Chapter 55: Do you think you’re Daemon!?
He looked up at me. He wanted to protest, I saw it in his eyes. But fear was stronger than anything. He lowered his head and remained silent.
In front of Patriarch Lancelot, I said that it was me who had suggested going to play by the frozen lake. I said that it had degenerated, that it was an accident, that no one had done it on purpose.
Lord Drigan was angry, that was obvious. But Ermin was only a substitute child... He did not care much. The anger subsided quickly, replaced by resigned weariness.
My punishment was one week locked in a secluded room, in the dark. The days passed slowly, and I learned to count the hours to the rhythm of my own heart.
On the last day, Patriarch Lancelot came to see me. He opened the door, and the light from the corridor blinded me. I blinked, curled up in a corner, knees against my chest.
He entered, knelt in front of me, and stroked my hair with a gentle hand. "I know it was not you, Kristian," he said softly.
"Patriarch... I.."
"You care a lot about Daemon, that is good. But next time... let him take his responsibilities. It would be tiresome to try to protect him every time."
I did not reply. I stared at the floor and nodded.
...
Years later, one week after Daemon’s personal servant had stabbed him.
I remember that day as if it were yesterday. I was in my father’s office.
The patriarch was sitting behind his large desk, his fingers drumming on the polished wood. He had just laid out the facts: someone had attacked the dungeon and helped Blood Moon escape.
"I am sure it is that reckless kid... What have I done to have to deal with Daemon?"
I looked up at him, and without hesitation...: "Father, it was not Daemon. It was me who helped him escape."
Dorian raised an eyebrow, but he did not believe me. His hand stopped drumming, and he leaned slightly forward, elbows on the desk. "You do not need to protect Daemon, Kristian," he said in a calm but firm voice. "He has already suffered enough. I will not punish him."
"But I am not protecting Daemon... It was really me who did it?"
Dorian frowned, his face hardening. "You think you are Daemon?" he asked in an incredulous tone.
"Huh?" I said, surprised by the question.
He stood up from his chair and walked around the desk to stop in front of me. His arms were crossed, and his gaze weighed on my shoulders like a stone burden. "Since when do you do this kind of reckless acts?"
I lowered my eyes for a moment, then raised them again. "Uh... Father, I am a human. I do my best to —"
"That is not enough," he cut me off harshly. "You must be irreproachable. You are the heir of the Sword Clan."
Anger rose in me. "But when Daemon was the heir, no one forced him to do anything?" I said, my voice higher than I would have wanted.
Dorian narrowed his eyes. "And you see how he ended up?"
"He ended up free!" I shouted, my words exploding in the room. "Free, without anyone dictating his behavior or reproaching him for his actions! Besides, he does not care what others say..."
There was a slight silence...
Dorian looked at me with an expression I had never seen on him. Anger, yes. But also something else. Disappointment, perhaps...
"You are yelling at your patriarch?" he asked in a low, dangerously calm voice.
I clenched my fists. "What are you going to do to me?"
"You need to think about your actions," he said, turning toward the window. "One week of seclusion."
"Why?" I burst out. "When Daemon throws his tantrums, no one says anything."
Dorian turned abruptly: "Because Daemon is immature! You are the talent of our clan. You are our well-bred son, our model heir. We expect everything from you because you are capable of giving everything."
I frowned.
"WHAT!?"
In a way, I was jealous of Daemon. No one expected anything from him.
He could do whatever he wanted, act like a spoiled child, make mistakes, and everyone would shrug and say "it is Daemon." But me, from birth, everyone wanted me to be polite, talented, irreproachable. They scrutinized me, analyzed every gesture, every word. And they always compared me to Daemon, the carefree and free one they called a pariah...
I had even ended up becoming the heir. Not because I wanted to. Because it had been imposed on me.
"I am sick of it, father," I said, my voice barely trembling. "I do not want to be the heir anymore."
Dorian rolled his eyes, as if dealing with a capricious child. "Now you are throwing tantrums? You really think you are Daemon? Enough. Go train in seclusion."
He did not even take me seriously. To him, it was a teenage crisis...
I remained silent for a few seconds. The anger slowly evaporated, replaced by a deep weariness. I lowered my head, and when I raised my eyes, my face was calm.
"I apologize, father," I said finally. "I had a mood swing."
Dorian nodded, relieved. He placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it slightly. "Ah... Daemon influences you too much. But it is fine. You have always been a well-bred and obedient son. I will let it pass this time."
I nodded, bowed, and left the room.
....
*In the present.*
I had been walking calmly for a few minutes in the Catacombs corridor. Katelyn was by my side, her lantern dimly lighting the stone walls. The silence between us was heavy, but I did not feel like talking.
My thoughts were looping... The conversation with my father, years earlier. The jealousy I had always repressed. The mask of the irreproachable boy I had worn forever.
Suddenly, five men emerged from the side corridor, blocking our path. They were armed with short blades and daggers, their clothes mismatched and worn. Mercenaries, clearly.
I stopped and placed my hand on the guard of my sword. "I do not know which clan you are from, but according to the rules, we are not allowed to kill each other," I said in a calm voice.
The five guys laughed. One of them spat on the ground. Katelyn turned toward me and murmured: "I think they are mercenaries. They came here to rob the others."
I sighed deeply. I did not have time for this. We did not have time for this. "Listen," I said, raising a hand, "we do not have time. We are from the Clan —"
I did not have time to finish my sentence.
One of the mercenaries stepped forward and punched me. My head snapped to the side, and a taste of blood filled my mouth.