After that bloodbath in the hall, the Duke turned to me with a gaze that felt like it could pierce straight through my soul.
"Come." — He said. Just that.
No room for questions. No choice.
I followed.
We walked down the corridor of the mansion, flanked by suits of black armor and paintings of men and women, all bearing the same name I now carried — Ravenhart.
At the end stood a large double door, made of dark wood, engraved with the family crest — a raven gripping a sword driven into the ground, surrounded by thorned vines.
The Duke pushed the doors open, revealing a vast office filled with books, maps, and weapons mounted on the walls.
"Enter." — His voice wasn't a request. It was an order.
I stepped in, closed the door behind me.
He walked to a large leather chair, sat down, crossed his legs, and calmly poured himself a glass of wine.
Silence.
Crushing silence.
Then... he spoke.
"You must be wondering... why you?" — He spun the wine in the glass slowly. — "A street rat. A nobody."
I didn't answer.
Didn't know if I should.
Or if I even wanted to.
He continued, eyes fixed on the swirling wine:
"My son... my real son... was almost perfect." — His voice was bitter. Dry. — "Proud. Defiant. Never bowed his head to anyone. Not even to me."
A short laugh escaped him.
Empty.
Hollow.
"But..." — his gaze sharpened — "He wasn't strong enough to hold that pride. During a duel against another noble's heir — someone his own age — he died. Pathetically.
Fell face down in the mud like a wounded dog. Humiliating me. Staining the reputation I spent my life building."
His fingers tightened around the glass, and for a moment, I thought it might shatter.
"I lost a son..." — his cold eyes locked onto mine — "...and nearly lost my honor with him."
I swallowed hard.
My throat felt like it was closing.
The Duke leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Now listen, Clint. Listen carefully..."
His tone dropped.
Deeper. Colder. Deadlier.
"If you... ever... dare to stain the Ravenhart name... the way my son did..." — he paused, letting the words sink in — "I will kill you myself."
Each word hit like a hammer.
Heavy. Unforgiving. Absolute.
"In this house... you only have two options." — He raised one finger. — "Be strong. Be feared. Be a Ravenhart..." — then raised a second finger. — "...or be weak. And die. It's that simple."
My hands trembled.
I didn't know if it was fear... or rage.
He leaned back again, arms crossed.
"If you want to return to the streets... to the hunger... the cold... to running for your life, hunted like a rat... you can refuse now. No one will stop you."
Then he leaned forward again, his gaze burning straight through me.
"But think carefully... Refuse? For what? To go back to starving? Sleeping on frozen stone? Being chased and killed... over a loaf of bread?"
Silence.
Suffocating. Crippling.
And in that moment... I realized...
There was no choice.
If I wanted to live... I had to become a monster greater than the monsters around me.
I clenched my fists.
Took a deep breath.
Raised my chin — even if my legs were shaking.
"...What do I have to do?" — My voice came out rough. Weak. But... it didn't break. I didn't bow.
The Duke smiled.
Cold. Satisfied.
"Good answer." — He stood, adjusting his coat. — "Starting tomorrow\... your life begins. Tutors. Masters. Warriors. Mages. Etiquette. History. Politics."
He walked toward the window, gazing down at the capital through the stained glass.
"You'll learn everything. And you will become someone others fear. Or..." — he turned, gaze sharp as steel — "...you will be no one. Not here. Not anywhere."
As he turned back, his voice dropped to a near whisper, yet it sliced deeper than anything else he'd said that day:
"Remember, Clint..." — the words felt like knives — "In this world... no one respects weakness."