Acheros drew a heavy breath, his voice faltering, a shade distant, as if caught 'twixt shadow and light."Uh… where were we?" quoth he, pausing long, then with a sorrowful half-smile, breathed soft,
"Oh—aye."
His gaze fell downward, laden with a grievous weight, and thus he began.
"The mother did strive, with gentle arms, to shield the tender lass—Ira."
Again, he stayed his speech.
"Then came the father's wrath, fierce and unbridled."
His voice turned as cold as winter's frost, flat and sharp.
He smote his wife, pushing her aside as though she were but naught. And then, with cruel grasp, he seized the daughter by her flowing hair.
( Acheros's fingers clenched, though still he stood, held fast by some silent torment. )
"'Know'st thou Acheros?" the man did bark unto her.
Ira—mere child—did swallow hard, her tears trembling in the depths of throat, too stricken with dread to speak. She knew not what to say, nor how.
And then her mother's voice did break the silence:"How should she ken one she hath ne'er met? Was it not thou—thou wretched varlet—who tore him from our midst? And now, what say'st thou? If trouble lies—"
But the man, a black-hearted knave of bitter soul, did cast his gaze downward on her. A cruel smirk played 'pon his lips.
"Did I ask thee aught?" he spat like venom. "Why dost thou wail, woman, when I plucked talent from the filth that did surround him? Should'st thou not rather weep for how thy brethren cast thee to the jaws of foes like carrion, and died like curs? Or hath sixteen winters passed that thou wouldst no more weep for that?"
His voice turned colder, quieter still, as he turned again unto the lass.
"Would'st thou have thy brother perish?"
No word from her. None could come. Her voice fled away, leaving but tears to speak her grief.
Then, with a heart as cruel as winter's bite, he flung her to the earth, as though she weighed naught but a feather.
And then—he turned once more.
Toward his eldest son, scarce fifteen summers borne.
The black-hearted knave drew forth his blade without pause.
The steel, cruel and shining in the torch's trembling light, kissed the lad's throat with a chill born not of iron alone. It pressed firm—not swift, but with a solemn weight, as though the very air did hold its breath in mournful vigil.
The lad neither moved nor flinched, though his heart did ache at his own father's grim deed.
The man cast his gaze back to his daughter.
"Art thou the filth that seeketh to change the heir?" he asked, low and measured.
The mother stood silent, close behind him—neither flight nor word escaped her lips, only a gaze that knew full well: the knave would not yet slay Castian, the eldest scion.
And yet—they lived.
All three.
And each day was as dying, with every breath drawn in despair.
The mother.
The son.
The daughter.
Then—within the little lass, something broke.
Her hands curled to fists, tears fell like a storm, and with a scream that shattered the stillness, she cried aloud:
"I hope Brother Acheros becometh Grand Duke and slay thee—monster vile!"
Slowly, the knave sheathed his blade, the metal whispering a final, soft sound.
Then spoke he, as if idle, yet each word a dagger:
"Acheros is twelve now. And sixteen years hath passed since our marriage."
He cast his eyes o'er them—mother, son, and daughter—and smiled, a smile sharp and venomous.
"It mattereth little if two of these young wander and perish in their play. Lost. Devoured by beasts. Who wouldst question such fate?"
That smile lingered, cold, cruel, vile.
The mother's eyes grew wide, breath caught in her throat.
Then she moved—swift as storm-wind—ran to him, seized his collar with both hands, and screamed fierce in his face:
"Thou art twisted! Mad art thou—killing thy own blood so!"
Her voice cracked, her body trembling with fury untamed.
Without thought, she spat upon him.
"Filthy wretch."
The knave struck not.
But reached out, and touched her cheek—gentle and mocking in one breath.
"Mad or no, soon the world shall believe the beloved wife of the Grand Duke Virhieren—Grand Duchess Airelle Virhieren—hath lost her wits."
His hand lingered a moment, then he stepped back.
*** Beyond the window's cold glass, just where firelight waned, the young lad stood.
Acheros.
He had followed in his father's shadow, half-curious, half-afraid to what evil deed he'd commit now.
Now stood he frozen, watching.
He laid no blame on others but himself, though but a child of tender years—his soul weighed heavy as if borne a hundred lives.
The knave turned from Airelle and vanished without word.
Acheros flinched, then scrambled back from the window, heart pounding, breath caught in his throat.
He hid in shadow, small as he could become, willing silence to swallow him whole.
The knave departed.
But Acheros did not seek his mother's side. Nor glance once more to the window's dark frame.
He stood still.
Then—slowly, as though burdened by the weight of the very world—he did sink unto the cold earth, his hands clutching tightly at his ears, his eyes pressed closed with grievous might.
His breath came forth in ragged gasps, broken and uneven, like the faint whispers of a dying wind.
"All is—huh—" he gasped, voice breaking. Air stumbled in his lungs. Tears fell unbidden.
"Uh," came his whisper, barely there. Pain wrapped in sound.
"All is—aye, all my doing, my fault." he murmured low.
With that, he drew his knees close, folding into himself, as if by shrinking he might vanish from grief's cruel gaze.
Trying to keep some pain in, or hold some dread out.
There, in quiet dark, the young lad wept.
Then—wordless—he limped back to his chamber, each step heavier than the last.
The corridor echoed with silence, servants paused, eyes following his slow path.
Whispers arose.
"Again... see him, wounded evermore."
A bitter laugh: "Strange how he walks this life without a tear. Cold as stone."
Another voice, sharp as winter wind: "He is cruel, like his sire. That little slave lass—found impaled—he surely did it. No feeling at all."
Acheros halted. Eyes wide but still. No word. No turn.
Just stood.
Then blinked, and lowered his gaze to the cold stone beneath.
More voices.
"He doth resemble the Grand Duke, not the Duchess."
"Aye. Those empty, grey eyes."
"That jet black hair."
"Skin pale as a ghost's."
"Hush," one whispered, "he hears us."
But he had heard all.
And yet spoke naught.
He limped on, silent as the grave, back to his cell-like chamber.
The door closed with soft click, unnoticed.
His legs gave way ere he reached the bed, and there he sank, back against the cruel, unfeeling wall.
No effort to rise.
He drew his knees to his breast, arms wrapped close, face buried deep in sleeves worn thin by grief and time.
The cloth bore naught but scent of old days, faded and forlorn.
To think upon his mother, to rest once more in her lap, to loose the ache within, brought no comfort now. Nay, it stirred a deeper pain, a silence thick and slow, as though wounds lay buried too deep for tears.
What once was refuge had turned sharp and strange.
The warmth he sought was now the fire he feared—lest to reach for it should unmake them all.
He dared not harm her, nor Ira, nor his brother.
So there he lay, curled and small.
Tears slid silent down his cheeks.
Then came a hoarse whisper, faint as shadow:
"If only I had slain that little lass... she need not have died so... 'tis all—mine own fault."
*** His life passed as ever, though to him, 'twas but normal.
The silence, the blood, the weight of unseen chains.
Yet when asked to kill, he paused no more.
No flicker, no doubt.
A week's span passed thus.
But soon, a growing fear took root within his breast.
No harm came to mother, nor siblings.
The silence once solace, now gnawed like rust.
He feared the coming blow yet to fall.
Each quiet morn, each untouched eve, dread pressed heavy.
A week waned, no reckoning came.
Until one night, at the hour of eight, his father summoned him.
Rare was this call—such summons came only to suffocating feasts, joyless meals where silence hung thick as dust.
This was unlike those times.
And 'twas no servant that came to his door.
But the knave's right hand man.
Wordless, he bade the lad follow.
And so he did, silent footsteps on cold stone.
Each turn, each shadowed corner stirred memory deep.
He knew the path.
The flickering torches, the damp scent of stone and iron thick in the air.
Then came the door.
Thick, scarred, familiar.
The room.
Where beasts, starved and wild, did wait.
Where he had been cast before, forced to fight, to bleed, to kill—not for justice nor training, but for punishment and spectacle.
And now, before it stood he again.
....To be continued