---flashback continue
The forest had always been my refuge. At eighteen, I believed the trees were shields and the silence was mercy. I remember the way the morning fog curled between the trunks like pale ghosts, the cold weight of the rifle in my hands, and the naïve belief that I understood what danger was.
But now—standing before him—that memory twisted into something grotesque.
"Do you remember, when you were eighteen years old, practicing your marksmanship in the forest?"
His voice, low and hoarse with age, scraped against my nerves. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation wrapped in nostalgia, the kind that curls into your bones and forces you to relive something you never wanted to see again.
A tight knot coiled deep in my stomach.
"What, or who, rather, do you think it is that you shot that day?"
My breath stalled. The room felt suddenly smaller, the shadows darker. I stared at the floor because looking anywhere else threatened to shatter me.
No.
The denial screamed through my head, raw and frantic.
No. Please. Please don't let this be real.
My lips pressed into a rigid line, every muscle in my face strained to keep panic from showing.
The memory was still fog-shrouded: a rustle in the bushes, a silhouette, a flash of movement, the instinctive pull of the trigger. I had dismissed it as a deer. Or convinced myself it was one.
But his voice pulled the truth closer with every word.
"I'd had no idea that a mere employee of mine was secretly meeting with my son every week... and that the conversations he had with you would interfere with your education."
The solicitor.
A flicker of him—gentle eyes, earnest voice, genuine concern—rose in my mind like a ghost summoned by guilt. A man who had spoken to me as if I were a person, not an heir.
My father's glare pinned me like a blade. The only thing visible beneath the shadow of his brow was the cold gleam in his eyes, sharper than any weapon.
"I did think it strange that you didn't obey me unquestioningly like Victor did."
He paused, savoring the confession like something sweet.
"If only I'd found out about those meetings of yours earlier."
My heartbeat thudded painfully in my throat.
He wasn't lying. He wasn't even angry. He was triumphant.
I swallowed hard, but my mouth was dry, chalky. The solicitor's sudden death—something we were told was a tragic accident—now stood before me as something far darker.
A sneer drifted from the side.
Victor.
"So it was all because of that solicitor. He rightly deserved to die… for filling your heads with all kinds of foolishness."
The heartless twist of his lips ignited something sharp and violent inside me. Injustice burned like fire under my sternum.
I turned toward my father—not because I had courage, but because I could no longer stomach the silence.
"How…"
The word cracked out of me, strangled and trembling.
He waited, expectant, patient, like a hunter indulging a dying prey.
The dam broke.
"CAN YOU BE SO CRUEL?"
The question ripped straight from the center of me. My hands shook. My jaw ached from how tightly I held myself together. Even then, my voice frayed at the edges, caught between grief and fury.
I saw the memory clearly now:
The solicitor defending my father when no one else would.
Telling me—begging me—to believe in the man behind the power.
Working tirelessly, day after day, even as others mocked or dismissed him.
And now—
"When other people, no… even when I criticized you, he was loyal to you and did his job to the best of his ability until the very end… and he rebuked me for speaking ill of you, telling me that you were a great man."
My breath trembled.
He had believed in the monster standing before me.
"Not only did he work hard for you, he did his best to save my mother's life… and mine!"
The weight of the truth crashed down.
My vision blurred with the threat of tears I refused to shed.
"Punishing me or simply dismissing him would have sufficed! Why did you have to go that far?! WHY?!"
My voice fractured. The words tore from my throat, raw and desperate.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then—
A click of the tongue.
A sound of disappointment.
Or annoyance.
"Tsk."
He lifted his head. His face showed a mockery of sorrow, eyes glistening with fake tears he didn't even bother to hide.
"Like I always told you, don't get soft."
Each syllable fell like a stone.
"All in all, it's for the best. Now that you know what it's like to get rid of someone close to you, you won't have any qualms."
His voice was final.
Cold.
Triumphant.
The words closed around me like the bars of a cage.
He had not only killed the man who tried to save me—
He had weaponized me to do it.
And now, he expected me to walk the bloodstained path he had carved…
…without ever looking back.
---
The truth didn't simply dawn on me—it crashed into me like a collapsing world.
The memory of Geofric resurfaced with brutal clarity: his calm, wise voice, the gentle way he would tilt his head when I spoke, the warmth of that peaceful afternoon by the pond. The sun had been soft that day, the lilies swaying lightly on the water's surface. We talked of ordinary things—things that made me feel human.
Now that same memory twisted like a knife.
"...I... I killed..."
The words were barely a whisper, raw and strangled, torn from somewhere deep and wounded inside me. They were the truth, finally spoken aloud—and immediately crushed beneath the weight of my father's command.
"No more of that. It's all in the past. Now all you need to do is carry on the Grayan name, just as I taught you. Only look to the future, Eiser."
Eiser.
The name landed like a shackle around my neck. It wasn't who I was—it was who he wanted me to be. A vessel. A weapon. A legacy carved from cruelty.
My voice cracked when I breathed out,
"How can a person… think that way?"
It wasn't just a question. It was an accusation. A plea. A cry to the universe, asking why such monstrous minds were allowed to exist.
My thoughts spiraled back to Geofric—the man who had shown me more kindness in a handful of conversations than my father had in an entire lifetime. His quiet patience. His unwavering belief in goodness, even when the world around us was rotting.
In the end, he died for the sin of… speaking to me and comforting me.
Comforting. That was all it took to seal his fate.
My father had seen those conversations as contamination. Independent thought was rebellion. And Geofric? He was the source of the infection.
What was so terrible about those brief conversations he and I shared? Did he deserve to lose his life over them? And not only that… but with my own two hands…
Shame, guilt, horror—each emotion pressed down on my lungs until breathing became a punishment.
My father watched me like I was a misbehaving child, not a son shattering beneath the weight of his confession.
His voice returned, cold and formulaic, as if reading from the same twisted script he'd used my whole life:
"All in all, it's for the best. Now that you know what it's like to get rid of someone close to you, you won't have any qualms about doing it again when it becomes necessary."
It was like speaking to a slab of stone—unmoved, unfeeling, impenetrable.
It's like talking to a brick wall…
A brick wall that wore the face of my father.
He rose with deliberate calm, reaching for the carved serpent-headed cane beside his chair. His fingers curled around it lovingly, the way someone might hold a cherished heirloom. The serpent's cold, glinting eyes caught the dim light, mirroring the venom that dripped effortlessly from his words.
"All that's left is to marry that De Laurent girl and enjoy the wealth and power I pass down to you. What is so difficult about that?"
His casual tone—so oblivious, so utterly detached from humanity—set something inside me cracking.
Grinding.
GRIT.
My teeth clenched so tightly my jaw throbbed. The truth about Geofric—the unbearable truth—was the breaking point, the moment my fragile balance finally toppled.
Learning the truth about Geofric's death was the catalyst that shattered the reason I'd been patiently and precariously holding on to…
The world around me warped.
The carpet, the walls, the chandelier—they all blurred, melting into a nauseating haze of sickly green. The entire room felt poisoned, as if the air itself had absorbed decades of Grayan cruelty.
A sickening, stifling feeling that pressed on my throat and robbed me of air…
My breaths came shallow, ragged.
The manor no longer felt like a home—if it ever had. It felt like the belly of a beast. A giant serpent, coiled and ancient, tightening around me inch by inch.
A listlessness that made everything I'd been working towards seem utterly futile.
Every effort I'd made to be my own person, every desperate hope of escaping his shadow—it all crumbled.
My life?
Tainted.
My ambitions?
Contaminated.
My very identity?
Worthless.
At that moment, it felt as though I was trapped inside the belly of a giant snake…
The air thickened until it felt liquid.
Heavy.
Unbearable.
…and that if I stayed in this cursed house even a moment longer, I would suffocate to death.
The decision wasn't conscious.
It was instinct.
A survival reflex.
I turned my back on him—on the name Grayan—on every poisoned expectation he had ever forced onto me.
I cursed the fact that I was born in this family, as the son of that heinous, irredeemable man.
I didn't know where I would go.
I didn't know what would happen.
But I knew one thing with absolute, soul-deep certainty:
I needed to leave this manor at once.
I took a step.
Then another.
TURN. STEP.
Each footfall carried me farther from the serpent's lair, from the suffocating jaws that had held me captive my entire life.
I didn't look back.
I couldn't.
But I walked—forward, desperate, trembling—
not knowing where I was going, but knowing I could never look back.
I FELT AS THOUGH I WAS ON THE VERGE OF COMMITTING A TERRIBLE, REGRETTABLE ACT.
But the terror wasn't in the act itself—it was in how natural it felt. My pulse thundered, not with panic this time, but with a cold, crystalline certainty. Every dark thought, every suffocating moment, every injustice I'd swallowed for years… they all aligned into a single, unshakable truth.
Something inside me had snapped into place.
"WHAT?"
My father's voice was a quiet snarl, a warning edged with the promise of violence.
Slowly, deliberately, I raised my head. His eyes—those sharp, venom-laced eyes—met mine. He was furious, yes, but also blind. Blind to me. Blind to the consequences of his cruelty. Blind to the reality that the power he worshiped was the very thing driving me away.
"I WILL LEAVE."
The words fell between us like a blade driven into the floor.
Final.
Undeniable.
For the first time in my life, I saw something almost fragile in his expression: disbelief. His face warped, contorting into an expression I had never seen him wear—not even in his fits of wrath.
"WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?! YOU MEAN TO CAST ASIDE THE GRAYAN NAME OVER THE DEATH OF A MERE SOLICITOR? HAVE YOU COMPLETELY LOST IT?!"
A mere solicitor.
The man whose kindness had held me together.
The man whose death he had orchestrated.
His inability to understand only confirmed what I already knew: he and I were not the same. We had never been the same.
I inhaled slowly, letting a strange, icy calm settle over my bones. My voice, when it came, felt like it was carved from that very coldness.
"SUCCESS AND RENOWN BUILT THROUGH VILE, LOATHSOME MEANS.
IF ANYTHING, THIS FAMILY HAS BEEN A CURSE.
NOT ONCE HAVE I WANTED WHAT IT HAD TO OFFER."
My hand closed around the door handle.
CLENCH.
The metal felt colder than it should, as if mirroring the decisive chill in my veins.
My father, desperate to regain control, shifted tactics with the fluidity of a predator. His voice dropped into the familiar cadence of manipulation—bargaining through greed, belittling, and fear.
"ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS ENJOY EVERYTHING I HAVE ACCUMULATED AND BUILT WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS, SO WHY IS IT THAT YOU'RE PERPETUALLY DISSATISFIED WITH YOUR LOT?!"
He gestured angrily toward the shelves, the paintings, the wealth sealing us in like an airtight tomb.
"DO YOU THINK THE FAMILY BUSINESS WOULD HAVE GROWN TO THE SCALE IT IS NOW IF EVERYTHING HAD BEEN FAIR AND ABOVEBOARD?!"
The very pride he spoke with was nauseating.
His voice cracked like a whip:
"STOP BEING SO OBSTINATE AND LISTEN TO YOUR FATHER.
IF YOU LEAVE THIS HOUSE, YOU WON'T EVEN LAST A YEAR!"
A year?
I would rather die struggling for my own breath than live a lifetime suffocating under his.
The choice was stark—laid bare in front of me.
WHETHER IT WAS KILLING YOU AND LIVING OUT THE REST OF MY LIFE AS SOMEONE EXACTLY LIKE YOU...
OR FOLLOWING MY MOTHER AND GEOFFRIC IN DEATH...
Both paths were cages. Both were endings.
I would choose neither.
My voice came out steady—stitched together with resolve that no threat could tarnish:
"I WILL FORFEIT THE GRAYAN NAME.
DON'T LOOK FOR ME.
I SHALL NEVER RETURN."
The laugh that burst from him was brittle, edged with disbelief… and fear.
CHUCKLE.
"YOU THINK I WON'T BE ABLE TO DO IT?" I asked, my quiet tone slicing through his mocking laughter.
His response erupted like a dam breaking:
"WHAT NONSENSE! I KNOW YOU DO NOT MEAN A WORD OF WHAT YOU ARE SAYING! YOU'VE LIVED AS A PRIVILEGED NOBLE ALL YOUR LIFE! WHAT COULD YOU EVEN HOPE TO ACCOMPLISH AFTER LEAVING THIS FAMILY?!
YOU WON'T AMOUNT TO ANYTHING WITHOUT A SINGLE PENNY OR THE PRESTIGE OF THE GRAYAN NAME!"
I pulled the door open.
CREEEAK.
The ancient hinges cried out, their echo drifting through the heavy silence like a proclamation of rebellion.
Behind me, for the first time in years—perhaps my entire life—my father's voice wavered, cracking with something raw and unguarded.
"WH-WHY YOU...!"
I didn't turn around.
I didn't have to.
His final roar—pure betrayal, pure fury—shook the walls:
HOW DARE...
HOW DARE YOU BETRAY ME LIKE THIS!
I stepped forward into the corridor, into the green-tinged gloom of the manor's labyrinthine halls. The air out here was no cleaner, no kinder—but it was mine to breathe.
I left the Grayan legacy behind me.
Left the rot.
Left the name.
I had cast aside my identity to save my soul.
The path ahead would be long, dangerous, and solitary.
But it would be mine.
My father's shouts echoed down the silent corridors like the dying bellows of a beast caught in its own snare.
"AFTER HOW MUCH I DOTED ON YOU! I MADE IT SO THAT NO ONE ASIDE FROM YOU WOULD BE CAPABLE OF RUNNING MY BUSINESS IN MY STEAD! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME NOW, EISER!"
His voice cracked, the polished veneer of authority crumbling into something raw and grasping.
"ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?! EISER!
EISER!!!"
The sharp, frantic tap—tap—tap of his serpent-handled cane stabbed at the silence. But even that familiar threat—the promise of his rage—grew fainter with each step I took away from him, dissolving into the stagnant air of the manor halls.
I didn't dare look back.
I refused to give that house, that man, that legacy a second glance.
Not even at the black suit he wore like armor.
Not at the gold trim of his cane, the emblem of a power built on shattered lives.
When I finally crossed the threshold and stepped outside, the world felt both too vast and too narrow at once. My lungs struggled to expand in air no longer curated by fear.
AFTER LEAVING HOME, I STAYED FOR A WHILE AT A SMALL HOTEL SUITE LOVIS HAD PROCURED FOR ME.
The room was beautiful—excessively so. Plush carpets, polished wood, gilded lamps. A softer echo of the opulence I had just fled. Lovis had meant well; he always did. But luxury was a poor balm. It only reminded me how deeply my life had been shaped by transactions, bribery, and spectacle.
Losing Geofric was losing my conscience; escaping was losing my entire world.
Freedom, for the first time in my life, did not feel like liberation—it felt like falling.
AND AS FOR MYSELF, UNABLE TO THINK ABOUT OR FOCUS ON ANYTHING—
I WHILED MY DAYS AWAY IN THE ROOM, STILL AS A CORPSE...
I lay sideways on the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling through half-lidded eyes. The curtains were drawn tight, so only thin slivers of harsh daylight pierced through—scalpel-like, cutting into the stagnant gloom.
My hand armored my eyes from even that weak light. My thoughts were a shapeless, suffocating mass pressing against my skull.
Geofric's voice echoed in my ears.
My father's command overshadowed every breath.
The image of the pond, the flowers, the rifle—blurred into a haze of guilt and nausea.
Who was I supposed to be now?
Eiser Grayan was a polished puppet with pre-carved strings. Without them, I was inert. Broken. A hollow shell left behind after the puppeteer lost control and discarded his toy.
DIAH KNEW WHICH HOTEL I WAS STAYING AT,
BUT NOT ONCE DID SHE COME TO SEE ME...
Her absence gnawed at me.
Diah De Laurent—the girl I had been meant to marry, the alliance forged by our fathers' iron hands. The engagement had been a political tool, yet I had allowed myself the faintest hope that she, at least, saw me as more than capital to be exchanged.
But days passed.
And the door never knocked.
Still, I told myself excuses.
Perhaps her father had restricted her.
Perhaps she was under pressure.
Perhaps she waited for news of my decision.
Foolish. But hope often is.
ONCE I REGAINED MY SENSES A BIT, HOWEVER,
I THOUGHT OF DIAH AND WENT TO SEE HER.
It took effort—physical effort—to rise from the bed, to gather myself enough to look presentable, and to step outside into a city that suddenly felt foreign. The hotel lobby's brightness was abrasive; the street's noise, overwhelming.
But I walked.
I told myself she deserved an explanation.
That I owed her honesty after shattering the political marriage her family depended on.
That I might salvage something of the promise we once exchanged—quietly, secretly—far away from our fathers' schemes.
AS MY ACTIONS HAD THROWN A WRENCH IN HER PLANS,
WHILE IT MIGHT BE TOO LATE,
I WANTED TO KEEP OUR PROMISE BY OTHER MEANS IF POSSIBLE.
Maybe we could renegotiate.
Find another path.
One free of the Grayan curse.
I stood before her family's estate—another fortress wrapped in wealth, another façade of security hiding rot beneath the gilding. I steadied myself, rehearsing the explanation I had practiced in the mirror.
But I was already too late.
BUT IT SEEMED DIAH...
...HAD COME UP WITH A NEW PLAN SINCE.
Through one of the tall, arched windows, I saw them—Diah and a man I did not recognize. They were locked in a fierce, unmistakably intimate embrace, bodies pressed too close, too willing.
The sight struck like a blow to the ribs, knocking the breath from me.
The window glass tinted their silhouettes in a sickly green haze, a color that chased me from the Grayan manor to this estate, staining the world with betrayal.
It wasn't just my father who had betrayed me.
Diah had not hesitated.
Had not waited.
Had not wondered whether I was alive or dead or ruined.
While I fought to reclaim my soul, she had effortlessly pivoted—choosing a new political ally, a new future, a new shield for the De Laurent ambitions.
I had been replaced before I even arrived at her gate.
To her, too, I had always been an asset.
A tool.
A stepping stone.
The last frail hope I carried—that someone in my life had been genuine—crumbled into dust.
The memory of Diah—her silhouette framed in warm lamplight, her lips pressed against another man's—continued to bruise my mind long after I'd stumbled away from that window. The image was too vivid, too deliberate. Her fingers curled around his collar, her posture soft and familiar, as though she had rehearsed the gesture for years.
And the man…
I didn't need to see his face. His stance alone declared it.
It was Victor.
My older brother.
The loyal hound of our father.
The "true" heir now that I had thrown away the Grayan name.
The realization hollowed out my chest with a cruel, icy precision.
I replayed the scene as if some masochistic instinct demanded I study it from every angle:
Diah's gentle smile, the one she'd worn when she reassured me…
SHE SAID WE'D STAY TOGETHER, EVEN IF EVERYTHING WENT DOWN IN FLAMES... WAS THAT A LIE TOO?
Of course it was. The question only existed to torture me; the answer had been delivered to me in the form of that kiss—final, damning, unmistakable.
EVEN THOUGH IT WAS A RELATIONSHIP WITH AN EXPIRATION DATE, I THOUGHT WE'D SHARED SOMETHING REAL.
Perhaps it was foolish of me. We had always been political pieces. Our engagement had been arranged long before I'd learned to understand what trust meant, let alone love. And yet… she had listened. She had soothed. She had offered comfort when I had no one else.
To discover it was all performance—
Her betrayal wasn't a single wound; it was a thousand small ones reopening all at once, bleeding into one another until I couldn't distinguish pain from humiliation.
TO SAY THAT HER BETRAYAL WASN'T PAINFUL WOULD BE A LIE. IT WOULD HAVE BEEN DISHEARTENING TO EXPERIENCE EVEN WITH A FRIEND OR A TRUSTED SERVANT... AND SHE HAD BEEN MY FIANCÉE, SOMEONE WHO KNEW THE WHOLE STORY AND HAD LENT ME A SHOULDER TO CRY ON.
She had known the truth—the murder, the torture, the weight of my father's expectations.
And with that knowledge, she had still chosen to abandon me the moment a more advantageous option presented itself.
Worse: she had chosen Victor.
AT THAT TIME, WITH MY ANXIETY AND CONFUSION AT AN ALL-TIME HIGH, THE SHOCK THAT EVEN SHE HAD ABANDONED ME AND CHOSEN VICTOR INSTEAD... WAS ABSOLUTELY UNFORGIVABLE... AND SHATTERED ME COMPLETELY.
I returned to the hotel like a ghost wearing my skin.
My hands trembled whenever I reached for the door handle, the memory of the scene searing deeper into my mind each time I forced myself to breathe.
Inside, the suite felt smaller than ever—its elegant furnishings mocking me with their sterile perfection. A sanctuary that gave no comfort.
I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, head bowed so low I could see only the polished shine of my shoes.
For days, the world outside that room blurred into a meaningless hum. I couldn't read, couldn't think, couldn't even sleep properly.
The shock had anchored itself deep, suffocating every emotion except one:
Misery.
AND SO I WALLOWED IN MISERY, PAIN, AND LOATHING TO MY HEART'S CONTENT. I NEEDED MORE TIME TO POUR OUT EVERYTHING I'D FELT FOR HER AND BURN IT AWAY...
I spent hours staring at the ornate bottles on the nightstand—their amber glass catching the dim light like captured fire. I wasn't drinking. I wasn't destroying anything.
I was simply existing in a way I never had before: purposeless, unwanted, discarded.
My father would have mocked me for this weakness.
Geoffric would have understood.
Diah had exploited it.
And slowly, the grief began to cool.
To calcify.
To become something hardened and unyielding.
...BUT AT SOME POINT, I BECAME INDIFFERENT TO IT ALL. I SIMPLY FIGURED THAT THIS WAS HOW HER AND MY COMPLICATED RELATIONSHIP HAD COME TO AN END.
It wasn't healing. It was resignation.
Soon enough, new information replaced my personal devastation.
Whispers drifted through hallways, hotel lobbies, Lovis's hurried conversations.
Rumors buzzed like flies around a corpse, feasting on every detail of my downfall.
HAVE YOU HEARD? THAT MARRIAGE BETWEEN THE GRAYAN AND DE LAURENT FAMILIES FELL THROUGH!
People giggled.
People speculated.
People rejoiced.
The scandal entertained them far more than the truth ever would.
THAT DIAH DE LAURENT WOMAN IS MARRYING VICTOR! AND NOT ONLY THAT, SHE'S PREGNANT WITH HIS CHILD TOO. MY GOODNESS, WASN'T SHE ENGAGED TO THE YOUNGER SON? EVEN IF IT'S A MARRIAGE ARRANGED BY THEIR FAMILIES, BUT TO GO BACK AND FORTH BETWEEN TWO BROTHERS LIKE THAT...
Victor was taking everything.
The fiancée.
The inheritance.
The reputation.
And the world was watching with gleeful anticipation.
SOMEONE SAW HER, HEAVILY PREGNANT, TRAVELING TO THE NEIGHBORING REPUBLIC.
The final twist of the knife.
But strangely…
It no longer hurt the way it had before.
The wound was already poisoned—this was simply the venom circulating through every corner of my life.
HOWEVER, I HADN'T COMPLETELY FOUND CLOSURE BACK THEN, AND WAS SO SICK OF THE OCCASIONAL UNNECESSARY RUMOR I'D HEAR ABOUT HER OR MY FAMILY...
I was a man stripped of everything—name, fortune, allies—left with only my conscience and the memory of blood on my hands.
Running had gotten me nowhere.
Hiding had only given the world more time to bury me beneath its stories.
If I wanted a future… I would have to carve it out myself.
I was spending my days there in solitude…
Days that bled into one another, colorless and indistinguishable. The quiet was oppressive at first, but soon it became a dull cocoon—one that insulated me from the outside world, from the humiliation, from the grief, from the betrayal.
And so I wallowed in misery, pain, and loathing to my heart's content.
I didn't try to stop it.
Didn't try to distract myself.
Didn't try to rise above it.
I let the feelings wash over me until they hollowed me out completely. I needed the bitterness to burn itself to ash. I needed to sit with the truth of what had happened until my heart stopped flinching at the memory of Diah's smile pressed against someone who wasn't me.
I needed more time to pour out everything I'd felt for her and burn it away...
But at some point, the pain thinned into something quiet and empty. It wasn't healing—it was erosion. The sharp edges of grief dulled into a weary indifference.
I simply figured that this was how her and my complicated relationship had come to an end.
There would be no grand confrontation. No final conversation. No explanation.
Just the memory of her walking away from the wreckage of my life, stepping neatly into the path my brother offered her.
However, I hadn't completely found closure back then, and was so sick of the occasional unnecessary rumor I'd hear about her or my family...
The whispers were relentless.
Strangers spoke about my life like it was a stage play—one they could consume for entertainment.
"Have you heard? That marriage between the Grayan and de Laurent families fell through!"
"That Diah de Laurent woman is marrying Victor! And not only that, she's pregnant with his child too."
"My goodness, wasn't she engaged to the younger son? Even if it's a marriage arranged by their families, to go back and forth between two brothers like that..."
"Someone saw her, heavily pregnant, traveling to the neighboring republic."
Every rumor drove the nail deeper.
Every whisper reminded me that while I hid in a hotel room, the world kept moving—building a narrative where I was the pitiful failure and Victor the shining victor.
In the end, the eldest son succeeding the family. They'll be holding a succession ceremony soon…
The words echoed like a closing door.
Victor would inherit everything—the name, the fortune, the influence.
And I… I was the ghost of a man who walked away.
So I headed to the isolated cabin I often visited as a child.
The path through the forest was familiar in a way nothing else felt anymore. The trees stood like silent witnesses to my past, the wind carrying the same faint scent of pine and cold earth I remembered from summers long gone.
The cabin was untouched by the chaos of my family, a small fragment of a simpler time.
It was there—while I was warming my hands over the wood stove—that President Harold, a man I had only known by name, came to see me.
The creak of the door, the shift of light behind him—
TURN
"Nice to meet you," he said, stepping inside with a confidence that belonged to someone accustomed to entering difficult rooms. "My name is Harold. Hmm, I suppose I should also mention that I'm Geoffric's cousin."
I froze.
The connection hit me belatedly, settling heavily on my chest.
He smiled—a calm, warm expression that softened the hard lines of his face. A handsome, older gentleman, dignified in a way that felt almost out of place in this modest cabin.
"So it's true what everyone says... quite a handsome young man you are indeed."
I wasn't sure whether to scoff or bow. Nothing in my life prepared me for kindness from strangers, especially not ones tied to the only man who ever truly cared about me.
His smile gently faded, replaced by a grave sincerity.
"Geoffric always talked about you a great deal. I've been meaning to pay you a visit, since he asked me to look after you if anything unfortunate were ever to happen to him. And now seemed like the appropriate time."
Geoffric.
Even in death, he was still trying to protect me.
The sting behind my eyes was immediate and unwelcome.
Harold's mannerisms, his tone, even the way he stood—it all reminded me of Geoffric.
They were family, after all. Blood carried certain echoes.
In my mind, the two figures overlapped—one gone forever, the other standing before me with a quiet patience I didn't know how to accept.
Something inside me cracked.
The words spilled out before I understood what I was saying.
"I'M SORRY."
"Geoffric always talked about you a great deal. I've been meaning to pay you a visit, since he asked me to look after you if anything unfortunate were ever to happen to him. And now seemed like the appropriate time."
His words hung in the quiet cabin air, warm yet weighted—heavy with the kind of sincerity that cuts deeper than cruelty ever could.
I belatedly learned of their connection.
Geoffric had spoken of family occasionally, but always vaguely, always with the resigned detachment of a man who lived more for others than for himself. To think he had a cousin—someone who shared his blood, his quiet integrity, his unwavering sense of responsibility—felt like discovering a missing piece of him I never knew existed.
Geoffric, who worried about me in spite of knowing what fate he would ultimately meet…
And Harold, whose manner of speaking and temperament closely resembled that of his cousin.
In my exhausted, unraveling mind, the two men overlapped. Geoffric's ghost seemed to stand between us—his voice, his kindness, his last wishes all converging into the figure before me. My grief, raw and unprocessed, broke through my carefully maintained restraint.
And I ended up blurting out things to him that I'd unknowingly kept close to my chest.
"I'm sorry."
The apology slipped out—small, strangled, and utterly inadequate. It wasn't just for Geoffric's death… or for leaving him alone in his final moments… or for being the reason, however unwillingly, that he had been targeted.
It was an apology for existing at the center of a tragedy that neither of us had deserved.
Given how close the two men were, President Harold should rightly have despised me and my family...
I expected bitterness. I expected condemnation.
I expected him to look at me the way the world did—like a tainted remnant of the Grayan rot.
But instead, he offered me words of encouragement...
A simple kindness I was unprepared for.
...reassured me that I wasn't to blame for what had happened to Geoffric...
...and comforted me by telling me not to drown myself in guilt.
His voice was steady, firm in its sincerity.
He spoke as someone who knew the truth—knew what kind of man Geoffric had been, knew what kind of life he had led in the service of a poisonous family, knew the weight he had carried long before he met me.
It wasn't pity he gave me.
It was absolution.
He placed a hand on my shoulder—a comforting, paternal weight—just as Geoffric had all those years ago.
My breath trembled. I swallowed hard.
The gesture collapsed something inside me—some stubborn, jagged piece of pride that had kept me isolated. For the first time since leaving the Grayan manor, I felt the faint, fragile warmth of human connection.
For a moment, I allowed myself to lean—just slightly—into the comfort.
And so another year passed, and one day, as the daylight waned...
The cabin's small windows glowed amber with the late afternoon sun, shadows stretching long across the wooden floor as the forest quieted into dusk. I had grown accustomed to the solitude—its monotony, its ache, its peace.
...Iansa Serenity came to see me.
Her arrival stirred the stillness like a soft breeze. I had only met Iansa twice—brief, polite encounters, hardly enough to forge any kind of closeness. But she had a way about her, a gentle presence that felt endlessly composed.
I'd only met Iansa twice, first when Harper introduced us at Dalincour's anniversary party...
And the second time at Harper's funeral.
Two events separated by tragedy and time—one shining with celebration, the other stained with grief. And both remembered now with a faint, distant ache.
She stepped into the cabin's dim light with a quiet grace, her expression softening as her eyes met mine.
She looked at me with an expression of gentle concern.
"I'd ask you how you've been doing," she said, voice muted by sympathy, "but it's clear to see you're looking rather haggard. Are you all right? I heard a bit about what happened."
Her words, simple as they were, cut through the silence with unsettling precision.
And so another year passed, and one day, as the daylight waned… Iansa Serenity came to see me.
The cabin had been quiet all afternoon, the kind of quiet that settles into the bones—too still, too somber, as though the walls themselves had learned to hold their breath. When the soft knock came at the door, it startled me more than I'd ever admit. I hadn't been expecting anyone. I rarely did.
When I opened the door, the dying sunlight framed her like a painting: Iansa Serenity, poised and elegant even in fatigue, her expression a mixture of resolve and concern.
I'd only met Iansa twice before: first, when Harper introduced us at Dalincour's anniversary party—a blur of chandeliers, polite laughter, and political pretense—and the second time at Harper's funeral, where grief clung to everyone like an unwelcome fog. And now, she was sitting across from me in the isolated cabin, her presence somehow too refined for the worn wooden table between us.
She looked at me intently, her brows knitting softly.
"I'd ask you how you've been doing, but it's clear to see you're looking rather haggard. Are you all right? I heard a bit about what happened."
Her voice was gentle, but her eyes saw too much. I lowered my gaze to the steaming cup between my hands, using the motion of lifting it for a sip to steady myself. The ceramic felt thin, fragile—like the mask I'd been wearing for months.
"Yes, I'm fine," I lied, my tone even. "How did you know where to find me?"
Iansa leaned back in her chair, the rich fabric of her dark dress rustling like distant wind through silk. She crossed one leg over the other with slow, deliberate grace, but there was tension in her posture—she was not here for idle talk.
"I was looking for you," she began, "as I had something to speak to you about urgently… when a young man named Raul pointed me to this cabin, asking me to help you."
My grip tightened around the cup.
Raul.
Of course.
Before I could fully process that, she continued, almost casually:
"A friend also mentioned offhand where you might be."
A friend…
Is she talking about President Harold?
The thought sent an uneasy ripple down my spine. Harold meant well—always had—but his involvement often came with consequences I wasn't prepared to face.
What could Iansa Serenity possibly have to urgently speak to me about?
She seemed to sense the tension coiling inside me. Her gaze softened for a moment before she let out a quiet breath.
"Well," she said, "I suppose we can always catch up later. As I'm rather unwell at the moment, let me get right to the point."
The shift was immediate. The empathy in her face cooled, replaced by a stark, pragmatic seriousness. Her hands folded neatly in her lap, and her next words carried the weight of a woman cornered by circumstance.
"I'm sure you're aware that in the wake of last year's accident, my family's situation is growing increasingly dire. Which is why I'm here… for a favor as well as an offer of sorts."
The room felt colder.
I said nothing.
Did nothing.
Just sat there, letting her statement linger between us like an omen.
A cold premonition settled over me—an instinctive warning that whatever she was about to ask would not be simple… nor without cost.
I waited for her to articulate the price of her visit.
Iansa leaned forward slightly, her posture composed yet unmistakably strained, her eyes holding a gravity that made the dimly lit cabin feel suddenly smaller.
"I'm sure you're aware that in the wake of last year's accident, my family's situation is growing increasingly dire. Which is why I'm here… for a favor as well as an offer of sorts."
There was no embellishment in her tone—just stark truth, sharpened by desperation she refused to let show outwardly. Her spine remained straight, her chin lifted with the same quiet pride I remembered from our brief encounters. Even cornered financially, politically, and socially, Iansa Serenity clung to her dignity like armor.
Then her voice dropped, quiet yet pointed enough to cut through the air.
"Would you like to make a deal with me?"
The words settled heavily between us. A part of me was impressed—almost unwillingly—by how poised she remained as she extended an offer born from crisis. But that hardly made the proposition any easier to swallow.
I felt the refusal leave me before I consciously decided on it. A small shake of my head. A simple, quiet, "No."
Her expression didn't so much as flinch.
"Don't be so quick to refuse," she said smoothly, slicing through my silence with practiced calm. "Take some time to think it over. I'm certain my family will be of some use to you as well, whether for a fresh start or some other purpose. Once you make up your mind, come see me."
No pleading. No pitiful tones. Just certainty—quiet, but unwavering—as though she believed the tides of circumstance would eventually push me to her doorstep.
And with that, Iansa Serenity rose and left my isolated cabin, her retreating footsteps steady and deliberate. The door closed gently behind her, but the echo of her proposition stayed lodged in my mind long after she was gone.
The Agreement — Expanded
Several months passed.
Time, which had been moving in a dull, monotone rhythm, was suddenly disrupted by a chain of unexpected events… the kind that forced me to remember Iansa's visit, her words, her offer.
I had all but forgotten about her proposal—until those events made ignoring it impossible.
And in the end, I went to see Iansa and agreed to the deal.
The place where we met was far removed from the cramped austerity of my cabin. A lavish drawing-room—bright, expansive, sunlit. The kind of room where everything from the upholstery to the air itself felt curated. Sunlight streamed through tall windows framed in pale drapery, warming the polished wood floors and catching the ornate gold trim on the furniture.
Iansa Serenity sat on a plush sofa, the deep emerald fabric complementing her dark attire. She looked composed, restored by the comforts of her home territory, though something wary lingered in her eyes.
I remained standing, waiting for her to lay out the details of the arrangement I had, at last, accepted.
"My granddaughter will be arriving shortly," she said, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "She's 18 years old, and as you already know, her name is Serena Serenity."
I felt the first twinge of trouble as soon as I heard the name—an instinctive tension, a quiet warning.
"As you can no doubt imagine, she is quite displeased about this entire situation," Iansa continued, her tone now laced with controlled exasperation. "Even though this is your first official meeting, she won't exactly be polite. She's vehemently against this, even more so than I expected."
First meeting… sure, let's not correct that assumption.
"She was refusing to even show up here today, saying there was no point in meeting you, and I barely managed to persuade her otherwise by mentioning you were friends with Harper. Let me apologize in advance for her rudeness."
My mind was already moving, lining up the inevitable complications of an unwilling participant—young, emotional, and likely furious at being placed into any sort of arrangement involving me.
I had made a deal.
And now the consequences—in the form of an unwilling young woman—were about to arrive.
I stood waiting, the weight of the moment pressing against the crisp lines of my somber black suit. I had worn it deliberately—an armor of professionalism and calm—hoping it would lend me the composure I was struggling to maintain. Iansa's warnings echoed in my mind, each one more vivid now that the meeting was minutes away. Her certainty about her granddaughter's displeasure had prepared me for conflict… but not for the strange tension building inside me, a quiet anticipatory unease.
Then, the ornate, gilded doors at the far end of the drawing-room clicked softly.
CLACK.
A pause stretched across the burnished floorboards, the silence sharp enough to feel. My pulse quickened.
Footsteps followed—rapid, decisive, carrying the unmistakable energy of someone who had arrived not by choice, but by force of obligation and indignation.
Then—
BANG.
The door was shoved open with far more force than necessary, crashing against the stopper. Sunlight poured into the room, illuminating the person framed in the doorway like the dramatic arrival of a storm that had been gathering all season.
And so, for the first time… you and I came face to face.
She stood there, Serena Serenity, the sunlight catching the edges of her silhouette as though outlining her in gold. Her presence was striking—fierce, vibrant, overflowing with emotion she didn't bother to conceal. Dark, flowing hair tumbled over her shoulders, and her eyes—sharp, intelligent, burning—locked onto mine with the kind of intensity that made it impossible to look away.
A strange familiarity washed over me.
Not recognition, but something adjacent to it—an echo from the past that brushed against my awareness.
I understood, then, why Iansa had called this our "first official meeting."
Official, yes.
Truthful? Not quite.
Because although we've already met before, even though I saw you in passing… it isn't as though you ever recognized me during those moments.
Memories flickered at the edges of my mind—glimpses in crowded ballrooms, masked gatherings, distant exchanges where she was simply part of the backdrop, a fleeting figure I'd noticed only in fragments. Someone who had moved through my periphery without ever truly entering my world.
But now, standing here, she was no longer peripheral.
She was the axis upon which this new, fragile agreement turned.
Serena Serenity looked straight at me, her gaze a potent blend of hostility, resentment, and something deeper—something aching and sharp at the same time. Whatever she felt, she made no attempt to hide it. It cut through the warm sunlight and settled between us like a blade.
The deal had begun.