Act I: What I Am
They said I was touched by shadows.
Not in fear — in shame.
The first time I was locked in the storage room, I counted the cracks in the wall. Fifty-six.
The second time, I counted them again. Fifty-eight.
"They moved," I said.
"No," I replied, "you miscounted."
I had conversations like that for years.
They called me mad. Not out loud, of course.
Out loud, I was called "boy." Or "it." Or sometimes just a sigh.
I wasn't beaten. That would've meant I mattered.
I was ignored. Tolerated. Hidden from guests.
And yet, I knew everything about them.I knew when my father's shoes clicked — and when they didn't.
I knew which servant snuck wine.
I knew my sister bled before she was married — and that my mother never forgave her.
"You watch too much," I whispered.
"Because no one watches me," I replied.
Act II: The Visit
The door clicked. Heavy boots on polished floor.
"Big bastard brother," he said, the words bouncing like coins in an empty well. "Still breathing, are we?"
I looked up.
Not out of interest — out of reflex.
Sleep hadn't fully left my eyes. Hunger had. It never stayed long — it simply became part of the air.
I said nothing.
That was the only currency I had: silence.
He dragged her in by the wrist. A farm girl, no older than me.
She smiled too wide. Not stupid — just desperate.
"This used to be your bed, didn't it?" he asked,
peeling back the sheets like flesh.
I blinked. Once.
He laughed. "Right. Of course. You don't sleep there anymore. You sleep... where? On thoughts?"
They didn't wait.
He took her in front of me.
The bed creaked with rhythm — like a carriage wheel squealing on cobblestone.
She moaned. He grunted.
I watched the corner of the ceiling.
I counted the cracks again. Fifty-eight. Or fifty-six. Or maybe they'd changed.
When he was done, he stood and dressed slowly.
She stumbled into my washroom without looking at me.
Then the real game began.
"Tell me, brother," he said, buttoning his collar, "do you even understand what just happened?
Or do you still think women are carried here by angels, laid into our beds with church hymns and soft hands?"
I said nothing.
"Oh wait — maybe you do understand. Maybe you're some mute genius, trapped in a skull too thick to crack.
Like a diamond in a dung heap."
He crouched near me. Close.
I could smell sweat, leather, and whatever perfume she'd worn to mask the fear.
"You ever going to speak? Say something? Anything?
Or are you planning to stay a cursed little goblin for the rest of your life?"
I looked at him.
Not at his face — just behind it. Past it.
Like he was something temporary.
Inside, my other voice whispered:
"Don't answer. He thinks he's winning."
I blinked. Once.
He stood.
"Still broken. Still boring."
The door clicked shut again.
Both of them left together with me being left in the state of self conflict.
Anger and rage being directed toward my brother
I slowly muttered "My dear little brother Verin, this humiliation- I will make you pay JUST YOU WAITTtttt...."
"They thought I was broken..."
"They were wrong..."
"This was only the FOUNDATION"
End of ch 1
Please look forward to chapter two.