a pair of metal objects, shaped like the handles of a cup, lying solitary upon a stone pedestal. Their surfaces glimmered faintly with a golden sheen, and under the flicker of torchlight, it seemed as though unseen currents stirred within them.
Marcellus froze. He was certain he had visited this section countless times, and never once had he seen them there. Doubt coiled in his chest—had he overlooked them before, or had they appeared here only now?
Slowly, he approached, and reached out his hand. The metal was cold to the touch, yet thrummed with a subtle pulse—as if what he held was not lifeless ore, but a heart beating in the palm of his hand.
He examined them closely. The handles were wrought with exquisite detail: curving bands of metal carved into intricate reliefs, vines and thorns entwined in endless knots, and tiny stars inlaid among them, forming patterns of some ancient, forgotten sigil. As the light shifted, the engravings seemed to stir, creeping and twisting, as though they might crawl free from the surface itself.
Marcellus held his breath, unable to look away. His mind drifted, drawn deeper and deeper, as if into a whirlpool without end. The world outside dimmed, sounds faded, and only the pull of the metal remained.
Suddenly—
Crack!
A thunderclap split the night. A flash of lightning seared through the chamber, the reflection off the metal stabbing painfully into his eyes. Marcellus startled awake from the trance, his hand trembling—both handles slipped from his grasp and struck the floor with a ringing, heavy clang.
His heart pounded violently. Cold sweat dampened his palm. Just now… what had seized him?
He hastily placed the objects back onto the stone pedestal. And yet, even as he turned away, the pull lingered, like invisible threads tugging at his very soul. As he departed the vault, he found himself glancing back again and again, haunted by the feeling that those two handles were watching him in silence.
——
That night, Marcellus could not find rest. Back in his chamber, he lay upon his bed, eyes closed, yet the shape of those handles replayed endlessly in his mind.
At last, he drifted into slumber.
In his dream, the two handles began to stir. Slowly, irresistibly, they drew toward one another, as though compelled by a force unseen. With a low, resonant boom, they fused before his eyes—becoming a single, ancient, and complete chalice.
The Grail.
It glowed with a ghostly radiance. Within its bowl, golden liquid surged and swirled, alive as though breathing. The vessel trembled faintly, and from it issued a voice—not of human tongue, but clear, intimate, and inescapable:
"Come… let my body be whole again. Restore me, and your desires shall be granted. Livia… will smile once more."
The voice was deep and gentle, yet woven with an allure impossible to resist, striking directly into the marrow of his soul.
Marcellus's breath caught. His heart quivered violently within his chest. In the dream, he lifted his hand, helpless against the pull, his fingers stretching toward the Grail—
——