The Lost Heir Of Sargent

I'M YOUR GRANDSON

"No," Christian whispered, feeling a piercing pain in his heart as if something precious had been ripped off from him. 

He clutched his chest, staring with a painful face at the shattered pieces of his mother’s amulet scattered across the cold ground. The last thing he had of her, his only source of comfort, now got destroyed, and he barely had the strength left to reach it.

His vision blurred minute by minute, and his legs froze making it hard for him to reach for the broken pieces.

A harsh laugh brought him back to reality. 

Ivan stood over him, with a twisted smirk on his face, "Look at you, pathetic as ever, such a fool you're!" He sneered, raising his foot and kicked Christian brutally, making him to cough blood.

The huge pain passed through Christian's frail body, and he gasped hard, with a low cry, crumbling on the ground.

Christian felt his consciousness slipping away, hunger pangs increasing inside him, while his limbs froze due to the chilling coldness, every breath was a struggle, every heartbeat faint leaving him to survive on a thin line of hope. 

But Ivan wasn’t done, as Christian lay there, fighting to stay conscious, Ivan bent down, with his voice filled with mock concern.

"Oh no… Father! Mother! Chris is… he’s dying! Please come fast, he is dying," Ivan’s voice echoed through the empty yard, filled with feigned panic, though his eyes sparkling with satisfaction looking at Christian's miserable state.

He knew he couldn't let Christian die, not yet at least. That would only create questions he wasn't ready to answer, so he rushed inside to get his parents.

Christian tried to drag his body towards the broken amulet, the moment his blood touched the amulet, it started shining, and the broken pieces of the amulet started rejoining together, getting into its original state.

Christian's vision blurred down but suddenly, the faint shine of the amulet lying under his hand passed warmth into his body.

A soft hum resonated from it, followed by a calm yet commanding voice that seemed to echo inside his mind.

"Chris, call this number, +123456, it's your grandfather's, father of your mother, he'll help you." 

Chris's eyes widened hearing to the voice coming out of the amulet, but in a last attempt, hud shaking reached for his phone in the pocket, weakly.

He couldn’t understand how or why, but he obeyed. With the little strength he had, he tapped in the numbers, each press feeling heavier than the last, however the phone rang.

On the other side,

In a grand but extremely silent mansion across the city, an elderly man sat in the huge living room. 

Around him were several women, dressed in muted colors, their faces marked with grief. Despite the festive season, there wasn’t a single decoration in sight, no sight of Christmas at all.

James Sargent, the patriarch of the Sargent family, was nursing a glass of brandy, his face twisted with sorrow and deep regret.

His youngest daughter had been missing for years, despite being the Lord to everyone, he couldn't even find a single trace of his precious daughter, though he was known for his stoic demeanor, her absence had carved a hollow space in his heart which is hard to forget.

The soft ring of his phone cut through the depressive silence.

Lord Sargent frowned being annoyed, looking at his buzzing mobile.

"Who dares disturb me now?" He muttered, picking up the phone with an irritated sigh.

"Hello?" he almost barked roughly, with a sharp and unwelcoming tone.

A faint, trembling voice responded on the other end, weak and barely audible. "I… I’m Chris, your grandson, my mother's name is Marie." 

Lord Sargent froze, the glass in his hand slipped down and broke into pieces just as his thoughts broke. His brows knit together, confusion and disbelief clouding his features.

"What did you say?" He demanded with a trembling voice, the initial anger replaced with urgency and desperation.

"I’m… your grandson Chris, I'm kneeling in the backyard," Christian's voice faltered, weaker now. "I didn't hurt anyone, Help me, please...." 

"Chris, where are you?" Lord Sargent eagerly asked to know about Christian's whereabouts.

The line went silent, but Lord Sargent could hear faint, troubled breathing before the call cut off.

"Chris!" He shouted into the deadline, his voice resonating throughout the room.

The women around him exchanged stunned glances, their expressions shifting from shock to suspicion.

"Father…" one of those women spoke hesitantly. "Could it really be her son or a prank call?" 

Lord Sargent slammed his hand on the table, standing abruptly. "I don’t care if this is a trick or real, find out where that call came from now," he roared, his eyes burning with an intensity not seen in years. "Every member of the Sargent family, I want this number tracked immediately, Let's go." 

Meanwhile, in the cold backyard of Adam's estate, Morris paced angrily, his boots pressing against the icy ground. He sneered as he glanced at Chris, who was slumped over in the snow.

"Pathetic!" Morris spat with a voice full of disdain, "He is just pretending, he just knelt here for a few minutes, and now he’s fainting? Who does he think he’s fooling?" 

Ivan looked at Morris with teary eyes doing his exceptional job in fake crying, "dad, is my brother going to die." 

"Oh, please, don't fall for his tricks, my boy," Morris scoffed, waving a hand, with a cold glance at Christian, "He’s just pretending to escape punishment using our sympathy, you don't have to worry about this brat, let's go inside." 

Ivan leaned close, hiding his smirk with a look holding extremely fake pity towards Christian, "I-I think he is really not feeling well. Maybe… maybe he’s been here longer than we thought, dad, what if he is dead for real?" 

"Aish, no way," Morris brushed off those words and walked toward Christian grabbing his collar roughly. "Get up, you bastard!" he shouted. "Stop this nonsense before I..." 

Morris froze as his hand brushed against Christian's skin. It was ice cold, unnaturally so. For a moment, panic spread across his face, but he quickly masked it with anger.

"Tch, dramatic scoundrel," he gritted his teeth and threw Christian on the same icy ground once again.

He turned to call for the butler, his tone was filled with irritation and commanding. "Butler, come and pour water on this troublemaker's face, let’s see if this little act continues or not." 

But the butler, usually quick to respond, was nowhere to be found, Morris’s sneer deepened into a sigh.

He snapped, kicking a loose clump of snow, "where the hell is everyone?"