1 Year and 1 Day Until the Fall of House Romulus

  The next morning came like a thief. No dreams. No rest. Just light through the window and a knock on the door.

  A servant's voice, muffled through the wood:

  "Duke Minerva is soon to arrive."

  Mikhael sat up slowly, bones aching like he'd been beaten in his sleep. He looked at his hands. Clean. But he knew what they'd done. His stomach curled at the thought of food; the last thing that had passed his throat was bile.

  He wanted the bed to swallow him whole. To give him even the smallest excuse to do nothing. He was tired. Bone-tired. Soul-tired. But that mercy wasn't coming. Not here.

  The hallway stretched before him like a gauntlet. He walked it at a snail's pace, dragging each step, hoping for some interruption, some reason to turn back.

  None came.

  The manor entrance greeted him too soon.

  Romulus was already there, seated on the porch with a cup of wine, watching the courtyard like a man inspecting his lands, his sky, his air. He looked up at the sound of Mikhael's approach, and a faint smile curled across his lips.

  "You missed breakfast," Romulus said, before Mikhael could speak. "Yesterday must've tired you out."

  Mikhael came to stand beside the table. "No, my lord. It's all right."

  "Sit, my boy. No reason to stand around like a servant." He chuckled, motioning to the seat beside him.

  Mikhael hesitated. Romulus had grown strangely warm overnight, and warmth from that man never came for free. Still, he obeyed, lowering himself into the chair.

  Romulus swirled the wine in his goblet before speaking again.

  "I remember my first," he said lightly. "I was a boy myself. A young slave girl tried to escape near the edge of the estate. My father asked me a question… the same one I asked you yesterday. And like you, I gave the answer he wanted."

  He exhaled slowly, eyes lingering on the horizon.

  "I asked Valentin the same question too. But no one was trying to escape, so I had to orchestrate one. He couldn't go through with it. Locked himself in his room for three days."

  Then his hand landed gently on Mikhael's shoulder.

  "My house is in fragile hands. Perhaps one day…"

  The door opened.

  Valentina stepped out, every movement sharp, controlled. Her eyes immediately found Romulus's hand on Mikhael's shoulder, and they turned to blades. Romulus didn't move. He held it there just long enough to make his point. Then he released, calmly reaching for his glass.

  Valentina said nothing. She didn't need to. She sat stiffly, back straight, gaze forward.

  Silence fell. Estate servants moved about the courtyard, arranging flowers, clearing the walkway, polishing what was already polished. Mikhael sat still, but his thoughts spun like a storm.

  "Perhaps one day…"

  "What had Romulus meant? That I could one day rule this place? That I could carry the house where Romulus's own son failed? Or was it another test, another poisoned compliment to bind me tighter?"

  He couldn't tell.

  What frightened him most was that some part of him wanted it. Wanted the power. Wanted the recognition. Wanted the weight. It made his skin crawl.

  The door creaked again.

  Valentin emerged, rubbing his eyes, still in the haze of sleep.

  "If I knew Uncle hadn't arrived yet, maybe I could've stayed in bed longer," he muttered.

  "He'll be here shortly," Valentina replied, tone clipped. "My brother always liked to take his time."

  Valentin said nothing, sensing the mood. He quietly sat next to Mikhael, offering a faint smile, an unspoken thank-you for last night's game.

  The morning waited.

  The wind picked up slightly, rustling the crimson banners that hung from the manor's outer walls. Mikhael sat motionless beside Romulus, eyes fixed on the distant gates. Every tick of silence felt like the space between breaths before a storm.

  For a brief moment, they almost looked like family.

  And out there, somewhere beyond the trees, wheels turned.

  The Minervas were coming.

  A cooler breeze swept over the porch, tugging the tablecloth, fluttering the drapery, stirring the hedges along the path. Servants moved briskly in the courtyard, checking flowers, brushing off dust that wasn't there. No one said much. No one needed to.

  Then came the sound.

  Faint at first. A murmur under the wind. Mikhael's ears caught it before his eyes, a rhythmic thunder, steady and practiced.

  Hooves.

  Romulus stood. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. Valentina adjusted her gloves with deliberate elegance. Valentin, still bleary, blinked toward the gates and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Mikhael rose too, his chair scraping softly behind him. His shoulders squared themselves before he even realized.

  The gates creaked open.

  A large white carriage rolled into view, adorned with polished blue detailing that glinted like sapphire in the morning sun. A ring of riders surrounded it, their armor lacquered in the same blue, shining bright as glass. The carriage came to a slow halt in the center of the courtyard.

  Romulus and his family began walking forward, slow and composed.

  Mikhael followed a pace behind them now. Not quite family. Not quite servant. Something in between, something wrong.

  The door opened.

  First came the man.

  Pale as snow, tall, his features almost identical to Valentina's but softened by age and ease. He stepped out with a casual stretch, arms raised above his head, as if he'd just come from a nap instead of a cross-province journey.

  Mikhael didn't know what to expect, but it wasn't this. He had thought all nobles were alike: stiff, proud, cruel. This one… seemed different. Looser. Easygoing.

  But a snake still. Mikhael saw it in the eyes. He trusted none of them.

  Valentina stepped forward and embraced him before he even seemed to notice her presence.

  "William," she said warmly. "I've missed you so very much."

  He blinked as if surprised, then chuckled.

  "Oh, I've missed you too, Sister. I see you're as radiant as ever."

  Valentina flushed faintly, and William glanced toward Romulus.

  "Seems my brother-in-law has kept good care of you," he joked.

  Romulus gave a restrained smile. Whether it was amusement or politeness, Mikhael couldn't tell.

  Valentina let go of William and climbed into the carriage without another word. William turned to Romulus. They shook hands stiffly. Polite. Cold. Not quite family.

  Valentin approached next, bowing slightly. His eyes lit up in the presence of his idol.

  "I seem to have left one of my children at your estate, Alexander," William said, gesturing to Valentin with a soft laugh.

  Romulus gave another tight smile.

  "I've been practicing, Uncle," Valentin said quickly. "This time, I think I can beat you."

  "I'm sure you will," William replied. "I've grown quite rusty."

  "Valentin," Valentina called from the carriage, "your cousins are here. Come greet them properly."

  From the carriage, a boy stepped out.

  Albino like his father and aunt. Hair like silk. Skin like porcelain. His expression was serene, unreadable. His face carried a gentleness that bordered on eerie, like a painted saint whose eyes followed you.

  A quiet smile rested there, like it had been put on once and never taken off.

  He walked forward, graceful, almost silent. Valentin greeted him with more excitement than he got back. They clasped hands, and the boy offered a small bow to Romulus.

  "Uncle," he said simply.

  "Johan," Romulus replied, studying him with interest. "You've grown into a fine nobleman indeed."

  "Thank you, Uncle," Johan said, but the words felt weightless. Mikhael could tell Romulus noticed too.

  Then she stepped out.

  Dark blue eyes, sharp enough to cut through fog. Skin pale, almost ethereal, with the faintest rose blooming on her cheeks. Her hair: black. Truly black. Like midnight, like cooled ash, like the charred end of a wick. She moved slowly, but not lazily, gracefully, like she knew all eyes were already on her and saw no reason to hurry to catch them.

  Her front teeth were slightly parted, an imperfection made perfect by the radiance of her smile. She was skinny, sharp in the cheeks and jaw, like a figure carved from marble and told to walk around and make trouble. She wore a black dress with gothic lace trim, stark against the bright blue and white of her family's colors. A garment that didn't beg for attention.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  It demanded it.

  Mikhael didn't know what he expected.

  But this girl, this Emma, was something else entirely. The most beautiful person he had ever seen.

  And he hated that he noticed.

  She met his gaze for the briefest moment. Her body tilted ever so slightly, and her smile grew wider. Mikhael didn't know what to do with any of that. Instead of returning the smile, he bowed. Low. Like the very people he used to mock for doing the same.

  Her smile faltered into a frown. She had clearly expected something else. A grin, a word, anything but submission.

  William noticed the exchange and stepped toward Mikhael.

  Instinctively, Mikhael straightened, twisted to face him, and bowed again.

  "My lord," he said.

  William chuckled.

  "It would seem my daughter is more deserving of a lower bow than me."

  Mikhael's hatred for the man, whom he'd just met, bloomed fully.

  "Another smug bastard," he thought, and dipped just slightly lower.

  "Oh no, no, my boy," William said, placing both hands on Mikhael's shoulders and gently pulling him upright. "I see my humor was lost on you."

  He paused, then added, "What's your name, child?"

  "He's no one you need to pay any mind to, William, trust me," Valentina cut in, her voice sharp enough to draw blood.

  Mikhael said nothing.

  William, unbothered, turned to Romulus.

  "He is… an apprentice I've taken in," Romulus replied, with a hint of hesitation. Whether he truly didn't know what Mikhael was to him or simply refused to name it, Mikhael couldn't tell.

  Valentina looked like she wanted to scream but stopped herself, pressing her lips together with violent elegance.

  William, on the other hand, seemed puzzled.

  "And of what house is he?" he asked, more serious now.

  "He is a peasant boy we've taken in," Romulus answered calmly. "But… you could say he's of my house now."

  William's expression changed instantly. He turned his full attention to Mikhael and studied him deeply, like he was reading scripture carved into bone.

  Mikhael felt it. Felt seen in a way he didn't like. His frown deepened. Who are you to look at me like livestock you might buy or spare?

  He stared back, defiant. Like a snake ready to bite.

  Then, unexpectedly, William smiled again. Genuine. Gentle.

  Mikhael's fury twisted into confusion. What just happened? The man had peeled something back, exposed a face Mikhael thought he'd hidden.

  "Promising," William said. "If nothing else, some good competition for my nephew here."

  He chuckled at his own joke, the only one laughing.

  Then Johan stepped forward.

  Mikhael instinctively began to bow yet again, but Johan raised a hand, offering it instead.

  "Don't mind my father," Johan said, voice soft, polite. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

  Mikhael didn't understand any of this. Why were they speaking to him like an equal? Why did they want nothing from him?

  Still half-lost, he shook Johan's hand, opened his mouth to say something, but Emma was already there, pushing Johan slightly aside, both hands catching Mikhael's.

  "I'm Emma," she said with a smile brighter than summer, "and I look forward to seeing more of you."

  Mikhael froze. Her voice. Her eyes. Her hands around his.

  He had no words.

  Just instinct.

  He bowed. Again. Deep. Awkward.

  Emma frowned once more, one eyebrow arching as if to say: What is wrong with this boy?

  Valentina, meanwhile, looked like she might vomit from the sight, the casualness, the lack of distance. She stepped in swiftly and gathered the children by their shoulders.

  "You must be tired and hungry," she said with falsely sweet warmth. "Let me have something brought to you."

  They moved into the dining hall as a stream of servants poured from the kitchen, carrying silver trays heavy with roasted meats, cheeses, bowls of fresh fruit. Romulus took his place at the head of the long table, Valentina to his right, William to his left. To William's right sat Johan, then Emma, and finally Mikhael. Valentin sat beside his mother.

  Mikhael said nothing as he sat. He hadn't eaten all morning and had no intention of being polite. He began to eat with quiet focus, eyes fixed on his plate.

  And yet, despite himself, his gaze drifted.

  Once. Twice. Again.

  Emma.

  Valentina noticed. She cast him a warning look from across the table, sharp as glass. Mikhael lowered his head and returned to his food.

  "The food on the road," William said, cutting a slice of meat, "is always so terribly bland. In summer, it's near impossible to keep anything from spoiling."

  Valentina gave her brother a soft smile. Genuine. Warm in a way she rarely allowed herself. Whatever else she was, there was no doubt he meant something real to her.

  Mikhael, meanwhile, felt like a blot of ink on silk. Wrong. Loud. Ugly, even if no one said so.

  He pushed his chair back and rose.

  "I should go," he said, bowing slightly.

  "Leaving already?" Emma asked, voice lilting, amused. "And here I was about to break the dreadful silence between us."

  She smiled, and Mikhael's words died in his throat. He had no idea what was wrong with him, why she turned his tongue into stone.

  "You may leave," Romulus said, not looking up.

  For the first time since arriving at the manor, Mikhael was thankful for the man's voice. He bowed again, quieter this time, and turned to go.

  William was the only one who spared him a glance as he left. A short one, almost casual, then he turned back to the table, making a joke Mikhael couldn't catch.

  Mikhael didn't go to his room.

  The version of himself from the village wouldn't have. He was never the outdoors type, not like Lionel. Lionel could vanish into the fields for hours and come back just to sleep.

  Mikhael smiled at the memory. Then, as always, the thought of Lionel came with a sting. The smile twisted into anger.

  He headed for the arena.

  If he ever found himself without armor or a grimoire, he'd still need to know how to fight. That much, at least, he could control.

  He grabbed a training sword, stepped into the arena, and began.

  Slash.

  Again.

  And again.

  He didn't see straw dummies.

  He saw faces.

  Romulus. Valentina. Priests. Guards. Every figure that had shaped his pain. So, he slashed, and slashed, killing every one of them, then brought them back just to do it again. Like a child telling a story with wooden figures — only in this one, the villain dies in every version, in every ending.

  And when the story grew stale, he revived them. Not for redemption.

  For a better death.

  His hands grew tired faster than they should have. He'd grown used to the enhanced stamina and speed his armor gave him. Without it, every swing took something real.

  He dropped the sword carelessly to the ground and sat beside it, chest heaving.

  His eyes wandered to the fields beyond the estate. Somewhere out there, Lionel was working. Had been since the sun came up. Mikhael wanted to go there, to see him, to talk to him. To say anything that wasn't a lie.

  But if he were seen there, and word reached Romulus, all his efforts would fall straight into the mud.

  In frustration, he let his back fall onto the ground and stared up at the sky. The clouds drifted, white and stupid and free. He wished he could be there among them. Ignorant. Empty. He wished he'd had better parents. That he could have stayed in the village, gone to temples, worshipped the false gods he used to believe in and never known any of this.

  Footsteps.

  He jerked his head toward the sound.

  Valentin, Johan, and Emma.

  He sat upright, but couldn't be bothered to stand.

  Emma approached first, hands behind her back, taking big, playful strides, like a child pretending to be taller than she was.

  "What were you thinking about?" she asked, looking up at the clouds instead of him.

  "Nothing really," he muttered, weirdly proud of himself for saying anything at all.

  "My brother's like that too," she said. "Nothing really going on in his head."

  She chuckled to herself. She didn't have her father's exact looks, but she definitely had his mouth.

  Johan's face stayed unmoved, clearly used to her jabs. Valentin laughed, then cut it off quickly when Johan shot him a serious look. He turned away, still smirking to himself.

  "You were training?" Johan asked, nodding at the sword. "But where is your armor? Why bother without it?"

  "You never know when you'll be caught without it," Mikhael said.

  "That's why you keep your grimoire beside you at all times, is it not?" Johan replied, like he was correcting a child.

  "Well, I don't have either, and I'm doing fine," Emma chimed in.

  "That's because you are a fool," Johan said.

  Emma laughed, which probably wasn't the reaction he wanted. She stepped closer, grabbed his hand, twisted it behind his back, and brought him to the ground in one fluid motion, still holding his wrist.

  "You were saying?" she asked with a huge grin.

  "All right, all right, I'm sorry," Johan hissed, and she let him go.

  Mikhael smiled despite himself. He remembered bickering with Lionel just like that. Back then, those arguments had felt like the end of the world.

  Now they felt like a lost heaven.

  Johan noticed his smile and brushed off his tunic, as if wiping away dirt.

  "Valentin said that you are gifted," Johan said suddenly. "Are you up for a duel?"

  Mikhael got up, something hot and reckless waking in his chest. He picked up his sword and pointed it toward Johan.

  "Only if you're able to bear defeat from a peasant."

  Johan smiled on one side of his mouth. The provocation had landed.

  "Emma, would you mind telling the servants to bring the armor and weapons?" he asked.

  "I do mind," Emma said flatly, hardly looking at him.

  Johan sighed, but Valentin stepped in.

  "I'll go and tell them. You get ready," he said, and sprinted off to find a servant.

  Johan stepped into the arena and began to stretch his shoulders, rolling his neck.

  "Will you root for me?" he asked Emma, voice light, eyes searching for approval.

  She looked at him for a moment, face unreadable. Then her smile widened, sharp and amused.

  "No," she said. "I think I'll root for Mikhael on this one."

  She turned and gave that smile to Mikhael.

  He almost blushed. Almost. But he caught himself. She wasn't doing it for him. She was doing it to annoy her brother.

  His cheeks stayed pale.

  "As supportive as ever," Johan muttered.

  Valentin returned soon after, followed by a pair of servants carrying armor and weapons. The boys dressed in silence.

  Johan wore pale blue armor with elegant silver trim, a red stone embedded in the chest plate. Mikhael wore his usual set, plainer, scuffed from training, no stone. It looked used.

  Real.

  Johan unsheathed his sword with a backward grip, then flipped it forward, spinning it once around his body in an obvious show of skill.

  Mikhael's sword stayed untouched.

  "Draw your sword," Johan snapped, agitation creeping into his voice.

  "Don't need it," Mikhael said, mocking.

  He didn't know what was wrong with him today, but something in him wanted to humble this boy. To put him on the ground and keep him there.

  "You'll regret that. I'll make sure you leave missing a part of you," Johan said, jaw tightening.

  "The only thing I'll be missing," Mikhael replied, stepping forward, "is skin from my knuckles against your face."

  That did it.

  Johan lunged.

  He spun and slashed horizontally, fast and fluid, but Mikhael simply stepped back, the blade slicing through empty air. Johan struck again, upward this time, but Mikhael swayed to the side, the sword skimming past his ribs.

  There. An opening.

  Mikhael jabbed left, straight into Johan's nose. A sharp, satisfying crack. Then a hard right, sending Johan sprawling to the ground, blood streaking from his face.

  "Bastard," Johan growled, teeth clenched, spit flying.

  He snatched up his sword and charged again. This time, it wasn't skill.

  It was rage.

  Mikhael saw it immediately: Johan didn't attack to win. He attacked to hurt. To kill.

  But Mikhael was calm. Cold.

  As the sword came for his belly, he stepped to the side, twisted his body, and slammed his fist into the flat of the blade mid-swing. Metal shrieked. The sword bent with a crack and snapped near the hilt, the broken tip skittering across the arena stones.

  Johan stumbled past, still holding the useless handle. For a heartbeat there was silence.

  Then his hand went for his grimoire.

  He pulled it forward, opened it, and it was gone.

  Like it had never been there at all.

  "You should keep a tighter grip on your things," said a voice behind him.

  Johan turned just in time to catch Mikhael's spin-kick full in the stomach. He flew back, hit the ground hard, rolled, groaned. He pushed himself onto all fours.

  Mikhael didn't advance. He stood still. Watching.

  Johan rose slowly, and Mikhael swept his legs out from under him. A clean, brutal leg sweep, the same one Romulus favored. Johan hit the ground again, and Mikhael was already there, grabbing his collar and slamming him back down.

  The air left Johan's lungs in a wheeze.

  Mikhael raised his fist. High.

  He wanted to drive it straight into the boy's face. That was all he wanted in that moment. Just one more hit. Just one.

  But he didn't.

  Not because of mercy.

  Because mutilating Johan here and now would cast doubt on everything he'd built. One moment of satisfaction could cost him the future he was still clawing toward.

  He hesitated.

  Johan saw it.

  Rage flared in his eyes, burning through the fear.

  "Get off of me," he spat, voice cracking.

  He shoved Mikhael aside and staggered to his feet. Humiliated. Bloody. Shaking.

  No one moved after him. No one reached out.

  He walked off, limping slightly, head high out of sheer stubbornness, and headed straight for the mansion.

  Valentin turned on Mikhael, glaring.

  "What is wrong with you?" he asked, voice sharp with a mix of terror and resentment.

  All of Mikhael's pride dropped out of him at once. He hadn't won. He'd simply not lost. And now he had struck a nobleman, a Minerva. Had he undone everything? Would it all fall apart before he had a chance to do anything that mattered?

  He ran after Johan, sword forgotten, heart pounding with a different kind of panic now.

  He caught up quickly and grabbed Johan by the shoulder, turning him around.

  "I'm sorry," Mikhael said, head lowered. His voice was tight, like a boy begging for scraps.

  Inside, something colder knew he wasn't sorry at all.

  Johan studied him, looking him up and down.

  "You're not sorry," he said flatly.

  Mikhael opened his mouth, but Johan cut him off.

  "Don't worry. I won't say how it happened." He gestured to his bloody nose and the bruises forming under his skin. "Let them guess."

  And with that, he turned and walked into the manor.

  Mikhael didn't follow.

  Relief flooded him, not because he was forgiven, but because his secret might stay buried.

  Emma and Valentin passed him next.

  Valentin's glare still held that same horror: you're a monster.

  Emma, on the other hand, gave him a soft smile. Not pitying. Not cruel. Just… amused.

  "That was a great match," she said. "Hope you do it again sometime."

  She waved and didn't look back.

  Mikhael was alone again.

  Or nearly.

  His hand still clutched Johan's grimoire. He hadn't meant to take it. Johan hadn't asked for it back. And in the rush of panic and shame, Mikhael had simply… kept it.

  He rushed to his room, locked the door, and placed the grimoire on the table. His fingers trembled with both fear and hunger.

  Knowledge pulsed from the book.

  Dangerous. Forbidden. Real.

  He opened it.