1 Year 5 Months and 5 Days Until the Fall of House Romulus

  He had not expected to be summoned to the garden, of all places.

  The servant had been vague. "The Lady Valentina wishes to see you," was all he said before leading him through the courtyard and toward the manicured hedges behind the estate. Through a corridor lined with high glass windows and brass-framed doors, the temperature shifted gradually, the air losing its bite. They passed through an arched entryway, and suddenly, the world changed.

  The garden was not outside. It was sealed in glass, an atrium, long and curved, warm despite the frost clinging to the world beyond the walls. Flowers bloomed in symmetrical beds, bright and soft and wrong in the dead of winter. Their colours were too vivid, their stems too upright. Somewhere nearby, unseen, something hummed faintly beneath the stone.

  Magic, maybe. Old. Delicate. Mikhael did not understand it, but he felt it, like the heat came from under the floor, pulsing in slow breaths.

  Valentina stood at the centre of it all, one gloved hand trailing along the edge of a low hedge, her posture as elegant as the flowers she claimed to care for.

  "Oh, Mikhael," she said, turning with a practiced smile. "How nice of you to join me."

  "What is this? Why is she being polite with me? Or is this some mockery they enjoy at their level?" he thought, but said nothing. He bowed slightly.

  She did not acknowledge it. She gestured for him to walk with her, and he followed.

  "You know," she said, "I usually tend to this garden myself. Hardly a proper task for a lady of my standing, but I find it calming. The flowers do not argue. They do not posture. They grow or they wither. Simple."

  They passed through rows of delicate blue blooms, vines curling around glass-panelled beams above. Her voice stayed light, almost pleasant.

  "Of course, I cannot always attend it personally. We do have a gardener, a rather devoted one. But he is getting older. So, I thought I would be generous and assign him a helper."

  They stopped. She turned her head, voice still sweet.

  "Unfortunately, the help I found was a clumsy little thing. No discipline. No appreciation for symmetry. And now… look."

  She pointed.

  The flowerbed ahead was wrecked. Soil overturned. Roots snapped. Petals crushed beneath mismatched footprints. The destruction looked chaotic, almost childish in its carelessness.

  "Why is she showing me this? In what way could this possibly concern me?" he thought.

  "I was terribly disappointed," Valentina said, clasping her hands. "But not surprised. Your kind is brutish."

  She tilted her chin.

  "That boy over there," she added lightly, gesturing with a gloved hand.

  Mikhael followed her gaze.

  And froze.

  Lionel.

  His breath stopped. His limbs would not move. The world narrowed to the boy hunched over the soil, sleeves too long, hands trembling as he tried to fix something already broken.

  "You seem surprised, Mikhael," Valentina said behind him, her tone still soft, but with a smirk curling at the edge. "Do you perhaps know this little frail boy?"

  He did not answer. He could not.

  She continued, voice sugar-smooth.

  "Anyhow… that creature needs a proper beating, I dare say. And since you have proven yourself such a good little fighter yesterday," her expression tightened, disgust leaking through the polish, "I could think of no one but you to do it."

  Mikhael turned to her, stunned. His voice barely made it out.

  "What… why me?"

  She raised her voice sharply, the silk of her words tearing.

  "Because I said so, you mongrel."

  The words struck like a slap. Then she composed herself again, smoothed the anger out, exhaled through her nose as if it had never happened.

  "My husband has so graciously given you everything. I dare say you could call it adopting. You are his guard dog in the making. And this, Mikhael…"

  She reached behind a flowerbed and pulled something into view. A whip. Already prepared. Already waiting.

  "…this is your first lesson."

  She held it out.

  "You will have to do this and more in the future. You have to prove your loyalty to us. To me."

  Mikhael stared at the whip. He did not take it.

  His mind screamed. He could strike her. Now. The whip could be turned against her, against the guards, against Romulus. He could die here and now and be free.

  But Lionel would not be.

  There was no one else coming. No one else watching. No one else who could save his brother. If Mikhael died now, Lionel would rot here forever.

  So he took the whip.

  And he walked toward Lionel.

  As Mikhael stepped closer, Lionel looked up.

  His face lit at once. Shock, relief, joy, all colliding.

  "Mikhael… you… you are safe! I knew you would be," he said, voice shaking with hope. "The others told me they took you to some place worse than death, but you are here. You are safe. I am so glad."

  He tried to stand, but the guard beside him shoved him back to the ground. Lionel grunted, confused, but still smiling as he looked up again, until he noticed the guard glancing toward Mikhael. There was a smirk there. Not wide. Not obvious. Just enough to say, he knows.

  Mikhael did not look at Lionel. He kept his head down. His blond hair fell over his eyes like a curtain.

  He did not want to be seen. He could not.

  "Mikhael… why will you not look at me?" Lionel asked, his voice smaller now. "What is going on?"

  His eyes trailed down, searching for an answer.

  Then he saw the whip.

  "Why do you have that?" he whispered. "You do not mean… Mikhael, please. We are brothers…"

  Mikhael's voice came out in a snap, louder than he intended.

  "I am not your brother."

  Lionel flinched.

  Mikhael's eyes burned, but he blinked fast, forcing the tears back down.

  "I never was. I always just pitied you… dog."

  His voice cracked on the last word.

  Behind them, Valentina chuckled quietly. The sound was low and satisfied, like the final note of a symphony she had written for herself.

  "Turn him around," Mikhael said to the guard.

  The man frowned. He looked at Mikhael like he had lost his mind. A peasant, giving orders?

  He glanced toward Valentina.

  Before she could speak, Mikhael snapped again.

  "Turn him around, I said. Now."

  The authority in his voice was not noble. It was not clean. It was sharp and serrated, and something in it made the guard flinch.

  Valentina nodded slowly, eyes gleaming with a joy so bright it looked almost euphoric.

  The guard obeyed.

  He grabbed Lionel by the arm and spun him forward. The boy struggled, but it was useless. He was ten. Thin. Nothing against the guard's strength.

  "Mikhael, please," Lionel cried. "Please do not. It is me. I am Lionel, your brother. Do you not recognise me? What did they do to you?"

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  His voice cracked, breaking into little whimpers between the words.

  Mikhael gripped the whip tighter.

  He did not look up.

  "I did not do anything, Mikhael," Lionel said, trembling. "Why are you doing this? It is me. Your brother. I did not do anything, I—"

  The whip came down.

  It cracked across Lionel's back with a sound that split the silence open. Mikhael felt something inside him die. A piece of his soul gone, ripped out and burned away. In its place came only rage. Not at Lionel. Never at him. At everyone else. At this house. At every smiling face that would one day beg him for mercy.

  For a moment, time stopped.

  Then Lionel screamed.

  The boy wailed, a raw, high sound that stabbed into the marrow of Mikhael's bones.

  "Mikhael! I swear, I did not do anything! Please do not be angry with me, plea—"

  The whip came down again.

  Another cry. Louder. Sharper.

  "I did not do anything! Why? I did not do anything!" he kept saying, over and over, the words collapsing into desperate repetition, his voice shrinking until no one could hear him but himself.

  Mikhael wanted to die.

  He wanted the ground to swallow him. He wanted to vanish. But if he died now, Lionel would never understand. There would be no one left to explain. No one to protect him.

  So, Mikhael would live. He would survive this. So that one day, when the fire came, he could kneel before his brother and beg him for forgiveness.

  "This is for Mistress Valentina's flowers," he said.

  And brought the whip down a third time.

  He did not believe Lionel had ever touched those flowers. This was all her. One day, she would suffer for it.

  But not now.

  Mikhael let the whip fall from his hand.

  He turned and walked back toward her.

  Valentina smiled. His gaze met hers, and she should have been insulted by the defiance in his eyes, but she was glowing. Drunk on power.

  "There. I did it," Mikhael said. "May I go now?"

  "Of course," she purred. "You have done more than enough. It is good to know I can rely on you, Mikhael."

  He did not answer. He walked past her, every step quiet with loathing. She watched him go, smiling to herself like it was the best morning of her life.

  "Take that boy back to the fields," she said to the guard, loud enough for Mikhael to hear. "He is no good in the garden."

  Lionel turned to watch his brother leave, the whip marks fresh on his back. But the real wound was not on his skin. It sat in his chest. He did not cry because of the pain. He cried because the only person he had ever believed in had just broken him.

  Now there was no one left. He was utterly alone in this world.

  The whip lay where Mikhael had dropped it. Lionel was taken away in silence. No more pleading. No more words. Just the sound of dragging feet.

  Mikhael walked back alone.

  No one stopped him. No one spoke. The servants in the halls stepped aside as he passed. They did not know what had happened. Not yet. But they felt it, something sharp in his walk, something off, like he was carrying something dangerous.

  In his room, the door shut behind him with a soft click. He did not move far. He slid down and sank to the floor beside it.

  Sunlight cut across the stone, warm and golden, but it did not touch him. He stayed where he was, eyes unfocused, fists clenched at his sides.

  At first there was shame. A crawling sickness in his stomach. Lionel's voice rang in his ears, high and cracking and begging for answers.

  Then it faded.

  The grief, the nausea, the sting in his chest, all of it drained out, leaving space for something colder. Not sorrow. Not fear.

  Hate.

  Not the kind that burned bright and wild, but the kind that settled. Low. Quiet. Waiting.

  He did not cry. He did not scream. There was nothing left to release. He was done bleeding. He was learning. The room stayed still, and so did he, like a blade cooling after the forge.

  Time passed. He was not sure how long.

  Then a knock. Soft. Timid. A servant stepped in, eyes low.

  "The Duke wishes to see you."

  Mikhael entered the study. The air here was colder than in the halls. The fire behind the Duke's desk had burned low, casting long shadows across the polished wood. Romulus did not look up.

  Mikhael stepped forward and bowed just enough. "My lord."

  He stood near the table, silent, hands at his sides.

  Romulus dipped his pen, finished signing the parchment in front of him, pressed his ring into the wax, and set it aside with a calm that scraped against Mikhael's skin.

  "I have heard what transpired today," he said. "It would seem you have caught me in a lie. Your brother is alive after all."

  He chuckled, light and amused. Like it was nothing. Like it had not been deliberate. Like it was their little joke now.

  "What a reunion that must have been, eh?"

  Mikhael said nothing. He did not move. Did not breathe too deep. He kept his eyes fixed just left of the Duke's gaze, because if he met it, the hate might bleed through.

  "You made me proud today," Romulus continued, pouring himself wine. "You proved yourself loyal. Few men in this world can resist pleasure once it takes root. Power. Obedience. Control. You are no exception. That shows ambition."

  Mikhael's jaw twitched. He did not realise it had until it hurt.

  Romulus went on, smooth and cold.

  "I wish my son had your spine. He is a feeble little thing. I named him after my wife, thinking he would become something great. What a waste of a name."

  Mikhael forced himself still. He had to. If he shifted the wrong way, the mask would slip.

  "You do what is asked," Romulus said, watching him now. "And that is worth rewarding. I do not ignore loyalty. From now on, you will have more responsibility. More trust. You will train harder. Not just with the blade."

  He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping.

  "These titles we wear are fragile things, Mikhael. Easier to steal than to earn. There are enemies everywhere. And knowledge is armour."

  He let the silence stretch. Then he asked:

  "Have you ever wondered how seals work?"

  Mikhael hesitated, just for a breath.

  "Yes, my lord," he said quietly.

  Romulus smiled. "Good."

  He nodded toward the shelf.

  "You see that knife over there? Take it."

  Mikhael turned. A plain blade rested between two books. Nothing ornate. Just steel. Clean. Waiting. He had not noticed it before.

  He picked it up. It felt light in his hand and heavy in the room.

  Romulus stood slowly, as if this were routine.

  That was when Mikhael saw it. The book. Black, unmarked, always close. Romulus reached under the desk and pulled it free like it was second nature, flipping to a page without even looking. Mikhael realised then that he had never seen Romulus without it. Not in the study. Not at breakfast. Not when he watched the spar.

  It had always been there.

  He had just not thought it mattered.

  Romulus rested his hand across the open page. The amulet at his collar glowed once, faint and red.

  "Now," he said, "attack me. With the intent to kill."

  Mikhael froze. "My lord?"

  Romulus did not repeat himself. He only stared, a faint smile on his lips.

  Mikhael stepped forward slowly, heart pounding, mind screaming.

  Then he lunged.

  The seal lit.

  The amulet flared. The book flared. Romulus spoke with a calm that cut like steel.

  "Stop."

  Mikhael's body locked mid-motion. The blade hung inches from Romulus's chest. His arms would not move. His breath caught in his throat.

  "Kill yourself."

  Mikhael's arm twisted. Slowly. The knife turned in his grip, the tip dragging toward his neck. His muscles resisted. His mind fought. It was not enough. The blade touched his skin.

  "Stop."

  It froze.

  "Drop it."

  The knife slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

  Mikhael stumbled back, stunned, the horror still settling.

  Romulus smiled. Not kindly.

  He closed the book with a soft thump.

  For a moment his gaze dropped to his amulet. A thin crack ran across the stone. Barely there. But real. The red inside it flickered once, then steadied.

  Romulus's expression did not change, but his eyes lingered. Mikhael could not read what he was thinking. He only knew one thing:

  Whatever had just happened was not normal.

  "Now," Romulus said, voice softer, the cracked stone still glowing faintly.

  He picked up his wine glass, wrapped it in a thick cloth, and smashed it on the edge of the table. Mikhael flinched at the sudden sound.

  Shards pressed against the cloth, glittering faintly where they broke through. Mikhael stared, confused.

  Romulus did not explain. He tore a page from the book, precise and deliberate, and handed it to Mikhael along with the bundle of broken glass.

  "You are to return this to me tomorrow," Romulus said. "For breakfast. With wine."

  Mikhael took the paper and cloth without a word.

  He bowed.

  Then left.

  He returned to his room with the cloth-wrapped glass and the torn page. The fire had already been lit; some servant had been there before him.

  He moved to the desk, cleared a space, and laid the broken wine glass down. Then he placed the torn seal beside it.

  The seal on the paper was simple, at least on the surface. Clean lines. Symmetrical. Circular, with tight spirals weaving inward to a core. He exhaled sharply through his nose, rolled his shoulders as if preparing for a fight, and sat down.

  He held his hands above the objects, closed his eyes, and focused.

  Tried to feel something. The seal. The pulse beneath the ink. The curve of its lines.

  Nothing.

  He pushed harder, concentrating on the seal. Still nothing. He opened one eye. The broken cup had not moved. No glow. No hum. No change. He closed his eyes again, jaw tightening.

  Tension built in his arms and chest, but it went nowhere. He stared at the seal and searched for the mistake. He could not help it. The seal was what had the power, was it not?

  A knock pulled him out of his frustration.

  The door opened slightly, and Valentin peeked in. Then he stepped further into the room, uninvited but not uncertain. He walked like someone who did not expect doors to stay closed.

  "I heard what happened today," he said. "I wanted to say sorry. I found out that boy was your brother. My mother can be a bit petty."

  "Petty? She can be petty? She is a monster."

  Mikhael did not say it. The hate clawed at his throat. His hands twitched at the memory. He would kill them all. And this boy, this polished, soft-eyed thing, was no different. He even looked like her.

  "Just a dog biting another dog," Mikhael said flatly. "That is what you called me. Remember?"

  He looked Valentin straight in the eye.

  "What is there to apologise for?"

  Valentin shifted. "I know I did, but—"

  Mikhael stopped listening. What was the point? This was not a friend. Not a feud to patch up. This was a battlefield, and he had to act accordingly.

  "Let me help you with that," Valentin said quickly, nodding toward the seal. He could see Mikhael was not fully with him, and he wanted to win back some ground.

  Mikhael pushed the hate down. Gathered his thoughts. Let the mask fall into place. He offered a faint smile.

  "Sure. I appreciate the help."

  Valentin relaxed. He did not see that it was fake.

  "Oh, of course. It is the least I can do," he said, stepping closer. "I will help you, but I will not do it for you."

  He gave a small chuckle, trying to ease the tension.

  "I see that it is a seal used for repairing. Tell me, what were you doing up until now?"

  "I focused really hard on the seal and I tried—" Mikhael began.

  "Ah, I see," Valentin cut in. "I made the same mistake when I first tried this. It was one of my books. My father tore the pages, and I tried to restore it. Nothing worked. Only when I concentrated on the book itself did it respond. That is the trick. You have to focus on the object, and how it was before it was destroyed. The seal takes some energy, yes, but you can handle that."

  Mikhael absorbed every word.

  He rested his fingertips lightly on the paper and closed his eyes again.

  Valentin chuckled beside him. "No need to close your eyes. The seal is not shy."

  Mikhael smiled faintly. This time, it was real.

  He opened his eyes and tried again. He imagined the glass, not shattered, not in fragments, but whole. How it had looked. How it had felt. Its weight. The way it caught the light.

  The seal flared.

  A red glow lit the room. Threads of crimson light curled outward, dancing over the shards. The glass rose, lifted by the glow, catching firelight across the walls. It began to spin, slowly, the pieces aligning.

  Mikhael glanced at Valentin, uncertain.

  Valentin nodded with a calm smile. "Keep going. Almost there."

  The pieces fused, edges knitting, cracks smoothing, until the glass hovered whole above the seal.

  Mikhael stared.

  He reached out and took it, turning it in his hand.

  It was perfect.

  He did not know how it worked, or where it came from. But it was magic. Real. Responsive. And it had listened to him. His breath caught, not from shock, but from something deeper. He felt it take something from him, a little warmth behind his ribs, a flicker of strength.

  It did not matter.

  It was magic.

  For a moment, he forgot the manor, the seals, even Valentin beside him. All he could do was stare at the restored glass and feel something he had not felt in a long time.

  Awe.

  He would give more.

  What else could he do? What were the limits?

  "Good job, Mikhael," Valentin said, standing. "Your proud teacher is off to bed. I will see you at breakfast."

  Mikhael did not answer. He lifted a hand in silent farewell.

  Then he took the glass.

  And shattered it.

  He was not going to stop now. He would master whatever they threw at him. Who knew what else these nobles kept to themselves?

  He barely slept that night. He rebuilt the glass. Broke it. Restored it faster. Each time smoother. Each time stronger.

  Until he could do it with barely a thought.