1 Year 5 Month and 8 Days Until the Fall of House Romulus

  Mikhael woke with the weight still in his chest. The pillow was cold now, the sheets tangled from how he had curled into himself. He had cried in this bed. In this room. He hated that. Hated that no matter how soft the fire was, or how quiet the air, it could not smother the shame that clung to him like a second skin.

  The knock came right on cue.

  He sat up slowly. His muscles ached. His jaw was sore from grinding his teeth. A servant stepped inside and bowed his head.

  "You are expected outside. Sparring."

  Mikhael dressed without a word. The clothes were too fine, the fabric soft where he wished it were rough. He hated how good they felt. Hated that someone thought this would make him obedient. That comfort could replace the fire in his chest.

  He followed the servant out to the courtyard.

  It was wide and clean, bordered by sculpted hedges and white stone. No dirt. No noise. Even the birds seemed too polite to interrupt.

  Romulus stood beneath a silk canopy, sipping tea like the cold did not reach him. Valentina sat beside him in deep red, posture perfect, spine straight, chin lifted. A queen who had never needed a crown. Her eyes met Mikhael's once, cold and measuring, then slid away as if he were nothing more than a mutt in the road.

  Valentin waited in the ring. Sword in hand, hair tied back neatly, not a wrinkle on him. From a distance he looked composed, every bit the noble son. Up close, Mikhael saw the truth in the stiffness of his stance. Too rigid. Fingers too tight on the hilt. He did not want to be here. He had not chosen this.

  Mikhael stepped forward and took the wooden blade offered to him. The weight felt familiar. Unwelcome, but familiar. He shifted it in his grip, finding the balance.

  Valentin nodded. A gesture of civility, not challenge. Polite. Practised. No fear, but no fire.

  Mikhael gave nothing back.

  The match began.

  Valentin struck first. Quick, light, clean. His movements followed the lines some tutor had drilled into him for years, but there was no weight behind them. Polished, yes. Dangerous, no.

  Mikhael did not meet him with technique. He met him with instinct. His grip was too tight, his footing uneven, but he did not flinch. He let Valentin push forward, let the noble boy run through his forms, then stepped in. Sharp. Unrefined.

  He did not fight pretty. He fought to land a hit.

  His blade clipped Valentin's shoulder. Not hard. Enough to sting.

  Valentin's eyes widened.

  Mikhael did not wait. He advanced again, letting the anger burn clean through his limbs. A strike to the chest. Another to the ribs. Controlled. Measured. Not enough to break anything. More than enough to bruise.

  On the sidelines, Valentina's nails dug into her dress. She shot Romulus a look sharp enough to cut, but his gaze stayed on the fight. So, she stayed seated, trembling with contained fury.

  Valentin stumbled back. Tried to parry with shaky form. Mikhael shifted his weight, swung a little too wildly, but it did not matter; the force knocked Valentin off balance. Mikhael kicked his legs out.

  Valentin hit the ground hard. Air burst from his lungs in a short, shocked gasp.

  Silence followed.

  Romulus watched, cup still in hand. Not blinking. Not smiling.

  Valentina's chair scraped over stone as she shot to her feet.

  "Valentin!"

  Her voice cracked on his name. She rushed to him, silk and lace gathered in her fists as she dropped beside him, pulling him upright with hands too delicate for anything rough.

  "Are you hurt, my darling?"

  Valentin tried to answer and managed only a breathless shake of his head.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  She turned then, slowly, tension unwinding through her neck like wire, and faced Mikhael. Her eyes were wide and bright, fury burning in them.

  "You animal," she said. "Who allowed you to touch him like that?"

  Mikhael did not answer. He stood with the sword loose in his hand, breathing steady, cold inside.

  "Remove him," she snapped at the nearest servant. "Now."

  "Enough, Valentina."

  Romulus had not moved. He still sat with his cup raised. His voice stayed low, but the weight of it pressed the air flat.

  "Sit down."

  Valentina's head snapped toward him.

  "Sit down?" she hissed. "Can you not see what he did to him?"

  Romulus did not even blink.

  "It is not Mikhael's fault," he said, "that your son treats training as an inconvenience and would rather sulk in his room than hold a blade properly."

  Valentina's jaw clenched.

  "He is our son, Alexander. And your dog just bit him."

  She spat the word like it tasted foul.

  Romulus finally looked at her. There was no anger there. Only a cold, tired disgust.

  "I said enough. Sit down."

  She hesitated, fuming, but she obeyed. Her hands shook as she brushed dirt from Valentin's sleeves, smoothing the fabric like it might fix something underneath.

  Romulus gestured to a nearby servant.

  "Set the table. Breakfast."

  He glanced once more at Valentin, still on the ground.

  "And bring him something soft. He looks ready to cry over bruises."

  Valentin's face twisted, not in pain but in quiet humiliation. He got to his feet without looking at anyone.

  Mikhael stood where he was, breathing evenly, watching the scene with the clarity of someone who no longer expected fairness. Only openings.

  Servants moved quickly. A table appeared beneath the canopy, laid with fine cloth and polished silver, dishes steaming under glass. Mikhael did not move until a guard gestured. Even then, he walked without hurry and took the furthest seat.

  Valentin joined last. His movements were too controlled now, too careful, as if any wrong angle would earn another blow. His pride had taken the deeper cut.

  Valentina sat with perfect posture, untouched plate before her, gloved fingers tapping once and again against the stem of her glass. Since Romulus had silenced her, she had not said a word.

  Romulus broke the quiet first, sipping his tea.

  "Tell me, Valentin," he said. "Do you read with that same level of spirit?"

  Valentin's fork paused halfway to his mouth.

  "No, Father."

  "Pity," Romulus replied. "At least then your books might teach you how to stand."

  Valentina's jaw tightened. She sliced through a piece of fruit, the knife cutting faster than it needed to.

  "I suppose your little champion is proud," she said, her voice coated in sweetness that did not reach her eyes. "Blood and bruises before breakfast. How very dignified."

  Mikhael kept his gaze on his plate. He chewed slowly.

  Romulus did not look at her. He tore a piece of bread and glanced at Mikhael instead.

  "You hit him clean. Most boys your age swing like butchers. Where did you learn?"

  Mikhael raised his eyes. His voice was low but steady.

  "I did not learn," he said. "I just followed my instincts."

  Romulus let out a short laugh that died before it became amusement.

  Valentina did not laugh at all.

  "Brute instinct," she said. "It is always the same. Scratch off the polish and there is only violence underneath."

  Romulus reached for his wine.

  "And yet the polished one is the one bleeding."

  The silence that followed sat heavy over the table.

  Valentin did not speak again.

  No one excused themselves when the meal ended. No one said goodbye. Romulus stood, so the rest rose with him. Valentina drifted away with her son, one hand on his back, the gesture gentle and loaded.

  Mikhael waited until a servant came and motioned for him.

  The rest of the morning passed without incident. No summons. No commands. He was simply returned to his room, as if the fight had been nothing more than exercise.

  He did not sleep. He did not pace. He read.

  By midday, another servant appeared in his doorway.

  "Study. Now."

  He followed.

  The late afternoon light slanted through the high windows of the study. Mikhael sat stiffly at the desk, the book before him filled with lines he now recognised as words instead of shapes. He did not hate it. The reading, the rhythm of it, made sense in a way the rest of this place did not. There was no cruelty in the page. No command. Just language. And it was his to take.

  When the lesson ended, the tutor dismissed him with a nod and bent over his ledgers. Mikhael stood, rolled his aching shoulders, and stepped into the corridor.

  The manor was quieter now. Fewer servants. More shadow. He walked the familiar hallway and slowed by the sitting room with the board still set the way they had left it.

  He hesitated.

  Then he saw him.

  Valentin sat near the window, a book open in his lap, golden light catching the white of his collar. He did not look up.

  Mikhael stepped inside.

  "I was wondering," he said, nodding towards the chessboard, "if you wanted to play."

  Valentin did not answer at once. His eyes stayed on the page, but his fingers tightened slightly on the edges of the book.

  "I do not have time today," he said.

  Mikhael took a step closer.

  "It will not take long."

  Valentin shut the book. The sound was sharp in the quiet room.

  "I said I do not have time," he repeated, his voice thinner now, stretched over something that hurt. "And besides, I do not play with dogs."

  Mikhael's mouth twitched. Barely.

  He understood. The words were not Valentin's. They were hers, fitted into his son's mouth like a new set of teeth.

  "The apple truly does not fall from the tree."

  He nodded once. Calm.

  "As you wish."

  He turned and left without another word.

  Behind him, the pieces on the board stayed where they were. Waiting. Untouched.

  The halls were empty as he walked back to his room. No servants crossed his path. No one spoke his name. It was as if the manor itself had decided he was another piece of furniture, something to be left where it was put.

  He closed his door and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the cold fireplace like it owed him something. He was not angry at Valentin. Not really.

  He was angry at how fast it had happened. One morning of bruises and a few well-placed words, and the boy already spoke with his mother's tongue. Already knew how to look down without blinking.

  He did not light the fire. He did not change. He did not eat.

  Eventually, he lay down. Not because he wanted to, but because nothing else was left to do. Sleep came late and without warning.

  At some point, the dark outside paled to grey, and the weight in his chest was still there.

  It had never moved.