“I know everything about you,” he said softly.
“I’ve watched you since you were a broken little prince… spoiled by gold, starved by silence. Surrounded by servants who bowed and scraped—but a father who never looked at you unless it was to hurt you.”
His grin split his face like a wound reopening.
“You begged for his love like a beggar at a feast. Crawling across the stone floor, skin split from his whip, throat raw from prayers to a man who only saw shame in your eyes.”
The air thickened with his words until it filled my lungs like smoke.
He leaned closer, his grin no longer human—just malice stretched thin across bone.
“Your father locked you in a palace of silence. He never held you. Never praised you. Only touched you to hurt you. And you,” his voice coiled tighter, “still begged for his approval. Like a dog. Broken and bleeding and desperate for a pat that never came.”
My hands twitched. My jaw clenched. But his voice slid deeper—past flesh, past thought—seeping into the cracks of my mind like poison.
“He never paraded you. Never claimed you. You were his shame. His disappointment. His secret disgrace.”
He stopped in front of me, raised a single finger, and pressed it to my chest.
“And you’ve spent every breath since trying to prove him wrong. Trying to turn pain into purpose.”
His eyes burned brighter. “Trying to be a man.”
He leaned close enough for his breath to ghost my skin.
“But you’ll never be anything, but what he made you.”
“You know nothing about me,” I growled, though my voice wavered.
Severen smiled. That wicked, split-lipped grin—made for tearing, made for fear. It widened beyond flesh, beyond human.
“Oh, Salvatore,” he murmured, almost tender. “Your father hated you from the moment you drew breath. Your poor mother died bringing you into this world, and he never forgave you for it. Every time he looked at you, he saw her death staring back. So, he made it his mission to make your life as miserable as hers was brief.”
His tone was soft—almost compassionate—but the words stung.
“Shut up,” I snapped, voice cracking, but he didn’t stop.
“Oh no, Salvatore,” he whispered. “Let’s speak plainly now.”
He crouched until his shadow swallowed mine, the scent of him—ash, smoke, and the damp of graves—curling into my lungs.
“Your father beat you to remind himself he still had power. You cried not because of the pain but because you wanted him to stop. You wanted him to love you.”
He touched a finger beneath my jaw. “Tell me… did you ever imagine him softening? Calling youson?”
The torches dimmed to blue, the chamber contracting with each breath. From the shards of bronze, memories bled through once more—the courtyard in Ugarit, sandstone walls, the crack of a whip. Servants looking away. A boy’s voice begging.
“Stop it,” I breathed.
The images multiplied. My father’s hand. My mother’s portrait. My knees on the floor.
“Stop it.”
Severen’s eyes glowed like embers. “You begged him not to call you weak. But you feared he was right.”
The whip fell again, and I felt it—old flesh splitting open, blood that wasn’t there running down my back.
“STOP IT!” I roared.
