1 Year 5 Months and 28 Days Before the Fall of House Romulus

  They had been just children.

  The air in the village had felt wrong that day, heavy and oppressive. Even as a child, Mikhael had sensed it in the way their parents avoided their eyes, in the low, fearful whispers that drifted through the walls. At fifteen he worked the fields beside his father; most days it felt like he had two jobs, keeping the soil turned and keeping his father upright. His hands were calloused like any grown man's, but that morning he felt small again.

  Lionel had clung to his arm, small fingers digging into his sleeve as they watched the strangers arrive. At fourteen he liked to pretend he was Mikhael's equal; now he stood half behind his brother's shoulder, using him as a shield.

  There were five of them. Four men dressed in plain clothes, their boots caked with mud, their faces cold, indifferent. They moved with purpose, eyes scanning the village like vultures over fresh carrion. And then there was the one who led them.

  Erwin Greaves. Mikhael hadn't known his name then, but he would never forget his face.

  He stood out not for his stature, he was of average height, but for the way he carried himself. His coat was immaculate, dark fabric tailored to perfection; its edges embroidered with delicate patterns. He walked with a cane, its silver handle gleaming, the dark shaft polished smooth. At its tip sat a red stone that glinted like a drop of blood in the winter sun. He tapped it lightly against the ground as he walked, each sound deliberate and final, like the tolling of a bell.

  "That is him," Lionel had whispered, his voice shaking. "That is the man Mama and Papa were talking about."

  The man had glanced toward their house, hawk-like eyes catching on the window where they stood. For a moment, he met Mikhael's gaze, lips curling into a polite, almost fatherly smile. Then he tapped the cane once more against the ground and turned toward their door.

  Their father was already stepping outside, his face pale and drawn.

  "Ah, Mr. Draylow," Greaves said smoothly, his voice warm and honeyed but laced with a weight that pressed against the very air. "I trust we will find today's arrangement satisfactory."

  The words had meant nothing to Mikhael back then. All he understood was the way his father's shoulders hunched and how his mother clutched her shawl tightly, her face turned away in silence.

  Greaves lifted his cane, the red stone catching the light as he gestured toward the two boys. "And these must be the boys," he said, his smile deepening. "Fine stock. Strong. Promising."

  Lionel shrank further behind his older brother, fingers clutching Mikhael's arm. Mikhael stood rigid, jaw tight, chest knotted with an unease he did not yet know how to name. Greaves's words were laced with sweetness, but beneath the surface something sharp glinted, like a blade concealed in silk.

  Greaves turned back to their father, his voice dropping into a more intimate tone. "It is a wise decision," he said. "Not many have the courage to provide their children with such an…" He paused for a moment, glancing at the boys. "Advantageous future."

  The men following Greaves filed into the house in silence, their boots leaving slushy trails across the wooden floor. The room seemed to shrink in their presence, the air growing colder despite the weak fire crackling in the fireplace.

  Greaves paused in the doorway, removing his gloves with deliberate precision. His cane clicked softly against the floor as he surveyed the modest home, his eyes taking in every detail with unsettling attention.

  "Cozy," he remarked lightly.

  The word hung heavy in the air, and their mother flinched as though struck.

  She lingered near the fireplace, twisting her shawl into tight knots. Her gaze darted between her sons, lips trembling with words she could not bring herself to speak. Their father stayed by the table, stiff and withdrawn, arms crossed, eyes fixed on a knot in the wood rather than on his family.

  Greaves turned his attention back to the boys, stepping forward with a smile that never reached his eyes.

  "And there they are," he said, voice soft but heavy. "The young men of the hour."

  Lionel pressed himself against Mikhael's side, his small hands bunching in his brother's sleeve.

  "Mikhael," he whispered, voice trembling. "Why is he looking at us like that?"

  Mikhael did not respond. His mouth had gone dry. His stomach twisted as Greaves's gaze swept over them, weighing, measuring, lingering just long enough to make his skin crawl.

  Behind Greaves, one of the men shifted and let out a low, snickering comment. The sound cracked the silence like glass. Greaves's smile did not falter, but the room seemed to grow even colder.

  "Mr. Fenn," Greaves said smoothly, turning his head a fraction toward the man. "Do you have something to share with the group?"

  Fenn hesitated, his smirk faltering. "No, sir," he muttered, eyes dropping at once.

  "Ah," Greaves replied softly. "Then I suggest you maintain your composure. We would not want to give the wrong impression, would we?"

  He tapped his cane lightly against the floor. The red stone at its tip began to glow, pulsing with a deep, muted light that seemed to sink into the air like a heartbeat.

  Fenn let out a sharp gasp, clutching his chest as if something had seized him from within. His knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor, trembling.

  "Apologies," he choked out, voice strained and hoarse. "It will not happen again."

  "Good," Greaves said pleasantly. He tapped the cane once more, and the glow faded. "I do so dislike repeating myself."

  Fenn staggered back to his feet, pale and unsteady. None of the other men moved or spoke. Their eyes stayed fixed on the floor while Greaves turned again to the boys, his faint smile intact.

  "Now then," he said, drawing a folded piece of parchment from his coat. "Shall we begin?"

  He stepped toward Lionel, extending the paper. A faint outline of a seal shimmered across its surface, barely visible, like something waiting to be woken.

  "Take this, boy. Both hands."

  Lionel hesitated. His wide, uncertain eyes flicked toward Mikhael. At Mikhael's subtle nod, he reached out, his fingers trembling as they closed around the parchment.

  For a second, nothing happened.

  Then the seal flickered weakly, its light pulsing like a dying flame.

  Greaves tilted his head, watching with measured interest. "Middling," he murmured. "Not without value, but far from remarkable."

  Lionel's hands dropped to his sides as Greaves took back the paper and folded it neatly. The boy refused to meet his brother's gaze, his face pale and tight with shame. Mikhael wanted to reach out, to say something, but before he could, Greaves turned to him.

  "Your turn," the man said, holding out another parchment.

  Mikhael swallowed hard, the knot in his stomach twisting tighter. Greaves's gaze bore into him, cold and unblinking, as if he already knew what would happen. Slowly, Mikhael reached out and took the paper.

  The moment it touched his hands, a sharp heat surged through the parchment. The faint seal on its surface flared to life, glowing brighter and brighter until it shone like molten metal. The edges began to curl and blacken, and before Mikhael could react, the entire sheet burst into flame.

  He yelped and flung the burning scrap to the floor. It disintegrated at once into ash, a thin wisp of smoke curling into the air. The room fell into a hard, stunned silence. Lionel stared at the ashes, mouth slightly open, while their mother gasped, a hand flying to cover her mouth.

  Greaves remained motionless for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Mikhael. Something shifted in his expression, small and unreadable, before a slow, deliberate smile crept onto his face.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  "Extraordinary," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. He looked down at the scorched floor where the paper had turned to ash, that smile widening. Then he turned toward Mr Draylow, his voice low and heavy with quiet satisfaction. "You have done well, Mr Draylow. This boy is exceptional."

  Their father nodded stiffly, jaw clenched tight.

  Their mother took a shaky step forward, her voice quivering. "No," she whispered. "No, this is not right. You cannot take him. He is just a boy."

  "Just a boy with extraordinary potential," Greaves replied smoothly, turning his gaze back to Mikhael. "A rarity, Mrs Draylow. Surely you understand how important it is for gifts like his to be cultivated."

  Her hand dropped from her shawl, trembling at her side. "You are not taking him," she said, her voice breaking. "You are not taking either of them."

  Greaves raised an eyebrow at the outburst, his sharp gaze cutting toward her. He said nothing at first, letting the silence thicken in the room, heavy and close. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost gentle, but something hard lay beneath it.

  "Mrs Draylow," he said, stepping forward with slow, measured ease, "I understand your hesitation. Truly, I do. Letting go is never easy, especially when the stakes are so personal." He gestured lightly with his cane, the red stone catching the light in a dull gleam. "But I assure you, this is the right decision. Your son's gifts require opportunities far beyond what this village can offer. To deny him that would be a grave disservice."

  Her chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts, her hands trembling as they clenched at her sides.

  "You talk about opportunities," she spat, her voice raw and cracking. "But what about his life? His childhood? You are taking everything from him."

  Greaves tilted his head slightly, that faint, infuriating smile still on his lips. "No, madam. I am giving him a future."

  Lionel whimpered beside Mikhael, his small hands digging into his brother's arm. "Mama," he whispered, barely audible, "please, do not let them take us."

  Her tear-filled eyes flicked toward her sons. She took another unsteady step forward, desperation scraping at every word. "You cannot have them. You cannot—"

  "Melina, enough," Mr Draylow snapped. His voice rang out sharp and final as he stepped in front of her, seizing her arm. "This is done. It is what is best for them."

  "No," Melina shouted, wrenching her arm free. The anger that had simmered beneath her fear finally broke the surface, raw and unrestrained. "You do not get to decide this, Niall. They are my sons. They are mine."

  Greaves sighed quietly, a flicker of annoyance crossing his composed face. "I do hate when these matters become emotional," he murmured. With a slight nod, he gestured to his men. "Take them."

  Two of the men stepped forward, their boots thudding against the wooden floor. One seized Lionel roughly by the arm. The boy screamed, thrashing as he was dragged from his brother's side.

  "Mikhael. Mama. Help," he cried.

  "Let him go," Melina shrieked, lunging forward. She grabbed at the man's sleeve, pulling at him with every ounce of strength she had left. "You cannot take them. Let them go."

  The man snarled and tried to shove her back, but she refused to release her grip. Her desperation turned feral, nails digging into his arm as she clung to her son.

  "No," she screamed. "No, you cannot—"

  "Enough," Greaves said coldly.

  His voice cut through the chaos like a blade. He gave a short nod.

  Another man stepped forward, drawing a dagger from his belt. The blade gleamed in the firelight, cruel and precise.

  Time stretched.

  The dagger hovered inches from Melina, the threat hanging in the air. Her eyes widened. Her grip shifted for a heartbeat, but she did not let go. Her gaze snapped to Mikhael, pleading and desperate, full of animal terror.

  Mikhael saw the steel. Saw the man's knuckles whitening around the hilt.

  And he knew what was coming.

  "Stop." The word tore out of him, raw and panicked. He surged forward and shoved his mother back with everything he had. She stumbled, arms flailing, but he did not look back.

  He grabbed Lionel, yanking him close, wrapping his arms around him as he turned to face Greaves.

  "We will go," he said, voice shaking but loud enough to fill the room. "We will go. Just… do not hurt her."

  Silence dropped over the house.

  Mikhael's chest heaved with each breath, arms locked around Lionel as the younger boy sobbed into his shirt.

  Greaves studied him in quiet interest, head tilted slightly. Then, slowly, a faint smile curved his lips.

  "Wise beyond your years," he murmured. "You might have gone far, had you not been born to these parents."

  He gestured once. The men loosened their grip, no longer brutal, only firm, as they dragged the brothers toward the door.

  Melina screamed, her voice cracking into sobs as Niall held her back. Her struggles were wild, frantic, but her husband remained rigid, his face pale and vacant.

  With a soft sigh, Greaves stepped forward, the picture of a man cleaning up a minor inconvenience. From within his coat, he drew a small leather pouch, its drawstrings tightly cinched. The faint clink of coins broke through the heavy silence as he placed it on the table. The gesture was practiced, precise, ritualistic in its finality.

  "For your courage," he said, voice soft and deliberate. His sharp gaze flicked to Niall Draylow. "Few men can make such difficult decisions for the betterment of their family."

  Niall's jaw tightened. His hand hovered over the pouch for a moment before curling around the worn leather. He did not look at Mikhael or Lionel. With a short, stiff nod, he acknowledged the transaction, his face pale and his shoulders hunched. He said nothing.

  Greaves turned back toward the boys, his faint smile unchanged. "Let us go," he said simply, his tone unyielding.

  As the men began dragging them toward the door, Mikhael twisted around for one last look. His mother's eyes locked onto his, wide and brimming with tears. Her hands reached out as if she could still stop it, still pull them back.

  Their father stood motionless. His head was bowed, the pouch clutched tightly in his grip like an anchor he dared not release.

  The last thing Mikhael saw before the door closed was his mother collapsing to the floor, hands still reaching for them, her body wracked with sobs.

  The door slammed shut with a resounding crack, the echo of it louder than anything else.

  Mikhael's hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms as fury boiled inside him. It was all he could feel: fire and hate, coursing through his veins, threatening to devour him.

  His father. The man who was supposed to protect them. He had sold them like livestock. The image burned into Mikhael's mind: his father pushing their mother aside, his face not just twisted with fear or shame, but something far worse. Relief. He had been glad to let them go. Glad to hand them over just to quiet his own life.

  He had not even looked at them when the deal was sealed.

  And his mother… gods, his mother. She had cried. She had fought. But not enough. Her guilt had come too late. Her resistance had shattered when it mattered most. She had let it happen, even as her heart broke, even as regret consumed her.

  But what good was regret now? What use were her tears when the ink on Greaves's ledger was already dry?

  Mikhael hated them both. The man who had bargained them away, and the woman who had been too weak to stop it.

  "Move, boy," a voice barked, snapping him back to the present.

  A rough hand shoved him forward. He stumbled, shackles clanking around his wrists and ankles as he and Lionel were forced into step. The chains felt impossibly heavy. When he glanced down, he saw faint markings etched into the metal, seals. The lines pulsed with a weak, steady light, and his stomach turned cold.

  These were not ordinary restraints.

  The fire in his chest still burned just as fiercely, but his body refused to answer. Each step felt like wading through muck, every motion slow and strained, as if the world itself were pressing him down. He tried to twist away when two men grabbed his arms, but the strength had already been leeched from his limbs. He might as well have been struggling against smoke.

  They hauled him up to the wagon as if he weighed nothing, his legs scraping against the jagged edge of the wooden frame.

  "Let go of me," he spat. The words came out sharp and useless, all the fury he could not sink into the people who deserved it.

  One of the men smirked as he shoved Mikhael down into a dark corner of the wagon. Iron bars loomed above him, the dim light filtering through and casting twisted shadows across his face.

  Lionel was thrown in next, his small body hitting the floor hard beside Mikhael. He did not struggle. He did not even resist. He simply curled into himself, eyes wide with silent terror.

  "Stay down and shut it," one of the guards said. "You were paid for, not asked for."

  He slammed the cage door. The clang echoed through Mikhael's chest, louder than his heartbeat.

  He sat there, breathing hard, body trembling from a mix of cold and fury that had nowhere to go. His mother's face flashed before him, tear-streaked, broken, screaming their names. His father's hand closing around the pouch. Head bowed. Eyes averted.

  It was done. The choice had already been made. The deal was sealed.

  The wagon lurched forward. Lionel's fingers found his sleeve, clutching tight.

  "Mikhael," he whispered, barely audible. "What is going to happen to us?"

  Mikhael did not have an answer. The anger still burned in his chest, but now it sat alongside something worse, a cold knot of fear that dug its nails in deep. Not for himself. For Lionel.

  He shifted closer and wrapped an arm around his little brother's shoulders, pulling him in until he could feel Lionel's shaking against his own ribs.

  "Do not worry," he said, forcing his voice into something steadier than he felt. "I will protect you."

  The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he had no idea how. No plan. No power. Just chains and a promise he had no right to make.

  Lionel nodded anyway and buried his face against him, as if that sentence alone could hold back the world.

  Mikhael stared through the bars at the shrinking line of his village, jaw clenched until it hurt.

  "I will protect you," he repeated in his head, like a vow nailed into bone.

  If the world wanted to take Lionel, it would have to go through him.

  The wagon hit a bump, sending both of them off balance. Mikhael braced himself, glaring at the shadow of the guard pacing outside the cage. The road ahead stretched endlessly, harsh and unforgiving, and he knew the only way forward was through it.

  The iron wheels groaned beneath them as the wagons rolled over uneven ground. Mikhael sat with his back pressed against the cold, rough wood, Lionel tucked into his side, trembling with every jolt and rattle. The chains on Mikhael's wrists felt heavier by the hour. The etched seals on them glowed faintly, draining what little strength remained in his limbs.

  Around them, the other captives sat in defeated silence. Some stared at nothing, faces hollow and drawn. Others muttered soft prayers to the Messenger, to the Veiled One, to whatever gods they could remember, their voices brittle with desperation. The air inside the wagon was thick with sweat, fear, and resignation.

  Every few minutes the wagon lurched, knocking Lionel against him. Each time, Mikhael steadied his brother and held him tighter.

  "It is going to be okay," he whispered, again and again. The words rang hollow, even to him, but Lionel seemed to believe them. Or maybe he just needed to.

  Outside, Greaves's voice rose above the creaking of the caravan. He barked orders to his men, keeping them in formation. Sometimes his laughter cut through the noise, sharp and mocking, like a knife scraping bone.

  The day dragged on. The forest around them thickened, casting deeper shadows over the winding path. As the sun dipped lower, those shadows stretched across the road like reaching fingers. The silence was broken only by the clatter of the wheels and the crack of a whip urging the horses onward.

  Mikhael shut his eyes for a moment and pressed his forehead against the wood.

  "I will get him out of this," he thought. "Whatever it takes."

  The wagon rolled on.