Victor pov
I stood, shoulders stiff, chest tight, in the grand room where shadows seemed to crawl along the gilded walls. His gaze, cold and unyielding behind the lenses of his glasses, pierced through me as though weighing every failure, every misstep, every wasted breath I had ever taken.
"How easy it must be for you," I said, voice hoarse, the weight of years of submission finally spilling out, "to conclude at every turn that it's my fault for not being good enough."
For a moment, the certainty in his expression faltered. But it didn't last. Cruelty was habit for him, an instinct honed over decades. His lips twisted into a smile that was both triumphant and faintly contemptuous, a predator savoring the final moments of the prey that had dared to look back.
Then, finally, the truth I had buried deep, the hollow confession I had avoided even in my darkest nightmares, spilled out:
"Well," I whispered, the words tasting bitter on my tongue, "it can't be helped. I was forcing myself into a role I had no talent for in the first place."
The air seemed to still around us. His eyes narrowed, the disbelief momentary, before morphing into something sharp, dangerous, like a blade unsheathing itself.
"WHAT?" His voice was a thunderclap in the silence. He refused, could not accept, the truth I had known for years.
And yet… the word "talent" lingered in my mind, echoing from a distant memory. Not mine—never mine—but the boy's. The one he had always praised, the one whose brilliance had made me feel every inadequacy in my very bones.
The flashback came unbidden, painting the gilded room with sunlight instead of green-tinged shadows. I was there, smaller, less relevant, a silent observer as the tutors reported to him, the man who had made me, broken me, and never once truly seen me.
The boy stood perfectly still, an unassuming figure in impeccable clothes, eyes wide and crystal-blue, absorbing the admiration that poured like golden light around him.
"In mathematics," the tutor began, reverence in his tone, "he is able to solve complex calculations in his head with astonishing speed. Equations with dozens of terms… no problem. Accurate, flawless, almost inhuman."
I remembered my father's slight nod, the faintest acknowledgment, as though confirming the inevitable: some are born to be brilliant. Some are born to struggle and fall short, no matter how fiercely they strive.
The report grew more impressive, detailing mechanical aptitude, numerical codes, and the inner workings of intricate devices. Every praise made the pit in my stomach grow deeper, a hollow echo of the failures I had carried for so long.
Then came the music.
"But the most surprising," the tutor continued, voice trembling with awe, "is his musical talent."
I could see it clearly in my mind—tiny hands gliding across a pristine white piano, the sound pouring forth as if the keys themselves were enchanted. He played from memory, flawlessly, interpreting the notes with a maturity far beyond his years. A child, yet a master.
"Even experienced adult performers would be left speechless," the tutor said. "And he does this without perfect pitch, able to compose and write advanced sheet music. A prodigious, rare talent. Truly exceptional."
I swallowed hard, feeling a mix of envy, admiration, and despair. That was the boy my father adored. That was the standard I could never reach. I had lived my entire life under the shadow of such brilliance, attempting to emulate a perfection that was never mine to claim.
The flashback dissolved, replaced again by the sickly green light of the present, the oppressive grandeur of the room, and my father's merciless gaze. He did not see a man crushed by expectations; he saw only failure, only the contrast between me and that boy—the natural successor, the prodigy, the one whose talent was undeniable and effortless.
I finally understood. My life had been a series of forced contortions, endless striving for approval in a house that measured worth only by victory and talent. And no matter how hard I fought, how clever or ruthless I became, I could never claim the standard my father truly valued.
Because talent, that innate, dazzling spark… I had never had it.
---
The memory of that day remained etched in me, sharper than any blade. My own confession—that I had no talent for the role my father had forced upon me—was still met with his incredulous roar: "WHAT?" Yet even then, he had always known. He had always seen, yet deliberately dismissed every sign of my true self, as though my innate gifts were meaningless distractions from his vision of utility.
I remember standing in the great hall, small and uncertain, my fingers still carrying the faint scent of piano polish, my notebooks of calculations clutched under my arm. The tutors spoke, their voices trembling with awe and pride as they laid bare the truth of my abilities: mathematics, mechanics, music. Each word should have been a key to freedom, a chance to follow the life my heart had chosen.
"Honestly, at first, even I found it hard to believe it," the tutor had said, voice wide-eyed and almost breathless. "But after just one look at sheet music spanning dozens of pages, he played the entire piece from memory… without missing a single note."
I had felt the warmth of pride, but it was quickly extinguished under the gaze of my father. The tutor continued, describing my piano performance with terms that felt almost otherworldly: brilliance, speed, maturity, prodigy. The words should have been music, but in the presence of my father they became a weapon, slicing through my innocence.
He did not smile. He did not acknowledge my genius. His eyes, cold and unyielding, seemed to see only inconvenience.
The tutor, oblivious to the growing storm, pressed on. "Victor will grow to be a remarkable musician or scholar. Meuracevia would be proud. He should study abroad, or receive guidance from the finest tutors in Buiterberg."
The words hung in the air, promising a life aligned with my talents, a path that felt like sunlight after a long winter. My mother, Meuracevia, had always smiled at me without judgment, her approval a rare balm in a household of stone.
And then, the axe fell. My father's voice was sharp, cruel, absolute: "ALL UTTERLY USELESS."
I flinched, the sound of those words striking me physically. The tutors froze, the air thick with disbelief and tension.
"I'm not investing my time and money to raise a scholar or artist," he declared, voice cold as granite. "As if a talent like that would be of any use in business. TSK."
Each word drove a nail into the coffin of my childhood. Piano lessons ceased. My curiosity for codes and mechanics, for the things that had felt like extensions of my own mind, was redirected toward wealth, influence, and ruthless politicking. My mother's legacy, the music I had inherited, was declared irrelevant, expendable.
He turned to me, the small boy who had dared to imagine a world where his gifts mattered. "My son, a musician? That is completely unacceptable. If you want to become my successor, you must absorb and internalize only what I teach."
The command was absolute. It was not merely an order—it was a spiritual execution. "From this moment on, I don't want to hear any music in my house. Get rid of all the instruments. Burn my wife's piano."
I closed my eyes, seeing again the pristine white piano, the last place I had touched joy without fear. In that moment, the boy I had been—talented, curious, alive—was amputated from my life. In its place, the cold, calculating successor my father demanded was constructed brick by brick.
The memory faded. I was back in the present, standing amid the ruins of my life. My father's words from decades ago echoed into the present: "Now you're blaming me for all your failures?"
His smirk was thin, unrepentant. His arrogance had not waned. And yet, the truth was unbearable and simple: my failures were not mine alone. They were the inevitable consequence of a lifetime spent suppressing the gifts that could never be measured in profit or power.
I swallowed, the bitter truth settling deep in my chest. "But in the end," I said, voice low and raw, "I have nothing left."
Nothing but the ruins of the Grayan House, the ghosts of the things I truly wanted, and the broken man who had been forged by obedience, not talent.
I stood in the master suite, the opulence around me now feeling like a cage, a gilded prison built by my father's expectations and cruelty. Every intricate carving on the walls, every sheen of polished wood, seemed to mock me. Across from me, the Head of the Grayan House—the architect of my ruin—stood tall, unyielding, his face a mask of permanent contempt.
"I heard the House of Serenity will be put on trial," I said, my voice carrying the weight of impending failure, though it was as much a confession as a report.
"Probably not what you and the Prime Minister intended," he replied, dry, cold, and merciless. "Once you go to trial, your likelihood of victory will diminish considerably. The only way you could've won was by pushing ahead before the decision was reached… or to be precise, before Eiser made his move, and while the girl was still tied up."
The truth landed like a hammer. "You lost yet again."
Even after becoming his successor, the Head of the Grayan House, I had never won against Eiser. Never once. That bitter shame had been a companion for decades, but now it sharpened into a strange clarity, a brutal understanding of my own life.
"You always used to say…" I began, my voice trembling, haunted by old fear. "...if I can't beat him, I'll fall behind, utterly worthless… And you'd never bequeath anything to a failure."
I spat my life at him, every wasted hour, every twisted lesson. "That's why my whole life has been about winning. Unable to tell wrong from right, believing your words were the only truth… I lived as you wanted, not understanding why people pointed fingers at me, called me cruel and despicable."
My chest tightened with the undeniable realization. "I still can't properly tell what's wrong from right… and the more I listened to you, the more I lost, and in the end, I was never able to lay claim to the things I truly wanted."
He laughed—a harsh, grating sound that cut through me. "HA! PATHETIC FOOL!"
His face twisted into that cruel, triumphant smirk. "Now you're blaming me for all your failures?"
"How easy it must be for you," I said, voice empty, "to conclude at every turn that it's my fault for not being good enough. But in the end, I have nothing left."
The Shadow of Eiser
My gaze drifted, slipping back into memory, into the forge where my chains were first shaped—the moment my father extinguished the talented boy I had been and began his ruthless training.
I saw myself, small and trembling, standing beside my father, a dark, looming figure of authority. The grand piano gleamed in the bright room, pristine, a symbol of the life he was about to erase.
"My son, a musician? That is completely unacceptable," his younger voice boomed. "You may keep focusing on math, since it's useful, but music is forbidden."
His eyes bore into mine, hard and absolute. "If I ever see you listening to music or doing anything just as useless, I'll kick you out of the house."
Then came the destruction. "Get rid of all the musical instruments in the house, and burn my wife's piano, too."
The beautiful white piano—my mother Meuracevia's gift, the last remnant of warmth and love—would be reduced to ashes. Every trace of the life he deemed useless was to vanish.
And then the doctrine, whispered with a hollow tenderness, the poison I learned to swallow.
"Remember, Eiser is competition first and your brother second. Always be on your guard around him. And don't forget that I surpassed all my siblings similarly to rise to the top."
He leaned down, voice low and chilling, gripping my shoulder with a deceptive affection. "Anything that stands in the way of what you want to accomplish must be eliminated. Whether that's an object or a person, no matter how precious."
He patted my shoulder, a hollow gesture of warmth. "I'd never say this to Eiser. You are my one and only eldest son, and a very obedient child."
His eyes, cold and commanding, locked on mine. "You're a smart boy, Victor. You understand what I mean, don't you?"
I understood. I understood that my nature, my curiosity, my talents, were obstacles. That the love I received was conditional upon ruthlessness. That the family's legacy mattered more than my soul.
The Present
I blinked, the memory fading. I was no longer Victor the boy, but I, the ruined heir, standing amid the wreckage of a life built to appease my father. My every victory, every attempt at control, had been forged in obedience, culminating in this failure against Eiser.
I finally grasped the full, terrible cost: I was utterly alone, defeated, emotionally crippled, all because I had been the one to obey.
The lessons of my childhood—the ashes of my mother's piano, the extinguished joy, the ruthless shaping of my mind—had created this man before my father now. And still, he expected gratitude, respect, and blame to fall entirely on me.
I swallowed, voice low and raw: "But in the end… I have nothing left."
Nothing but the ruins of the Grayan House, the ghosts of the things I truly wanted, and the broken man created by obedience, ambition, and cruelty.
Absolutely! Here's an expanded
The crunch of my polished leather shoe against the fragile token on the marble floor echoed faintly, drowned beneath the muffled, ragged cry of the man kneeling before me.
"URGH… WHAT… WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS, VICTOR?!"
He clutched his face, the sting of the slap finally registering, but his anger was faint, dulled by years of familiarity. It paled in comparison to the symphony of resentment I had carried for decades, a weight that now surged through me, unrestrained.
"I can only imagine the countless hours you spent manipulating us both," I continued, my tone deceptively calm, conversational even, as I watched him struggle. "Sometimes with persuasion, sometimes with coercion."
He fumbled, his robe slipping from trembling shoulders. Desperate, old, pathetic—he was nothing like the figure who had once loomed over me in terror and authority. FUMBLE. The sight brought a cold satisfaction. His serpentine cane, topped with an emerald head, clattered across the marble and rolled out of reach.
"But I must say…" I allowed my voice to linger, letting the irony sink in. "Isn't it bitterly ironic? Eiser, who didn't want to take after you, did. And I, who wanted to take after you, didn't."
The paradox crystallized in that moment: Eiser, naturally gifted, inherited charisma and talent without effort, rejecting the lessons my father had tried to instill. I, the spare, had executed every brutal method with precision, yet my obedience condemned me to mediocrity.
I stood over him, noting the blurred rage in his eyes. "AH… BUT I SUPPOSE MY PERSONALITY, AT LEAST, RESEMBLES YOURS MORE." A tiny smirk tugged at my scarred lips. With a flick of my fingers, I sent a small, shining vial tumbling into the shadowed corner—a remnant of what used to be a precious sedative, now empty.
Shock and dawning panic flared in his eyes. "VICTOR, YOU SON OF A… HOW DARE YOU… WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"
I raised the cigarette to my lips, inhaling deeply, the smoke masking my expression. HUFF.
"DON'T RESENT ME TOO MUCH. THIS IS WHAT YOU'VE TAUGHT ME ALL MY LIFE… AND I'M SIMPLY STICKING TO WHAT I'VE LEARNED."
The realization struck him like lightning—his own lessons, his cruel philosophy, were now weaponized against him. His movements slowed, dulled by the drug I had left him, his vision beginning to blur.
My next words landed like final blows. "I heard Eiser came to see you here while I wasn't around."
Every muscle in his body froze. "!!!"
He saw it—saw that I had eliminated the obstacle he had created, that the principles he drilled into me had come full circle. Anything precious, anything that could stand in the way of my ambition, had to be removed. And in the end, it was his life, his authority, that became the obstacle.
"Not that I care either way," I exhaled, smoke curling from my lips. "WHAT USE IS ALL THAT NOW, D* IT?"
His eyes, glazed with panic and the sedative's effect, fixed on me. He leaned on one hand, defeated, the embodiment of entitlement broken.
"YOU NEVER CHANGE, DO YOU?" I allowed myself a brittle, cold SNICKER.
I crouched slightly, closing the distance, throwing his own actions back at him.
"That day, in my office, you made him a very interesting offer."
The air thickened with the memory of betrayal, of desperate maneuvering.
"For instance…" I paused, letting the words hang like a blade. "MY LIFE AND YOURS IN EXCHANGE FOR HIM BECOMING THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE OF GRAYAN."
The absurdity of his proposal—a willing sacrifice of his life to elevate Eiser—confirmed every fear I had ever carried. But it was Eiser's choice, not my father's, that had secured the deal. It was the ultimate lesson in the cruel arithmetic of power.
"If his life is the price I must pay to return you to that seat… I've already done the math."
I straightened, towering over the kneeling man, my gaze sharp, unwavering. Even now, facing his own mortality at my hands, he clung to delusion.
"I CAN'T PASS DOWN MY FAMILY OR THE LAST OF MY HIDDEN FUNDS TO SOMEONE LIKE THAT," he hissed, loathing dripping from every word. "RATHER THAN SEEING THE FAMILY FALL TO RUIN IN VICTOR'S HANDS…"
Still, he measured me, compared me to Eiser, and found me wanting.
"It's been years since I took over as the Head of Household," I said, low and menacing, "but it seems you still miss the son who left everything behind, even his name."
He gave a defeated shake. "Even though Eiser despises you so greatly that he's ashamed to even call you his father."
Silence fell. A ragged breath escaped him. Then he lifted his head one last time, eyes burning with deluded conviction.
"THAT'S RIGHT! I NEEDED TO IDENTIFY AND SELECT THE SUPERIOR OFFSPRING FOR THE SAKE OF THIS FAMILY."
The ultimate confession. The rejection distilled into venom.
"BUT ALL YOU INHERITED FROM BIRTH WAS YOUR MOTHER'S WORTHLESS TALENT!" he spat. "SO NO MATTER HOW MUCH I TAUGHT YOU, I COULDN'T SHAKE OFF THE FEELING THAT YOU COULDN'T HOLD A CANDLE TO EISER!"
I remained unmoved, letting the poison wash over me. The spare, the flawed copy, the disappointment—everything he had made me feel—was irrelevant now. He was on his knees. I was the Head of the House of Grayan.
I dropped the half-smoked cigarette onto the marble, extinguishing it with a slow, deliberate twist of my polished shoe. The matter was settled.
I looked down at him, kneeling, gasping, his final, desperate words still echoing in the cavernous room.
"...YOU COULDN'T HOLD A CANDLE TO EISER!"
I didn't flinch. I let him rage, let him cling to the notion that his preferred son had somehow failed him. I saw through the lie—the illusion that superiority alone was worth more than cunning, obedience, and ruthless precision.
"Of course, you weren't inferior to anybody else. You were quite exceptional, in fact," he had insisted years ago, attempting to soothe the slight while simultaneously reinforcing it. "But the fact that, regardless of how well you did, you could never measure up to Eiser… that insurmountable gap between the two of you was the yoke I carried!"
The yoke he carried? I almost laughed. It had always been mine to bear—the brand mark of the substitute, the heir that never truly was.
His pathetic plea continued, cracking as the drug coursed through his veins. "If only you had the same knack for business Eiser did… If only you'd inherited the ability to continue and elevate my family's legacy… If only you'd possessed a talent that could be of real use, rather than some worthless art!"
I finally saw it clearly—not a lesson, but a curse. He had never stopped mourning the loss of the heir he truly wanted. I had only been a convenient substitute, evaluated constantly against the boy who had inherited the brilliance he valued most.
I remembered the soft, tragic voice of my sister years ago: "Which is why I think every day about how nice it would've been if you were a little more like other boys… A little more human… A little more considerate…"
"JUST AS I THOUGHT…" I murmured, letting the light flicker across the scar on my cheek. "...IT SEEMS EVERYONE FINDS IN HIM THE THINGS I LACK."
A bitter truth crystallized: born incapable of matching my younger brother, condemned to always fall short, my existence had been defined by his expectations. Everyone looked to Eiser for fulfillment, and I was left to chase shadows.
I stared down at my kneeling father, the man who had taught me the principle that had driven my entire life: anything that stands in the way of what you want to accomplish must be eliminated. Only now, the lesson applied to him.
Stepping over his outstretched hand, I asked, voice cold and unwavering: "WHAT ELSE SHOULD I HAVE DONE?"
He had shaped me, molded me, destroyed me, all in the service of ambition. He had left me no other skill, no other drive.
"BY THE WAY, LET ME CLEAR ONE THING UP." I paused, letting my final words land like lead.
"THIS IS HOW I WAS BORN AND RAISED."
"I still don't know any other way to go about things."
I bent to pick up the discarded duffel bag—the same one Eiser had carried that day. I didn't open it, merely adjusted the strap, a definitive gesture of dismissal.
"I AM NOW THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE OF GRAYAN."
The room went silent, save for the shallow, rattling breaths of the man on the floor. The war for acceptance, the desperate struggle for authority, was over. The throne was mine. I had won.
And yet, as I stood alone in the vast chamber, the silence that filled the space was cold, empty—the only true inheritance I had ever received.
My gaze shifted from him to the duffel bag, heavy and overflowing with crisp, rolled bills—the family's hidden funds. I had carried out his life's lesson flawlessly, yet he remained blind to the culmination of his own teachings.
"I am now the Head of the House of Grayan, not you," I said, my voice echoing in the grand chamber. "It hasn't been yours from the moment the succession took place."
A bitter, ironic scoff escaped me. "Yet you offered it to Eiser on a silver platter… pretending you're still in charge, are you? How laughable."
I understood the true cost of his final gambit: the attempt to pass his authority back to Eiser, nullifying years of my obedient, ruthless service. The thought of my younger brother accepting it was the only fear I'd ever truly had.
"I can't risk the slight chance that Eiser changes his mind and accepts your offer. No need to leave that door open, would you agree?"
"And right now, Father, you're the one standing in my way."
I tossed the duffel bag onto a nearby decorative table. Its weight shifted, the contents spilling slightly—a grotesque bouquet of money scattering across the pedestal and floor.
"Well, I am now here to do what I must as the Head of this family." I reached into the bag, not to count the money, but to assert my dominance, my ownership. ZZZIP.
"Because I cannot change, none of this will ever be different."
I looked back at him, groaning, sinking toward unconsciousness. The wealth—the ultimate prize—lay before me, a tangible symbol of the life and power I had claimed through calculated, ruthless obedience.
"So all I can do is… see this through to the end without stopping."
The conviction was cold, final—a mirror of the lesson he had drilled into me so many years ago.
"This is what you taught me, Father. That anything that stands in the way of what I want to accomplish must be eliminated."
My gaze drifted toward the scattered money and the gold-crowned pedestal.
"It's a shame, really. I wanted you to witness the moment I actually accomplished something."
But he was too far gone to appreciate the brilliance of my success—a success born entirely of his own cruel, inflexible rules.
"See, you should've just stayed shut up in your room and quietly waited for death. Why did you have to meddle and force my hand?"
His last act of control, an attempt to deny the legitimacy of my triumph, had sealed his fate. I didn't need to kill him. I just needed to remove the threat of him undoing it. I had done what I had to do.
I adjusted the lapel of my jacket, straightening the lines that now marked me definitively as master of this house. The silence that followed was heavy, absolute.
The Grayan family was mine—not by birthright, not by talent, but by relentless, lethal execution of a philosophy he had instilled, and I had perfected.
I had secured the inheritance, yet the air was thick with the residue of his final words, a lingering stench of malice and years of cruelty. The green light in the room, tainted like the poison in his veins, reflected the sickness he had forced into my life.
I watched him struggle on the marble floor, the sedative taking full effect. His body convulsed weakly, reduced to nothing more than a figure of impotent rage.
"YOU..."
The word was a strangled cry, ripped from his throat, each syllable a gasp of disbelief.
"VICTOR, YOU SON OF A B***!!!"
I smiled, a thin, cold crescent slicing across the scar on my face. The insult was meaningless. The heir was standing, and the victory was mine.
"But before that… I'd like you to answer me this."
My voice cut through the rasping of his sputtering fury, slicing the air with precision. He started to cough violently, spasms wracking his frail body, the venom and sedative combining into a final, merciless judgment.
"WHERE ARE THE FUNDS YOU'VE HIDDEN IN ARTIAZEN?"
His eyes, still burning with residual hatred, locked onto me with desperate clarity. He knew—I was retrieving every last piece of the inheritance he had tried to hoard. I was stripping him of the final fragments of power, of dignity, of everything he had wielded like a weapon over me.
He coughed again, wet and final. His body trembled once, twice… then stilled.
I stood over the scattered bills on the pedestal, the literal green spoils of my childhood, of years of brutal instruction, and now, the demise of my father. The money was both a symbol and a trophy—my obedience and cruelty made manifest.
I lifted the cigarette once more, inhaling the smoke, letting it linger as a statement. With a definitive toss, I flicked the burning butt onto the pile of cash. The final disrespect.
"SAY HELLO TO MY MOTHER FOR ME."
I turned my back on the room, the sickening scene behind me. Through the grand windows, a blinding flash illuminated the night. Thunder and rain smashed against the panes, announcing the storm in full fury.
I stood by the window, watching the cold rain blur the darkened woods outside. I was alone—finally, utterly alone.
You are my one and only eldest son, and a very obedient child.
You're a smart boy, Victor. You understand what I mean, don't you?
Anything that stands in the way of what you want to accomplish must be eliminated. Whether that's an object or a person, no matter how precious.
I had been the obedient child. I had followed his rules, executing them with precision, even eliminating the most precious obstacle—the one who stood in my way of complete control.
He had meant Eiser to be the superior offspring, the true heir. He had tried to frame my cruelty on my 'worthless' artistic inclinations, on my mother, on anything but his own monstrous design, his relentless training and manipulation.
"I didn't care about anything else, as long as I could become the successor."
And I had. I was Head of the House of Grayan. But looking out at the storm, at the unforgiving night, I felt the sharp, profound emptiness of this win. The man who had taught me the value of success had died hating my success. The triumph tasted like dust.
I was the unworthy heir—the obedient one who had survived, who had prevailed, who had finally overcome the man who had always deemed me a spare. The victory was absolute, yet hollow.
The final action had been taken. The prize secured. The house was mine.