[Warning: This chapter contains scenes of violence that may be disturbing to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.]
I pushed open the heavy oak door, its hinges groaning in protest, the sound cutting through the oppressive silence like a blade. The quiet here wasn't mere absence of noise—it was something alive, pressing in from all sides, wrapping around me like an unseen force. My footsteps, soft against the polished wood floor, felt too loud in the stillness.
The office was a study in dark grandeur. Towering bookshelves lined the walls, crammed with thick, leather-bound volumes whose gilded titles flickered under the dim glow of a single gas lamp. Shadows wavered across the paneled walls, stretching and shifting like specters, lending the room an otherworldly air. At its heart stood a massive mahogany desk, its surface almost unnaturally pristine, save for a crystal decanter, an empty tumbler, and a neatly stacked set of documents.
By the arched window, my father stood, his figure outlined against the moonlit sky. The cold light cast his sharp features into stark relief, accentuating the rigid set of his jaw, the unwavering strength in his stance. He was a man who carried authority effortlessly, whose presence alone commanded obedience.
As I stepped inside, he turned his head slightly, just enough for his eyes—glacial and piercing—to settle on me. That gaze had always unnerved me, sharp enough to strip away pretense, to peel back flesh and bone and see what lay beneath. For a moment, I felt pinned beneath it, laid bare, before he turned away, dismissing me without a word.
My heart pounded, but I forced my shoulders straight, my expression neutral. My father had no tolerance for weakness, and I had learned long ago how to bury mine beneath a carefully constructed mask.
The scent of cigar smoke lingered in the air, clinging to the heavy curtains and dark wood, a scent I had long associated with him—unyielding, inescapable.
The silence between us was dense, oppressive, curling through the room like a lingering mist. It settled in the corners, stretched across the polished mahogany floor, and wrapped itself around my throat, waiting—watching.
Then, at last, his voice cut through it, low and deliberate.
"You still haven't mastered the art of hiding your emotions."
It wasn't a reprimand, nor was it spoken with disappointment—just an observation, as if he were pointing out an imperfection in a blade he was forging.
Before I could stop myself, my fingers twitched at my sides. A slight tremor. Barely noticeable, yet to him, nothing ever went unnoticed. I forced my hands into fists, willing the tremor to stop, but the effort only made my palms damp, my pulse drumming faster beneath my skin.
"It seems I've disappointed you once more. My apologies, Sir."
Every syllable left my mouth with calculated restraint—each word positioned like a chess piece in a losing game I refused to forfeit.
"Nevermind."
He turned, unhurried, the polished soles of his boots striking the floor with an audible click. The sound echoed in the stillness, too sharp, too deliberate. He moved with a fluidity that came not from ease but control—meticulous, restrained, exacting.
At the desk, he reached for the decanter, his fingers brushing against the glass with practiced familiarity. The golden liquid caught the dim light as he poured, swirling in the tumbler like molten amber. The faint murmur of whiskey filling the glass was the only sound in the vast chamber.
He lifted the glass and took a slow sip, his gaze never wavering from me. His expression was unreadable—smooth, impassive—but the weight of his scrutiny pressed down on me like a judgment passed in silence.
"I'll be departing for the capital tomorrow. And I won't be returning anytime soon."
His tone was flat—devoid of warmth or pause. Just a fact, dropped like a stone into still water.
I swallowed the tightness that crept up my throat, my hands tightening behind my back in a grip so firm my knuckles ached.
"Arthur."
My name—uttered like the edge of a blade, sharp and unforgiving.
"I understand."
The response came instinctively, carved into me through years of discipline.
A slight nod—subtle, almost imperceptible—but I understood its meaning. The correct answer.
The glass touched the desk with a faint, crystalline clink.
"Your heir training will proceed under Edmund's supervision during my absence."
My breath remained steady, my expression carefully composed, but the name alone was enough to stir something in my chest. Butler Edmund—silent, calculating and ever-watchful. His presence was a shadow cast over my every step, an unwavering gaze that measured, assessed, and found every imperfection. He would be relentless.
"You remember whatever I've taught you."
It wasn't a question—it was a command.
"Yes, Sir."
The response came without hesitation, as natural as breathing.
"Recite it."
I drew a slow, measured breath, steadying myself.
"Stand tall. Strike true. Never let them best you. Only then will Ashbourne bow to you."
Silence followed, stretching long and thin between us. His gaze bore into me, searching—for weakness, for doubt, for any flicker of hesitation.
At last, he gave a slow, measured nod.
"Yes… that's right. Never forget our family motto."
His voice carried a quiet finality, as if sealing the words into the marrow of my bones.
"I won't, Sir."
And I never would.
He turned away, his attention shifting to the cigar resting in a silver tray. Lifting it to his lips, he took a measured inhale, the ember glowing briefly, the faint crackle of burning tobacco filling the air. Smoke curled upward in twisting tendrils, dissipating into the heavy silence.
A memory lingered in my mind like a scar—deep, aching, and impossible to erase. It remained as vivid as the day it was etched into my soul, a cruel lesson taught in blood and steel.
I was seven years old—two years since I had transmigrated into Arthur Ashbourne, yet the fears and habits of this body still clung to me like shadows. I suppose it would be fair to say that I had yet to fully settle into this child's frame—a child burdened with expectations far beyond his years. A boy meant to carry the weight of a name that demanded strength, yet still too small to grasp the true cost of it.
It was an autumn morning, crisp and biting, the air laced with the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. The garden behind the Ashbourne estate lay in solemn stillness, save for the whisper of the wind through brittle branches. I stood in its heart, my breath curling in the cold.
In my trembling hands, I cradled a small rabbit. Its fur was warm, its tiny nose twitching against my palm. I had fed it each day, watched it grow, and in its gentle presence, I had found a quiet solace—one that now teetered on the edge of destruction.
My father stood before me, tall and unyielding—a pillar of absolute authority. The morning light carved harsh lines across his face as he held out a hunting knife, its edge gleaming coldly.
"Kill it," he said. No anger. No hesitation. Just command.
The words hit like a blow. My fingers clenched around the rabbit, its heartbeat trembling beneath my grip as I looked up at him, wide-eyed.
"B-But…" The plea faltered, never fully born.
Frederick Ashbourne's eyes narrowed, his voice sharper than the blade he offered. "No excuses. Do it."
The knife was pressed into my hands—cold, unforgiving and heavy—not just with the weight of steel, but with the burden of expectation.
I looked down at the rabbit. It stared back at me, trusting, unaware. My heart pounded, a war raging between my will and my conscience.
My fingers curled around the hilt, but my hands trembled. I couldn't do it.
"I—"
A gunshot cracked through the air.
I flinched. The rabbit jerked violently in my grasp, its body spasming once before going limp. Blood blossomed across its white fur, warm and wet, seeping between my fingers. It let out a fragile, broken sound—one that lodged itself in my chest and refused to leave, heavy and suffocating.
The knife slipped from my grip, landing in the dirt with a dull thud. My breath hitched, horror gripping me as I looked up.
My father lowered the smoking pistol in his hand. His expression was unreadable, his voice cold as steel.
"You hesitated."
The words cut deeper than any knife.
"Our family has no place for weakness, Arthur. If you cannot protect something, then do not grow attached to it."
My throat constricted. I blinked hard, willing the tears away, but they came regardless—turning the world into a blur of red and gold.
"Tsk." My father's lip curled, his voice laced with contempt. "Tears won't make you stronger."
I bit down hard, tasting copper as I fought to smother the sobs rising in my throat, swallowing the grief that clawed at my chest like something alive.
My father crouched beside the dying rabbit, his movements calm, deliberate. With practiced ease, he began tending to the wound—his hands steady even as blood smeared across his gloves.
"If you truly wish to be strong, master your emotions. Never let them show. And if you care for something… never let the world see it."
At that moment, I knew his words would stay with me. Etched into the marrow of my bones, they became a lesson the younger me would never forget.
Edmund stepped forward, his expression as unreadable as ever—just another lesson, just another day in the Ashbourne household.
Silently, he handed my father a towel, watching as he wiped the blood from his hands.
Then my father loomed over me once more, his hands settling on my small shoulders—firm, unyielding.
"Engrave this in your mind, Arthur Ashbourne."
The rabbit died three days later.
I buried it alone, beneath the gnarled oak at the edge of the garden. The rain fell in relentless sheets, drenching me as I pressed cold, wet earth over the lifeless creature. My fingers were numb, my lips parted in a silent vow.
Never again.
Never again would I allow myself to care. Never again would I hesitate.
Years passed, but the lesson remained. It was carved into me, as immutable as the name I bore.
Yet now, as I stood before my father once more, the ghost of that trembling boy still lingered, whispering from the shadows of my past.
I remained where I was, waiting, until he lifted a hand in a dismissive gesture.
"You're dismissed."
I bowed slightly, precise and respectful, before stepping back and retreating through the door. It groaned as it closed behind me, the sound echoing faintly in the dimly lit corridor.
As I walked away, the words of the Ashbourne motto echoed in my mind, a relentless refrain that had been carved into this body since childhood.
Stand tall. Strike true. Never let them best you.
My fists clenched at my sides, the familiar sting of old scars pressing against my palms—silent reminders of the life I could never escape.