Sugar, Secrets and Upheaval

The green tapestry below thickened, transforming into a dense, ancient forest that swallowed the last of the urban sprawl. Through a break in the canopy, it appeared. A behemoth. The Blake familial mansion was a sprawling, Gothic-revival edifice, its dark stone and countless turrets emerging from the trees like a nightmare made real. From this aerial vantage, it looked a labyrinth of gables and chimneys stretching across what must have been acres of kept, yet eerily silent, grounds. It was opulent to an absurd degree, a testament to centuries of accumulated wealth and, clearly, a complete lack of modern sensibilities.

As the helicopter began its descent, the distant drone of its rotors replaced by the closer whirring, I could see the outlines of manicured gardens, statuary, and what looked like a private pond shimmering in the fading light.

Levi remained perfectly still beside me, his gaze fixed on the approaching structure. His composure was overlaid with a rigid stillness.

The silence after the helicopter blades finally ceased their whirring was almost deafening. It felt as if the very air held its breath, waiting. As the main rotor spun down to a complete halt, Levi unbuckled his seatbelt, his jaw tight. He didn't speak, but the rigid set of his shoulders, the distant look in his eyes, told me everything I needed to know. This place was different.

We stepped out onto the manicured lawn, the scent of damp earth and ancient pine immediately enveloping us. Before we could take more than a few steps toward the mansion, a ripple of movement erupted from the grand entrance.

The doors, taller than any I'd ever seen, swung open silently, and from within, an army of servants emerged. They formed two perfect lines that stretched from the threshold to where we stood on the lawn. As Levi and I approached, the entire contingent, perhaps twenty or thirty individuals, bowed in unison.

Levi did not acknowledge their bow beyond a slight nod. He simply began to walk forward, his pace measured, his gaze fixed on the open doorway. I followed, feeling like I was stepping into a forgotten era.

Without breaking his measured stride, Levi said, "The former chief domestic is deceased. His personal effects are to be cataloged and prepared for next of kin. You will proceed with the funeral preparations as previously instructed. Furthermore, you are to ensure the immediate and comprehensive operational readiness of this mansion."

The bowing servants remained perfectly still, absorbing every command.

The eldest-looking servant, head still bowed deeply, murmured, "Yes, Master Levi. It shall be done."

At the utterance of 'Master,' Levi’s shoulders flinched, a tremor that I, and likely only I, would notice. It was a word he despised so intensely that he wouldn't even let me joke about it.

The doors swung inward, revealing an entrance hallway that made my head spin. It was a cavernous, dizzying expanse of polished marble, soaring vaulted ceilings, and brooding tapestries. Ornate gilt frames held portraits of grim-faced ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow us, judging our every step. A grand, sweeping staircase, wide enough for a carriage, dominated the far end, its dark wood gleaming under the light from colossal chandeliers.

A phalanx of silently moving servants, began to attend to us, guiding us further inside. My eyes darted around, trying to take in the scale of the place, the overwhelming opulence that felt more like a burden than a luxury. Every detail screamed of centuries of wealth and power, but also of isolation and coldness.

Levi remained impassive. He walked with an unhurried pace, his gaze straight ahead, as if the suffocating grandeur and ghostly silence were simply the expected backdrop to his existence. Not a single muscle in his face twitched, no flicker of emotion in his deep blue eyes betrayed any reaction to being back in this space.

“Is… this where you were born?” I asked, my voice dropping to a near whisper.

“Unfortunately,” he said. He gestured towards a severe-looking man in a dark suit who had positioned himself a few feet away. “You may tour the house. You will be accompanied by the head servant.”

That one word says it all. No nostalgia, no sentiment, just the acknowledgment of a forced reality.

“Is there something you need to do?” I asked, still trying to make sense of his detached offer.

“Not necessarily,” he replied, his gaze sweeping over the vast space. “However, since the aforementioned butler elected to cease his biological functions, it becomes imperative to procure a new chief domestic. This mansion requires consistent oversight to prevent its eventual architectural degradation. Although,” he continued, his voice dropping, “its complete collapse would undoubtedly make me somewhat…” He trailed off, his face remaining perfectly impassive. Yet, with each step the light that had softened his eyes at the spa seemed to extinguish.

He didn't finish, but I heard it. Happy? Relieved? Free?

“We can… drink if you want, or… something else?” I offered, my voice a little tentative, trying desperately to inject some levity into the chilling atmosphere.

“Yes, something else,” he muttered. He turned to the head servant. "A bottle of Crimson Vesper and Stygian Oak Reserve single malt, and two glasses, to Ancestral Hall."

The hell is the Ancestral Hall?

Given this house, it probably wasn't a place for casual conversation. Sounds exactly like the kind of drinks you'd need to face down generations of Blake ghosts.

We moved through a series of increasingly elaborate, yet silent, corridors. Each doorway we passed offered a glimpse into vast, dimly lit rooms — a library stretching to impossible heights, a formal dining room with a table long enough for fifty guests, a ballroom that felt like it hadn't seen laughter in centuries.

Finally, we arrived.

Located deep in the heart of the mansion, the Ancestral Hall was exactly as I had imagined, and yet far worse. It was a gallery, illuminated by placed uplights that cast long shadows. Every inch of wall space was covered in oil portraits of Blake ancestors. Their eyes, in varying shades of cold blue and piercing grey followed us, a silent, unblinking legion of judgment. They were an unsmiling lot, men and women in stiff collars and opulent gowns.

Levi walked directly to the table in the center of the room. He didn't even glance at the surrounding faces. Just as we reached the table, the head servant, accompanied by two junior staff, arrived as silently as specters. They placed the Crimson Vesper and the Stygian Oak Reserve, along with two crystal glasses, on the table with barely a whisper of sound before retreating.

“Welcome to the Blake legacy, my dear,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of warmth as he poured a generous measure into his glass. “Let us converse about those men, my great-great-great-great-grandfathers, in not so great detail, since the urge to incinerate this place grows bolder and bolder.”

His voice was unnerving. A steady current of contempt that sent a shiver down my spine.

This was going to be brutal.

“I will spare the details, since you are already aware of the fact that the Blake family commenced their legacy with the Aether Bloom. They were indeed healers and physicians; they established the first true medical school in this region. You are, no doubt, already apprised of these seemingly ‘benevolent’ foundational acts.”

Levi extended an accusatory, pointer finger towards one of the older, more severe portraits on the wall, a man with cold eyes and a stark ruff. “That is Ulysses Blake,” he stated, his voice now laced with disdain. “Not a duke, mind you, but merely a count, as the Blakes had not yet accrued sufficient land and wealth to ascend further within the aristocracy. A rapist. A slave owner, who enacted ‘serf’ law upon his dominion, effectively binding families to his soil. He meticulously abused every single individual who incurred his displeasure or merely glanced at him incorrectly. And, of course, overtly racist.”

"And the Aether Bloom, the 'benevolent' act, was just the cover for all this?" I asked, gesturing vaguely at the condemning portraits.

“Cover?” he echoed, a laugh spilled from his lips. It was dry and brittle, that seemed to vibrate through the very stones. “Who would dare to accuse a noble of a crime? Especially when said noble controls the very institutions that define legality, and who benefits from the perpetuation of those systems.” His gaze, as cold and sharp as the winter air, swept over the grim faces on the walls. “Now, now, let us continue our tally of tales.”

He lifted his pointer finger once more, moving to an adjacent portrait. This one depicted a man with a more amiable, almost benevolent smile, yet his eyes held a glint of cold authority. “Conrade Blake,” Levi pronounced. “A beloved gentleman, by all contemporary accounts, lauded for his ‘progressive’ reforms. He famously abolished the serf law—only to immediately enact an equally harsh, legally nameless system of indentured servitude, a mechanism even more insidious in its lack of official recognition. Of course, he was also a rapist. A slave owner; there is no denying that. And overtly racist. And obviously a big-time abuser.”

That's the legacy... A constant evolution of cruelty, always finding new, more insidious ways to exert control.

“Ah,” he exhaled with pure disdain. “Let us travel some centuries forward, to the moment the Blakes decided to embed their rotten roots into this country, to an irredeemable degree.” His finger moved, pointing to another portrait on the wall. This one, I recognized: Griffith Blake, the face I'd seen in the Academia.

“You do know him,” Levi continued, his gaze fixed on the painting. “He is the slave owner who built the first medical school. The one who discovered and preserved the opioid qualities of the Aether Bloom.” He paused, a brittle silence filling the hall. “A big-time scientist.” he said, glancing at me. His eyes were completely… blank, devoid of any light, like vast, empty pools.

“Obviously, as a scientist, he needed to experiment, did he not? Well, who cared about clinical trials or ethicality three centuries ago?” he scoffed. “Especially if you own thousands of slaves who carried the very stones of the Academia he built.”

It's an exorcism of sorts, and I'm bearing witness.

"So, the very foundation of modern medicine in this country is steeped in blood and unethical practices. A rather fitting origin story for the Blake legacy, I suppose," I said, my voice heavy with disgust as I poured myself a generous glass of the wine.

"After the Academia was constructed, and the Blakes held both the most powerful plant—the Aether Bloom—and every physician in their grasp, as they were the sole educators, and in completely unethical ways, they amassed immense wealth and land. Consequently, they were elevated to a Duchy."

His finger moved again, this time pointing to a portrait depicting a man with an air of self-importance, a sneer barely disguised by a polite smile. "This pompous little man, Solania, decided to expand. Not through overt warfare, of course; that would appear 'unseemly.' He initiated the distribution of these newly minted physicians across the land — a benevolent act, yes?" he scoffed. "It was merely another guise to gather more experimental subjects for the beloved physicians, and to procure an ever-increasing number of slaves. A grand time for a racist, a rapist, and, as expected, an abuser."

The sheer hypocrisy of it all—presenting themselves as philanthropists while actively engaging in mass human trafficking and torture. He’s unveiling the family business model: power through control, control through suffering, all masked by a veneer of respectability. It makes me sick.

“I have a question…” I hesitantly murmured as I looked at the portraits, then back at Levi. “Did you get the idea… of embodying the Saint of Ascaria persona, by this? Because the formula… worked?”

“Shh…” he whispered, raising a single finger to his lips. “No spoilers.”

He's a conductor, leading me through his family's symphony of horrors, building up to his own 'villainy' as the magnum opus.

“Griffith,” Levi continued, a sardonic smile playing on his lips, “the beloved scientist and physician, author of numerous books on botany—some of which, I note, remain in the curriculum today—succumbed to opioid addiction.” He took another slow sip of his scotch. “Just like me. And died. Since his liver… well… simply fried.”

He pointed to another portrait, this one depicting a man with a pious expression.

“Baptista,” he announced, the name devoid of warmth. “Griffith’s grandson. was rather religious, for entirely unknown reasons, even to the family records. Thus, he decided to strike comprehensive agreements with the various temples. The physicians, who had once traveled the land, were comfortably ensconced within these temples, acting as ‘healers’ and, of course, having an endless supply of test subjects.” A faint tremor ran through his hand. “Baptista, however, died rather early. He was executed by his own son, Basset.”

Levi's gaze moved to another portrait, this one depicting a handsome man with a haughty air. “Basset was rather young when he was appointed to the duke role, so… he was rather hot-blooded, shall we say? He thought to himself, I should marry the crown princess. So this endlessly incestuous lineage, diluted itself with another incestuous dynasty lineage; which makes me long, long cousins with Holden.”

This family history is a spiraling descent into pure depravity, a continuous loop of abuse, exploitation, and internal power struggles. And... Holden. The ramifications of that reach all the way into our present, explaining so much about their closed-off, inbred power.

"The more you talk, the more the 'incinerate this place' option starts to sound remarkably reasonable," I said, taking a large gulp of my Crimson Vesper. The wine was undeniably rich, but its quality did nothing to settle the churning in my stomach.

“Now, now, let us not get hasty,” he countered, taking another slow sip of his drink. He swept his hand dismissively towards the portraits. “Other than sons dispatching their fathers and an incest, rather… serene tableau of a lineage, this is quite a peaceful history, wouldn't you agree?” His eyes, still blank, fixed on mine. “Obviously, wars eventually erupted. The Blakes did not possess knightly retinues beyond those establishing orders upon their own lands, so they did not actively participate in military conflicts. What pacifists they were.

“Of course not. War generates amputations, sickness, and an endless flux of ‘medicinal’ needs. Yes, my dear, those turbulent times were precisely what enabled their immense financial accrual. No other family possessed the capability to procure and distribute such vast quantities of drugs and physicians simultaneously, so, naturally, they established a monopoly. Even the King himself was compelled to defer to them, granting them even more lands, including a significant portion of the Ascaria mountain range, where the Aether Bloom grows. The very mountains which now belong to you.”

He wants me to see it, to truly feel it, just as he does.

"Pacifists who profited from every single limb lost and fevered brow. You truly come from a special kind of villainy, Levi."

“These were centuries old, dear. Now,” he said, and for the first time since we’d entered this hall, a tremor ran through him. It was a fleeting shiver, but it was there. His hand clenched. His eyes fixed on a new portrait. “Let us discuss the Creator. The Conqueror. The individual who shattered this serene tableau.”

Gods. I did not miss that face. Even painted, it was unforgettable. It depicted a man who looked to be in his early thirties, perhaps, but his eyes—that same blank, deep blue as Levi’s own— sent a fresh wave of chills down my spine.

"Ragnar Blake," Levi said. "For very known reasons, he decided to enter the army. A first in our centuries of lineage. He was physically imposing, and he certainly did not enjoy studying chemistry and botany; his head was always buried in military strategy. He is the person who conquered many lands of Ascaria, expanded the borders, made every king bow to him from sheer terror. Because that was who he was. A sadist. The murderer who took my father away."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"The broken genetic. He is the first neurodivergent in this lineage, courtesy of endless incest, of course," he added, the last phrase bitter. "The man who didn't even know what Aether Bloom looked like... The man who taught me how to use a sword, how to aim with a gun, how to disarm kidnappers, who gave me my self-defense training... Who taught me how to hunt. An incomprehensible, abusive monster. I spent my entire childhood watching him training in this mansion's back garden where the moment he stepped his foot on the grass, the birds stopped breathing."

"That's how you knew he was coming, isn't it? Gods, Levi," I whispered, the horror of the image settling deep in my bones.

He was still for a moment, his head slightly bowed. "I prayed to gods I did not believe existed for the singular fact that I was not born earlier," he murmured, his voice now barely a thread of sound. His eyes shut completely. "Because he was taller, stronger than anyone I have ever seen before." He exhaled a shuddering breath. "I do not think I need to recount further tales of him, as I have already conveyed sufficient details."

The monster was forged by a greater monster, and I'm standing in the forge.

"And you never became him. That's a triumph, Levi," I said, hoping the sentiment reached him.

“No spoilers,” he repeated. He took another shuddering breath, then opened his eyes, their blankness returning, yet somehow now layered with desolate sadness. “Now. Ask yourself this question. Where is my father’s painting?” he said, his gaze sweeping over the portraits. “It is not here.”

He straightened, lost in the depths of his memory. “My father, Orion, was not a duke. He was not a Blake. The Blake name was carried by my mother. Which is… nearly impossible if you consider the rigid social framework of thirty years ago. Mother, was an only child, and my grandmother died during her birth. Cybil was the sole heiress to the Blake duchy, but she needed to be married to secure her title. There was no other family in a closer social standing with an eligible bachelor, so they found my father, an earl. A scholar who was a leading astrophysicist—undeniably, an unseemly ‘hobby’ in their estimation.” A scoff escaped him.

“Honestly, I do not comprehend how or why my father decided to marry my mother. Possibly for the money, since he would then exist within this… wealth. They never loved each other. Well, Mother and Grandfather were certainly aware that my father possessed a rather gentle and truly pacifist nature, so, obviously, a sadist and a narcissist continuously tormented him. I was born, and I had a great respect and affection towards my father. Then my sister was born, and she died. Ultimately, Ragnar one day decided to kill my father. I do not know why. Perhaps my father wished for his own demise, and Ragnar merely… facilitated it. Who knows?” he finished, his voice flat, his eyes fixed on the empty space where his father’s portrait should have been. “Orion’s portrait was never here, even though he was a duke after the marriage. Possibly because he did not possess the Blake blood.” He added, almost as an afterthought, “Or, perhaps my grandfather and mother simply perceived him as lesser.” His gaze drifted over the painted faces, seeking confirmation from their silent eyes.

“The empty space… is the loudest portrait here, Levi.”

I truly wished I could have met his father.

“Well, before the grand finale,” he said, taking savoring sip of his drink. “Do ask questions if you wish so. I had to memorize their names one by one as a child, every single one, as part of my… education.”

"Were there any Blakes... any at all, who weren't utterly monstrous? Anyone who tried to break the mold before your father?" I asked, my gaze sweeping across the endless array of severe faces on the walls, a desperate search for a single flicker of humanity.

“Not to my knowledge,” he said. “They were all racists, if not outright xenophobic. They all owned slaves, they all raped their wives while maintaining a string of mistresses, leaving countless illegitimate children to wander the world without a single dime from the wealthiest duchy.”

"Did you ever try to... fight back against Ragnar, as a child, or was survival your only option?"

He laughed sharply, a hollow sound that echoed. “So that he could snap my neck,” Levi scoffed, his gaze drifting back to Ragnar’s portrait, "the way he snapped that guard’s neck because he didn't bow down low enough? You saw it yourself, Raphael. He dangled you in the air for how many minutes by the throat? I shot him point-blank, in front of you, and he didn't even flinch, or grunt."

"How do you even fight back against him?" he challenged. "You were able to, because you met him as a suicidal and lonely seventy-year-old man. Not as the Conqueror. Not as the Marshall."

"Did your father try to protect you from him? Was he able to do anything?" I asked.

“No one could do anything if he desired to do so. There was no negotiation. It was absolute obedience. Always. You cannot battle a patriarch, let alone that monster. My father was the outcast; he had no agency or voice. My mother, Cybil, had more power, yes, but it was ultimately futile against him.”

“Ah…” he murmured, the sound laced with a desolate weariness. “How he tormented my mother, day after day. We would almost await the wars… so that he could leave this mansion and we could breathe.”

"He created a private war zone right here, didn't he?”

“Yes.” Levi’s voice was a stark, unadorned affirmation. “It was his goal, I assume. The absolute dominance, control, and power. He always fought on the front lines in every war. Because he loved it. An unstoppable soldier, with a brilliant strategic mind, coupled with perverse sadism. You see, when people use the term ‘sadist,’ they usually mean it as a form of sexual encounter, or perhaps seemingly innocent manipulative torment, which it usually is. But this, this was a different manifestation of it. Blood, flesh, bones—he would be covered in it. He would enjoy the fact that he was the one who took the last breath of a person, or claimed a lush land. Serial killers, for example, are also sadists, but they often derive sexual gratification from it. I do not believe his was sexual. It was pure ‘fun’.”

"I suppose compared to him, the rest of your ancestors seem almost... quaint," I whispered, the idea feeling like ash in my mouth.

“That was my point. For Ragner, every human was simply another toy. He did not own slaves, as slavery had been abolished a century prior.” A new shift in his tone emerged. “I am not sure about the horrors he inflicted on my grandmother, since I have never met her, and I do not think he had mistresses. Even if he did, I do not know.” He finished, his voice devoid of curiosity or concern.

"Did you… feel resentment because of my naivete towards him?” I asked, as my gaze met his.

“No.” His reply was immediate, unhesitating. “I simply thought he did not deserve it. Also, you did not know he murdered my father. So, no. I do not resent you for that incident, meaning the trip to his cabin in the woods. Lastly, I do not care whether he killed himself, or simply starved himself to death, or he finally decided to drown himself, or anything… I do not care. At all. I am not scared of him anymore. And, I owe you that, Raphael.”

The silence in the Ancestral Hall seemed to soften, if only for a fleeting moment.

"You don't owe me anything for that, Levi. Just the fact that you're not scared anymore... that's enough," I said, and took a sip of my Crimson Vesper.

He took his glass in hand and walked to the far end of the wall, where a single portrait remained shrouded by a red velvet curtain. “Now,” he announced, his voice regaining a theatrical flourish.

“The final problem. The last duke. The last Blake.”

With a dramatic gesture, he pulled the curtain aside.

Gods. It was him. When did they paint this? A decade ago? Maybe when he was eighteen? It was undeniably Levi, a younger version, on the cusp of adulthood. His eyes stared out, vacant and familiar. His straight, prominent nose was unmistakable. But he was so young, his features not yet etched with the ruthless control I knew, though the blankness in his gaze was already strikingly present.

“Levi Blake.” His voice was a flat, unyielding pronouncement, devoid of any self-pity or pride. “Grandson of the Conqueror, and the son of Orion and Cybil, brother to Seraph, ex-husband of his own first cousin, Julia, unwilling father of the twins.”

“There he is,” he continued. “The owner of the biggest pharmaceutical company in the nation, directly benefiting from his slave-owning, unethical ancestors’ research on Aether Bloom. A former opioid addict. Occasionally indulges in single malt scotch, and orange-filter cigarettes, a significant sugar addict.”

“This particular gentleman, inherited not only the duchy, but also the neurodivergency. Unfortunately for him, he was not sterile, so his entire life was created around the fact that he was the stud horse of the diminishing nobility. That was why he was never physically threatened, other than the four kidnappings in his formative years.

“The time he was sixteen, he was already engaged to his first cousin. Then, at eighteen, he was married. This marriage was a purely political alliance, forged between the Blake Duchy and the Carthy Marquess. They both shared the objective of dethroning the King, so this gentleman,” he concluded, a sardonic twist to his lips, “could sit on the crumbling throne.”

“Now, now, no need for lamentations,” he said, his voice flat. “He would never sit on the throne, since the monarchy did not fit his sensibilities.” Levi’s eyes, still blank, met mine with an unnerving intensity. “Well then, what did this singular monster do?”

“He abolished monarchy in a single day.”

“Yeah…” I said, the words feeling a bit hollow in the vast hall. “You did. In a single day… After fifteen years of planning.”

“Please dear, what did we say about the spoilers?” he countered. His gaze remained fixed on the portrait of his younger self. “Let us continue. This audacious monster was acutely aware that the monarchy would probably demolish itself within two generations. The incestuous lines were producing only sterile heirs, or severely disabled babies, or stillborns. Since the country was already adapting to contemporary society, the nobility no longer possessed genuine power or wealth. But they did retain one armor, which needed to be eradicated: their immunity.”

Levi paused, his blank eyes meeting mine. “How do you delete it? See, there is a fundamental difference between a rebellion and a revolution. Without the support of the masses, it would only be a rebellion, which would undoubtedly be crushed easily by noble circles and the dynasty. But a revolution? That requires not only money, but significant influence. So, this monster, with his endless coffers of wealth, decided to endeavor into philanthropy. At first, it was simply to distribute some of the wealth and extend aid to the victims of the nobles. But this monster’s particular meticulousness caused him to become the biggest philanthropist in the country, a moniker, the Saint of Ascaria, was subsequently bestowed upon him by the citizens. A rather grand irony, given that he never once harbored any empathy or pity towards the poor.”

He refined the cruelty, elevated it, turned it into a strategic art form.

The 'Saint' who felt nothing.

"You built an empire of influence on the backs of the very people you felt nothing for. The irony is indeed profound."

“Courtesy of the incestuous breeding, dear, not particularly my fault,” Levi countered. “You know the story very well. You read my black files. How many crimes or wrongdoings he committed? Switching medications of the dying nobles, arranging discreet abortions for suffering noblewomen. Bankrupting countless noble establishments and companies, leveraging every single whisper to dismantle them further and further. Acquiring blueprints to their mansions so they had nowhere to hide. Documenting their crimes through their victims, and his most formidable allies, the noblewomen… It is truly endless.”

He really is the culmination of all the Blake depravity.

"You were the one who ensured there wouldn't be another Blake," I said, a profound realization settling in my gut.

“Not simply another Blake. Not another noble, nor dynasty,” he corrected. “I could render myself sterile; the thought plagued my mind for a while, but I knew that it would not be enough. When the thought solidified, I learned that I was already too late.” He paused, his blank eyes meeting mine with a chilling directness. “A story you know very well, since you were the one who made sure I did not cause another abortion.” Google seaʀᴄh Nove1Fire.net

He’s telling me this without a hint of accusation. But it's a fact that cuts me to the core. I am complicit in the continued existence of the Blakes, of Levi’s own personal hell. And he knows I know it.

"And now, you're looking at me, the one who unwittingly ensured the cycle continued. I assure you, it was not my intention. I was… naive. I thought I was doing something right. But clearly, I didn't think about the consequences… I was looking through a black-and-white lens… and I'm sorry. Instead of standing with you, I… just adhered to my own morality."

“A rather late apology, or… whatever it is, but ultimately meaningless and futile in the face of the brutal truth,” Levi countered, devoid of any genuine acceptance or dismissal, merely stating a fact.

“Whatever, now, let us finish. This monster was forged by his own mother and his grandfather. Every single day was a drill instruction on how to dismantle someone. Manipulation, deceit, calculated cruelty were not only observed but taught, in tea parties, in formal gatherings. A rather poetic justice, since I utilized that for their very demise.”

He clapped his hands.

“A strategist, a monster, a husband, and… the biggest piece of shit.”

Gods, Levi cussed. Out loud. He actually used a vulgarity to describe himself.

"A strategist, a monster, a husband... and the man who remade a nation in his own image,” I said, taking a sip of my wine. “And… you cussed, Levi. This is only the third time I’ve heard you cuss out loud in fourteen months,” I added, a hint of genuine surprise in my voice.

“I was being dramatic.”

"I suppose even the most precise mind needs an occasional, uncensored outlet," I said, a slight smile playing on my lips.

“Mine is a calculated tool of self-evaluation. If I cuss, it means I lost control,” he replied.

Let me think. He said ‘fucking’ at the rehab, when we were having a very heated argument. The second time was when he was fresh out of surgery. He'd practically begged the doctor to put him into a coma because he couldn’t deal with the pain. And now this. ‘Shit.’ ‘Piece of shit.’ It wasn't regret I heard in his voice, not true remorse. It was… projection.

He knew people, and I, saw him like that.

"And this 'piece of shit'—is that truly your self-evaluation, or the evaluation you expect from others?" I asked, my voice probing for a deeper truth.

“Does it matter? I am aware of what I am. My rudeness, my bluntness, my amorality, or many other perceived flaws. But only people in my close circle are aware of that.”

Of course, it matters. But not to him.

"Awareness is one thing, Levi. What one does with that awareness is another entirely," I said, pushing back.

“How can you still cling to the hope that one day I might change?” he asked, edged with a cold disbelief. “Are you incapable of understanding my nature? Was this whole charade futile? Do you not see the difference? I committed a partial genocide, Raphael.”

The hope... it's a stubborn thing, clinging to the idea that even the darkest soul might find a sliver of light.

"Is that what you want? For me to simply accept you as a 'partial genocidist' with no hope of... anything else?"

He turned his body fully towards me. “Raphael. Are you…” he trailed off, exasperation crossing his features. “Well, because of the niceness rule I cannot use my colorful language. There is no changing, Raphael. I cannot grow the eighteen percent of my frontal lobe with hope and naivety.”

"To be clear: you believe your nature is a fixed point, beyond the reach of anything but acceptance?"

“Is yours not?”

There is no hope for 'change' because there is no brokenness, only difference.

“I know… I was just trying to understand you better, and possibly hope for a future not molded on destruction.”

“There is no one left for me to purge, Raphael. What do you expect? I grab a gun and start to shoot people?”

"I expect to understand what drives you, now that your singular purpose of eradication has been fulfilled," I said, taking a sip of my wine.

“Well, you have observed what boredom did to me, a suicide attempt,” Levi replied, his voice flat. “I… am bored but not to a suicidal degree. I thrive on intellectual puzzles. As long as there is something for me to engage in, it does not matter to me whether it is to build or destroy.”

“I… I know that. I…” I trailed off, the weight of his entire terrifying, brilliant existence, suddenly suffocating.

“Shh,” he murmured. He placed his glass on the table and walked to me. His warm hand came to rest on the top of my head. “Dear,” he said softly, his voice losing its flatness, taking on tender cadence. “I am here, and you know my eternal devotion and loyalty are solely dedicated to you. Do not stress yourself.”

“I am… scared.”

“Of?”

“Of you… being bored of me,” I confessed, the last skeleton tumbling out of my closet, heavier than all the others. It was the fear that because he was incapable of love, he might one day simply become bored, and leave.

“Shh…” he repeated again. “Dear, you are not some puzzle to me; you are a very predictable and easily readable person.”

“This doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Because you do not listen. There is a difference between tediousness and monotony. Also, I do have ‘feelings’ for you, not oxytocin-bound, but they are definitely present.”

“Yeah?”

“I thought I was quite clear about my attachment to you, dear.” He began to twirl a strand of my hair around his pointer finger.

“You were… but I am… I was… scared,” I whispered, the fear still a raw ache in my chest.

“It is all right,” he murmured, his gaze softening. “Do share your distress, dear; do not try to hide it.” His eyes drifted towards the leaded-glass windows that overlooked the grounds of the estate. “Lastly,” he added, his voice regaining its usual detachment, “I assume it will rain tonight, therefore we are practically trapped in this mansion.”

"A storm. How... poetic. Are you implying this 'distress' of mine might keep you entertained through the night?" I asked, a bitter humor in my voice.

“Ah yes, the servants would certainly listen at our doors tonight; we should indeed put on a show for them.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, my voice betraying a hint of unease.

“You will see for yourself.” He snapped his fingers. The head servant materialized from the shadows near the heavy oak door.

“Prepare the west wing for the night,” Levi commanded. The servant bowed deeply and vanished as swiftly as he had appeared.

“You really aren’t helping about the knot on my stomach… So, show me your bedroom or something,” I said, trying to inject a nervous lightness into my voice as we began to walk.

“Do you know how many rooms I occupied? That is why I said ‘west wing’.”

The sheer scale of this place, and of his fractured childhood within it, was incomprehensible. Not just a bedroom, but a multitude of spaces, each a temporary outpost for a child who was never truly at home.

We passed through endless corridors, the very air thick with the hushed whispers of servants who watched us, their gazes lingering on me then on Levi. Paintings and artworks, silent witnesses to centuries of Blake history, covered the walls. Each step echoed the vastness of the mansion, until finally, we arrived.