One day, my father returned home holding something strange—a piece of cloth tightly wrapped. All I could see were a few disordered black tufts sticking out, as if gasping for air.
At that moment, without thinking, my inner thoughts slipped out before I could restrain my tongue:
"Father… have you finally gone mad?"
And before anyone blames me, they should reconsider this situation. The Duke, absent from home for a full month, returned carrying something closer to a sack of wheat. He just walked in as if he had stepped out minutes before, as if the month of his disappearance was a trivial detail.
And those protruding black tufts were not ordinary. That specific color is the symbol of our family; only a very few possess it.
Therefore, as a dutiful son who knows his father well, I was certain the moment of his madness would come one day. That he had roamed everywhere, seeking out anyone with black hair, to shear it off, collect it, and return triumphant.
After all, this is not a way to carry a human.
My father completely ignored my words and threw the bun— I mean, the child in his hands—toward me. Didn't I tell you? This is no way to treat a person.
My body almost instinctively moved backward, but my hands caught it before it fell. It was uncomfortably light. I lifted the child to eye level and stared for a moment.
Its features were unclear; its black hair tightly covered its face. But its trembling hands, fingers clutching the cloth, explained everything without words.
This poor child… what did it do to be afflicted with my father?
I raised my eyes toward my father.
We exchanged brief glances—a questioning look from me, a look of absolute satisfaction from him. Then he shrugged his shoulders proudly, as if it were obvious, and said:
"I picked it up, you can keep it."
"Father…"
"Yes, son?"
"I know a nursing home nearby, why don't we—"
I didn't finish.
A stone suddenly shot toward me. I barely dodged it, feeling the air pass by my face.
And if you're wondering why the Duke carries stones at home, he simply plucked a gemstone from his attire and used it as a weapon.
I carefully placed the child on the floor and gestured for the servants to take it. The poor thing, its blood must have run cold during the journey with my father.
The servants moved quickly, their faces tense, fearing it might be their turn next.
Then I turned back to my father.
His proud smile was enough to ignite what remained of my patience.
"So."
"What?"
I raised and clenched my fist, hoping he'd understand I was about to lose control.
"Explain!"
"Ah, I told you. I picked it up."
I couldn't help it. I ended up shouting, my voice echoing off the high walls:
"From where and why did you bring this child?!"
I began throwing anything within reach toward him. A book, a vase, even a cushion… Why was there a cushion in the hallway? No, that doesn't matter now! I genuinely wanted to hit him, but this evasive man dodged everything with provoking skill.
"Have you gone mad? Where have you been for the past month? And why did you return with a child without a word?"
At this point, it was no joke. I was truly angry. I had been forced to take his place during his absence—signing papers, resolving disputes, enduring the nobles' stares—while he wandered around. How could I not be angry?
But his joking, indifferent response was the worst:
"I decided to raise him. Who knows? Maybe he's a hidden brother we forgot about, or something."
They say when you reach the peak of anger, a chill creeps in, your mind quiets, and words become meaningless. I think I understand that now.
This @#$%#%#%#.
No, I must compose myself. I took a deep breath, feeling the air slowly fill my chest, then exhaled, trying not to attack him physically.
"Father, Mother died giving birth to me. So what younger brother is this?"
Then my father looked at me as if finally convinced. He nodded his head—no shock, no regret, just calm contemplation… which scared me.
"So… did you cheat on Mother?"
He looked up at me, surprised, as if I'd said something entirely unexpected.
"Son… even if I did, do you think a child would grow that much in a month?"
Now… is he looking at me as if I'm the idiot here?
My father shook his head with open pity, as if feeling sorry for me.
"It seems my son needs re-education, and for that…"
He paused briefly, then gestured for his servant to approach.
Only then did I notice the strange box the servant had been carrying from the beginning. Seeing that bun… that child had made me completely forget his presence.
What had he brought? A gift?
If so, I don't want it.
Memories of previous gifts crept into my mind, making my body tremble. Who brings a giant poisonous snake to a two-year-old just because its colors are bright? And who gives a cursed doll to his son and says its dead eyes resemble mine?
I can't help but wonder if these were failed assassination attempts, and I seriously search for ways to counter them.
My father rummaged inside the box for a few moments, then turned to me, placing a set of books in my hands with evident pride.
Books?
This was a… normal gift. And that in itself was suspicious.
No, I mustn't lower my guard. Maybe something jumps out from inside, or a curse written between the lines.
I cautiously lowered my gaze. I wish I hadn't.
"Am I the Duke's Beloved Daughter?"
"I Was Actually His Daughter!"
I looked again, slowly, to confirm what I was seeing.
Then I raised my eyes to find my father rubbing his nose, standing proudly as if he'd accomplished something great.
"What is this?"
He laughed lightly, looking at me mockingly.
"Tsk tsk tsk. My dear son has much to learn, so I brought you references."
References? What is he raving about now?
"Look here, she was actually the Duke's daughter after be—"
H… this madman!
"Stop!!! What are you saying out loud like this and with such pride?! Have you no shame?!"
Regardless of his nonchalance, how could he utter this in front of the servants? I quickly looked around, my sharp gaze making the servants immediately withdraw from the room.
If he'd said he wanted to raise it, I wouldn't have objected.
If he wants to adopt it, let him.
But must I really participate in a deranged plot for him to make it his son?
And more importantly… how could the Empire's only Duke read this kind of story?
...
In the Duke's office.
While I was displeased, my father sat completely relaxed on the other side of the desk.
His back was reclined, his arms at ease, and moments later he began to complain in a lazy tone, as if he were the victim here.
"Son, shouldn't you have let your tired father rest first?"
Rest?
Is that what the person who dumped all his work on me and disappeared says?
I looked at him properly this time.
His skin glowed with a provoking freshness, his breaths were calm, his posture devoid of any tension.
Then I compared that to the dark circles under my eyes, my tense shoulders, and the heaviness of the days that piled on me in his name.
I truly don't know who needs rest between us.
No.
I mustn't get angry.
Not now.
"Truly, what an ungrateful son I am."
I paused for a moment, then continued in a tone calmer than I felt:
"How about you rest, Father?"
His face immediately brightened.
He rose from his seat with a speed unbecoming of a man claiming exhaustion. He didn't understand the sarcasm. He didn't catch it at all.
Before he could take another step, I picked up the knife near the desk surface.
It had been there since morning, unused, but its presence was enough. I smiled at him as I slowly raised it, a smile devoid of any amusement.
"I'll let you rest forever."
I expected… any reaction. Retreat, anger, even screaming.
But my father sat back down with a strange calm. Then he turned to the nearby servants as if I weren't even there.
"So, where is my new child? Bring him so I can see him."
Yes…
I had been too naive.
I plunged the knife forcefully into the table.
"Your Grace, next time it won't be the table."
And finally… a look.
A look of genuine confusion on his face.
I felt a bit of refreshment.
This is better.
"Now, tell me the real reason."
I paused for a moment, not because I lost my words, but because I was searching for the minimum control over my voice.
I didn't want the dialogue to turn into shouting from the start, even though my chest tightened with every second of silence.
"Why did you bring this boy? And where did you disappear to? I endured it when it was a day or two, even when it was a week I got over it, but…"
I left the sentence hanging on purpose.
I was watching his face, waiting for any sign that he understood the gravity of what he did.
I found nothing.
I raised my eyes with a sharp look toward him.
"This time it was a month. Next time two, and after that the two will become a year, and the year three."
As I spoke, I felt the anger rising inside me.
I saw the scene repeating in my head: his sudden disappearance, the faces waiting for decisions I had no authority to make, the orders whose consequences I bore without real power.
This…
This just—
"So why don't you resign from your position and live in some hut with this new son of yours?!!"
I could no longer control myself.
My voice rose despite myself.
"I'll make sure you live comfortably. Why don't you leave, huh? Or should I leave?"
I exploded at him. The mere thought was enough to turn my stomach.
The idea of repeating this scenario was unbearable. I had no readiness to go through this in reality.
If that's the case, then perhaps a coup is a practical solution.
Seizing power seems less exhausting than living in this absurdity.
And despite all this turmoil, all this clarity, my father's calm looks remained the same.
He didn't get angry or defend himself. He just leaned slightly and whispered to his servant:
"Robert, do you think he's finally gone mad?"
The reply came without hesitation:
"Forgive me, sir, but His Grace has always been like this."
My fist tightened.
"But does that justify his greed for my position?"
My facial muscles stiffened.
"This… I think you're exaggerating this time, as it's the first time he's declared his intention so publicly."
Like servant, like master.
Do they think I can't hear them?
Or are they doing this on purpose to provoke me?
No.
I mustn't get angry.
I took a deep breath, trying not to move, not to explode.
"It seems he's planning to kill me, what do you think? Should I increase the guards?"
"The knights obey him more than you, sir. I think you should hire mercenaries."
Silence fell for one second.
A second longer than it should have.
I was still standing in my place, my back straight, my chest rising and falling with artificial slowness.
My fists were clenched to the point of pain, my nails digging into my palms, but I was suppressing myself even harder.
I am calm.
Yes… calm.
Then he said it.
"You're right, send for them."
In that moment, something inside me snapped. Not a sudden anger, but the last thread holding all this madness together.
I felt heat rising to my head, my pulse pounding in my ears.
I could no longer see the entire scene.
"You #@%%#%@%@$$#"
The curse left my mouth without thought, followed by a step forward. Then another.
My hand reached for the nearest thing. I didn't even look.
I grabbed whatever fell under my fingers and threw it with all my might.
It hit the wall, then the desk surface, its sound scattering in the room.
I didn't stop.
A book, an inkwell, official papers—anything my anger reached turned into a weapon.
I threw one after another, just to let the noise drown out their voices.
"You two talk as if I'm not here!"
My voice was louder now, cracked, coming from my chest, not my throat.
"Mercenaries? Guards?!"
The servant retreated a step, raising his hand unconsciously to protect his face.
And my father leaned back in his chair, skillfully and calmly dodging everything thrown at him.
...