Flashback continue eiser pov
My tutors had often remarked on my aptitude, and my father had listened. They told him I was unusually bright, that I had recently read and completed all the materials for advanced subjects on my own. Children my age were not expected to learn such things until well into school. Even my older brother, clever as he was, seemed ordinary in comparison.
"Excellent. Good work," my father said one afternoon, placing a heavy hand on my head. His praise felt measured, like an equation he had already balanced in his mind. Then, almost imperceptibly, his tone shifted. Sternness replaced warmth.
"From now on, do not waste your time wandering about outside with your mother. Starting tomorrow, you are to come to my office every morning at 8 o'clock sharp."
He fixed me with a gaze that left no room for protest. Every inch of his presence screamed authority, a weight I could neither avoid nor question.
"I shall take you under my wing and teach you everything about running a business. Is that understood, Eiser?"
I nodded, feeling the gravity of his command settle over me like a cloak. That moment marked the beginning of a new chapter.
From then on, my mother's presence in my daily life dwindled to fleeting shadows. I was tethered almost entirely to my father, accompanying him through the house, through meetings, through the pulse of his business empire. The world outside the family walls became a distant rumor.
On one of these trips, we toured a construction site lined along the main street.
"The plan is to create a large urban park approximately the size of five lots along the main street line," one man said, gesturing toward the cleared plots. "And as soon as we are able to reach an agreement with Dr. Philip, we'll begin building a large hospital at the entrance—"
I interrupted before he could continue. "Father," I asked, "how come I've been tagging along on these work trips recently?" The question was simple, but the answer I anticipated would not be.
Another man—an executive, I assumed—added without preamble, "There are still people living in this village, but the entire place will be razed to the ground within the next three months."
I turned my gaze downward. The village lay beneath us, small and defenseless, its people unaware of the looming devastation. The world my father inhabited was no longer abstract lessons or tidy business theory—it was ruthless, unyielding, and absolute.
Later, I attempted to confront him, though "confront" felt like too bold a word. "You said you were only going to teach me how to run the family business."
His eyes—cold, calculating, unwavering—locked onto mine. "Victor," he said, using my older name in a rare acknowledgment of my other identity, "things have changed. I plan to leave my company to whichever one of you turns out to be smarter and more capable."
The words hit me with unexpected force. He leaned closer, the weight of his authority pressing against me. "The business world is cutthroat, a never-ending competition, and ultimately only the richest and most successful survive. I have no intention of passing down the Grayan name to a failure who falls behind. Both of you better keep that in mind."
I met his gaze, unflinching, though the tension coiled tight in my chest. The Grayan name, once a simple banner of family pride, had transformed into a gauntlet, an inescapable trial by fire. And with that, the rules had changed: I was no longer just a student—I was a competitor, measured against my own brother, tested by my father's ruthless standard.
I stared back, the weight of expectation, of legacy, and of competition settling upon me like a stone I could neither lift nor discard.
"Yes, Father," I said, my voice steady, betraying none of the shock and unease that churned in my chest. The new rules of succession, brutal and unyielding, pressed down on me like a weight I could not yet comprehend.
From that moment onward, the dynamic between my older brother, Victor, and me shifted irrevocably. His gaze, once indifferent or occasionally amused, now lingered with thinly veiled hostility. Our shared childhood—moments spent playing or learning side by side—crumbled under the pressure of competition. Victor grew distant, unwilling even to spend time with our mother, and his enthusiasm for Dalincour, the prestigious school he had always dreamed of attending, began to wane.
One afternoon, he confronted our mother as she lingered in the drawing room.
"Where are you going, Victor?" she asked gently, concern flickering in her eyes.
"I don't have time to sit around chatting about frivolous matters with you, Mother," he replied, his tone sharp, almost bitter. "Unless you have anything else to tell me, I shall take my leave."
Even Victor, my father's favored firstborn, was not immune to the pressures now shaping our family. He tried to negotiate, to bend the rules to his favor.
"In that case, let me at least live at home instead of moving into the school dormitory," Victor pleaded one evening. "I'd like to use that time to gain more practical knowledge from you, Father."
His request was met with thunder.
"You'd like to be homeschooled instead of going to Dalincour? What utter rot!" my father bellowed, his voice reverberating through the study. "A child of a prestigious family like ours without a diploma from Dalincour? You would be a disgrace to the family name. Do as I say and enroll next year!"
Victor was rejected outright. I could sense the worry simmering beneath his pride—fear that while he was confined to a dormitory, I would seize every opportunity to outshine him, to secure our father's approval.
Meanwhile, I was being drawn deeper into my father's world, learning lessons far removed from textbooks and polite conversation.
"Starting today," he said as we walked through the echoing halls of a disused warehouse district, "you'll learn all about the different types of guns and bullets, how they work, how they're constructed, and marksmanship."
My education was no longer a mere preparation for corporate leadership. It was a full immersion into the mechanics, strategy, and ruthlessness of the world my father inhabited.
"Take a good look, Eiser," he instructed, leading me past rows of abandoned factories, their windows shattered, walls scorched. "All of these abandoned factories will be completely transformed into a complex of new factories. Various companies in industries such as parts manufacturing and electricity will either move or be newly constructed here, and we will receive rental revenue from them."
But as my father spoke with the detached precision of a man surveying chess pieces, I became aware of the cost behind the vision. A sound—a sharp, terrible sound—cut through the air.
"CLICK!"
A scream followed, raw and desperate.
"S-SOMEBODY HELP!"
I turned just in time to see a woman trapped behind a closing industrial door, her hands pressing futilely against the steel. Panic clawed at her face, and I realized, with a chill settling deep in my chest, that this was a casualty of progress—an expendable figure in the machinery of my father's empire.
I stood frozen, helpless, as the full weight of his power and its consequences became painfully clear. This was not merely about business, or even survival—it was about dominance. The world my father built spared no one, and I was no longer shielded by my mother's protection. For the first time, I faced the naked, unforgiving truth of the empire I was destined to inherit.
The woman's desperation was palpable. She lunged forward, her hand clutching my coat as though my presence alone could save her.
"Help us! W-we have a child about his age too, and he's all alone at home. Without us, he'll end up being sent to an orphanage!" she cried, her voice trembling, raw with fear.
I stood frozen, paralyzed by a mixture of shock and disbelief. The world I had begun to understand through my father's lessons suddenly felt unbearably real.
Father noticed the commotion immediately. His eyes narrowed, sharp and unforgiving.
"Who is this woman?" he demanded, his voice dangerously low, a growl that seemed to echo off the walls.
She ignored him, her gaze fixed solely on me. "I swear we'll pay you back. Please, give us a little more time, for our child's sake. Please!"
Before I could even open my mouth, his voice transformed, hissing with venom.
"How dare you touch my son with those filthy hands of yours?! Get this woman out of here now!"
One of his men scrambled forward, panic written all over his posture.
"Hey! Why did you let her through the door?! Grab her!" He turned to Father, bowing his head in abject fear. "I'm so sorry, Sir Dustin. We'll deal with her immediately!"
I felt it before I even heard it: a hand clamped down on her wrist, the sickening SQUEEZE sending a shiver of terror through her. Her hand trembled violently in the man's grip, and a strangled cry escaped her lips.
Father's fury radiated outward. "How could they have let riff-raff like her sneak in here?"
"I'm sorry, Sir. I'll give them a stern talking-to," the man stammered, voice quivering.
Then came the deafening WHAM of the heavy door slamming shut and locking, cutting off her screams as they faded into a haunting echo.
"Where do you think you're going?" a subordinate's voice yelled, followed by a terrifying YANK and a choked AAAHHHH!
Father's voice cut through the chaos, sharp, cold, utterly devoid of pity.
"Well, a child just lost his mother. Find him and send him to the nearest orphanage, and once he reaches adulthood, send him a demand letter for the outstanding debt and send him to our factory as per standard procedure."
This was how Father operated: swift, efficient, methodical. Every obstacle removed, every inefficiency eliminated, no questions asked.
And in that moment, witnessing the complete, callous destruction of a family's life for profit, the truth settled over me like ice:
Anyone who he found to be a nuisance…
Anyone who interfered with his work…
Anyone whose death he stood to profit from…
Anyone who he deemed necessary to make disappear…
Anyone who was no longer useful to him…
…he killed them off.
No exceptions. No hesitation.
Not even my mother.
I knew the truth now. The rules were absolute. My father would eliminate anyone who was no longer useful to him, anyone he stood to profit from, anyone who interfered with his work, or anyone he deemed necessary to make disappear. And no one—no one—was an exception. Not even my mother.
A few days later, chaos arrived at our doorstep. The heavy, purposeful footsteps echoed through the halls: STOMP. STOMP. STOMP.
The Royal Police, flanked by soldiers, were here. Panic rippled through my father's staff.
"How could you let them find out about this?!" Father's voice thundered, slamming a door shut with a force that rattled the walls. "That place is off-limits to anyone other than me and my family!"
One of his subordinates wiped the sweat from his brow, voice faltering. "I-I'm so sorry… perhaps there is another way—"
"There is no other way!" another associate snapped, cutting him off. "Lady Joanna is absolutely enraged! There is no way this will go away quietly—not with her frothing at the mouth. It will only end if someone in this family takes responsibility!"
The weight of the situation settled over me, suffocating and cold. The consequences of my father's ruthless empire had landed squarely on our family. They needed a scapegoat. They needed one who bore the Grayan name.
I acted instantly. My mind was sharp, focused, knowing what had to be done.
I found my mother resting in her room, unaware of the approaching storm. I grasped her hand firmly and pulled her along. "Come with me, Mother. Quickly. Hurry," I urged, my voice tight with urgency, betraying nothing of the terror I felt.
"What's the matter, Eiser?" she asked, confusion and concern mingling in her eyes.
I didn't answer. There was no time for words. I dragged her up the stairs, past familiar hallways, to the attic Victor and I had used from time to time in our childhood. Only Victor and I had the keys to that room.
I unlocked the door and pushed her inside. CLICK.
The attic, once a sanctuary of childhood mischief and innocent secrets, now became a prison. My mother—my innocent, kind mother—was trapped there, a victim of circumstance, of my father's demands, and of the cruel necessity imposed by the weight of the Grayan name.
As the door closed behind her, the truth burned in my chest like molten iron. I had done what I had to do. To protect the family name. To protect the legacy. To survive.
And yet, in the silence that followed, the ache of guilt and horror whispered that survival came at an unbearable cost.
"Eiser? Why are you locking us in here and blocking the door?" my mother's voice was strained, a mixture of fear and confusion threading through every syllable.
I looked at her, my resolve hardening with each heartbeat. "The royal police and soldiers are here looking for you. You need to hide in here."
Her eyes widened, disbelief flickering across her face. "Eiser… this won't solve anything. Step aside," she said urgently, her hands reaching toward me.
"No, Mother. Stay here," I pleaded, gripping the doorknob with all my strength. "I'll go and tell those men that it was all Father's doing!"
"But you're not to blame for any of this. Why do you have to go with them? Don't go… please." Her voice broke slightly, a tremor that stabbed through me like a blade.
I held the doorknob tighter, my knuckles white, desperation clawing at my chest. Every instinct screamed that I had to protect her, even as I realized the futility of the situation.
For a brief moment, she seemed taken aback by my words, but then she forced a gentle smile, one that didn't reach her eyes. It was the same kind of smile she had given me countless times before—a shield, a reassurance she would offer even in the worst of storms.
"You don't have anything to worry about," she said softly. "I simply need to go speak to those grown-ups and answer a few questions, that's all. I'll be home before you know it."
Her attempt at calmness, her effortless courage, both steadied me and broke me all at once.
And so, the utterly meaningless stand-off between us stretched on, ten minutes that felt like an eternity. My hands ached from gripping the doorknob so tightly, the circulation in my fingers cutting off as numbness began to creep in. I felt every second press down on me like a weight, a cruel reminder of how powerless I was to shield her from the forces closing in.
Then, the sound of the door moving—a soft click, almost imperceptible at first—made my heart drop into my stomach.
A flash of blue eyes appeared, and I realized with cold dread that someone had entered.
A voice, terrible and familiar, echoed from the hall, confirming the truth I had been trying to deny.
"See? I told you she'd be in here, Father."
The figure holding the key snickered, a cruel, mocking sound that made my stomach churn.
And then I recognized him—the man whose shadow had loomed over my entire childhood, whose authority and ruthlessness shaped everything I had come to know. Calm, too calm, he addressed me as though the world were a mere lesson in obedience.
"You saw her not too long ago. There isn't anything I can do about your mother right now. Don't concern yourself with the affairs of grown-ups and focus on your studies."
The words cut into me, sharper than any blade. Cold, precise, devoid of comfort.
He continued, his tone deliberate, like a teacher delivering a grim lesson. "Sometimes, you must be willing to give up the things that are precious to you in order to protect what's important."
A hollow promise followed, meant to soothe me but only deepening the fracture in my chest.
"I will try to bring her home as soon as possible."
I sank to the floor, shattered, the door between us both a literal and symbolic barrier. The weight of betrayal pressed down on me. I realized, with a sickening clarity, that even when my father's words seemed gentle, even when they were cloaked in care, they were lessons forged in cold steel—a reminder that, in his world, everything and everyone was measured by utility, not love.
My father—the man who had just handed my mother over to the authorities without hesitation—looked at me with an unsettling, unnerving calm.
"You saw her not too long ago. There isn't anything I can do about your mother right now. Don't concern yourself with the affairs of grown-ups and focus on your studies."
His voice held neither remorse nor conflict. Only cold practicality.
Then came his philosophy, delivered like a lesson I was meant to memorize.
"Sometimes, you must be willing to give up the things that are precious to you in order to protect what's important."
And finally, the hollow promise, tossed out like an afterthought.
"I will try to bring her home as soon as possible."
I stared at him, my mind swirling, recoiling from the horror of what he had done—and from the terrifying ease with which he justified it. Somehow, I found the strength to speak.
"So you mean… money is more important than Mother?"
He snickered. A small, chilling sound. He leaned back as though we were merely discussing numbers on a ledger.
"There isn't anything in this world that is as indisputably and objectively valuable as money, especially in large amounts," he said, his tone dripping with condescension. "You might think something is precious to you, but that's just a subjective judgment call made in the spur of the moment. It becomes worthless the minute you change your mind."
And then he delivered the punchline—calm, rational, monstrous.
"It is a businessman's job to be profit-minded. I'm simply always choosing the thing that holds more value. What is wrong with that?"
My chest tightened. He wasn't talking about objects. He was talking about her. About my mother.
"You don't hesitate to include Mother in those calculations of yours," I said, the truth burning like acid on my tongue. "And ultimately… to you, the value my mother holds is lesser than that of money."
The older boy who had helped betray her—his accomplice—smiled. A sharp, sinister grin cut across his face.
"A quick study, indeed. You truly are my son." He snickered again, softly, mockingly.
And the one who had pointed them to her—the boy with the key—turned away with a twisted smile. A cruel, silent grin that made bile rise in my throat.
Those vile lips… curved upward even after sending his own mother to her death.
What exactly is it that he finds so amusing?
A cold, dark fury seeped through my veins. Something inside me shifted—quietly, decisively.
I let out a slow, soundless breath.
Then I moved.
I crossed the room to the side table, each step sharp, deliberate. My hand reached out, steady and certain, closing around the hunting knife that lay there.
I turned, the weight of the blade firm in my grip, and began to stride toward them—
a single, devastating thought consuming my mind.
---
The older boy—my half‑brother—looked at the knife in my hand with a smug, dismissive smirk. To him, it was nothing more than a childish tantrum. A meaningless threat from a boy too emotional to understand "value." He was too blinded by the wealth and favor he believed he'd gained to recognize what any of this truly cost.
He didn't see the rage.
He didn't see the betrayal.
He didn't see me.
With a powerful SLASH, I brought the knife down.
His eyes widened. His smirk shattered.
He didn't even have time to scream a full word—only a drawn‑out, broken,
"AAAAAAHHHH—!"
He stumbled backward, hands flying to the side of his torso where the blade had torn through flesh. The splatter that burst out was not red—but green—staining the polished, opulent floor with an ugly, sickening smear. The room that represented my father's empire now bore the mark of my rebellion.
"Father," I whispered.
But it wasn't him on the ground.
I stood over the writhing half‑brother who had mocked my mother's suffering. The knife dripped steadily, its weight unbearably heavy, yet steady in my hand. I lifted my gaze toward the entrance of the main drawing room, where the royal soldiers stood frozen in disbelief.
This was the moment.
My truth.
My defiance.
"I just hurt someone," I said, voice calm, almost eerily so. "Please call the police."
The adrenaline drained from me, leaving behind a cold, unwavering clarity. I looked down once more at the bleeding form, then straight ahead.
"I'd like to join my mother in prison."
My real father—the man whose worldview had poisoned every corner of this estate—finally understood what I had done. And why. A chilling smirk curved his lips, as though even this act of revolt amused him.
I met his stare without flinching, the knife still hanging from my fingers.
"I believe my time would be much better spent rotting away in prison… than learning anything from you, Father."
DRIP.
The first drop of blood hit the marble.
DRIP.
Another followed, echoing through the silent hall.
I had chosen my path.
And even if that path led to a cell, sitting behind bars beside Mother was worth more than all the freedom this house could offer. Because this house—his house—was already a prison of its own.
---
About two weeks after Mother was arrested…
…I found myself sitting alone in the garden behind the manor. The world felt quieter there—still, muted, like it was holding its breath along with me. I had built little stone cairns beside the pond, stacking each piece with care, each tower a wordless wish, a prayer, a plea.
A shadow approached.
"Hello, young master," a voice said gently.
I turned slightly. The man wore a trench coat and hat, a briefcase in hand. Well‑dressed. Composed. Familiar.
It was Geofric, one of our family solicitors.
He stepped closer to the edge of the pond, watching the cairns with an almost fond expression.
"I always see you by yourself out here, stacking stones," he observed with a soft smile. "They say the act of stacking stones is meant to either bring good luck or ward off bad luck."
I didn't look at him directly. My fingers continued adjusting the small tower before me.
"Did you read that in a book?" he asked lightly.
"I don't know anything about that," I said, dismissive, though the truth stung beneath my ribs. I wouldn't admit the fear, the hope, the silent desperation behind the ritual.
Behind every stone
was a wish for Mother.
---
"I don't know anything about that," I repeated, my voice flat, emotion carefully held at bay. "I just started stacking a stone each time I saw someone die."
The solicitor, Geofric, flinched slightly, as though my words had pierced deeper than he expected. "Uh… pardon?"
"Every time I witnessed someone die in this house," I clarified, gesturing toward the carefully arranged stacks of stones, each one a silent testament. "I stacked a stone. And… this is how many I ended up with."
He paused, scanning the uneven towers, his eyes finally landing on a solitary, vivid stone. "Oh… and what about that red stone over there?"
I looked down at the blood-red rock nestled near the base of one of the stacks. It gleamed like a small, cruel heart against the gray stones.
"That's for my mother," I said softly, each word heavy with unspoken grief.
My chest ached as I added the next words, the ones I had rehearsed only in my mind. "I'll set it at the very top when she eventually passes away."
Geofric let out a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh. "Whew… You'll see your mother soon. I am doing my utmost to make that happen."
There was genuine compassion in his eyes, a warmth that reminded me how rare such kindness was in this house. "Would you mind if I sat here with you for a while?" he asked gently.
He lowered himself to the grass beside me, placing his briefcase carefully on the ground. He looked at the pond, at the cairns, and then back to me, his presence quiet but steady.
"I promise… that I'll bring your mother home no matter what."
Geofric was a good person. A decent, moral grown-up. The kind of adult who would stoop to comfort a child lost in a world built on cruelty and calculation. Even knowing how my father would have hated the idea of us speaking alone, he had chosen to do it anyway.
Suddenly, a spark of mischief—or perhaps inspiration—flickered in his eyes. "Ah! I just had an excellent idea. Young master, why don't we meet right here once per week?"
I considered it silently, a flicker of relief tugging at me. Here was someone who refused to accept my father's poisonous worldview, someone who understood the difference between right and wrong.
My father, the man who had abandoned my mother for fortune and power, would have continued to preach his venomous philosophy:
"Do not be swayed by the people who get down on their knees and beg for sympathy and understanding. Some sacrifices are always necessary for the greater good."
But Geofric offered me something entirely different: guidance, kindness, and a moral compass in a home where morality had long been twisted by greed.
From that day on, our secret meetings became a sanctuary. I had to be careful—careful not to let my father or his followers discover them—but I came to treasure the time spent with him.
For in my mother's absence, Geofric was the only person who taught me the difference between right and wrong.
It was thanks to these conversations, these quiet lessons amid the stones and the pond, that I began to resist my father's indoctrination. Slowly, carefully, I reclaimed a piece of myself that had nearly been lost to the cold calculus of power.
I remember how much I respected Geoffric back then.
In a house where every adult wielded power like a weapon, he was the only one who wielded kindness.
He wasn't just a solicitor.
He was… perhaps the father figure I had always wanted.
He spoke with the sort of grounded wisdom my own father mocked.
He said things that sounded almost foreign within these walls:
"All life is precious. You cannot define a person's worth by their material wealth."
To a boy raised in a mansion built on greed, those words were rebellion.
And I clung to them. I clung to him.
I listened to him discuss other adults with admiration, never envy.
Once, someone asked him:
"Isn't it impressive how Sir Dustin is able to accomplish so much, even in such difficult times?"
And Geoffric had smiled — not the sly, poisonous smiles my father dealt in, but something genuine, warm.
"Not everyone could do what he does, no matter how hard they try. He has many commendable qualities. There's a lot one could learn from him too."
He called Sir Dustin a real grown-up.
I understood what he meant: someone who did not crush others to stand tall. Someone who grew through integrity.
Geoffric never preached righteousness; he lived it, gently, consistently.
And for the first time, I felt that a grown-up's guidance could be trusted.
Those weeks with him were a small, flickering beacon in my otherwise suffocating world.
But I was living suspended over a single promise — the promise he'd given me by the pond.
And four months later… it happened.
It began with a sound.
A terrible, agonizing—
CREEEAK.
The front doors groaned open, a sound so slow and heavy it seemed to drag the air down with it.
My heart stopped.
Then it shattered into motion.
I ran. Through the grand, echoing hallways, my steps frantic and uneven.
STEP—STEP—STEP—
"MOTHER!"
My voice cracked, raw with hope and fear rolled into one unbearable knot.
The corridor ahead was dark.
Too dark.
When I reached the doorway, something inside me jolted so hard my bones felt it.
FLINCH.
I caught a glimpse of my own eyes in the shadow—wide, terrified, unable to understand what I was about to see.
Then she stepped forward.
Or perhaps stumbled.
I reached out, my hands trembling, barely my own.
When her hands touched mine—
GRAB
—my breath left me.
Her fingers were thin.
Too thin.
Her skin stretched over bone like paper.
GAUNT.
She looked as though she had been drained of life, stripped bare of everything but the faint outline of who she once was.
Her face…
ashen, hollow, framed by limp, dark hair that clung to her cheeks.
The world around her went sickly green, as though even the air recoiled from what had been done to her.
"MOTHER…?"
I whispered, choking on the word.
Relief and horror collided violently in my chest —
the joy of her return,
the pain of what she had endured,
the terror that I had been too late.
Slowly, gently, I pulled her into my arms.
A mother returned.
A mother broken.
A promise fulfilled…
but at a cost I hadn't been prepared to witness.