At first, Arzhen thought it was simple.
One, it was possible that his father, Anton Vasiliev, was feigning amnesia. A play to lull him into complacency before wresting back the title, the army, the legacy that Arzhen had soaked in blood to claim. Then, he'd have to argue, to claim his father's insanity, doing everything he could to present proofs otherwise.
Two, the sweeter, simpler possibility. That the poison and the trauma had truly scourged Anton's mind clean. That the mighty Tiger King was now a hollowed-out shell, a ghost in his own skin.
In that reality, Arzhen could play the devoted son. He could bring the broken man home, tuck him away in some sunlit chamber, and then ensure his "recovery" was tragically brief. A quiet death in a soft bed, mourned by a son who would then rightfully inherit everything, his path cleared of the final obstacle.
Two paths. He had prepared for both.
But when he arrived at Winter's Keep, nothing was as he had expected.
