I looked around. The place was a wasteland of filth. To hell with breakfast. First, I had to clean up; in this state, I couldn't possibly face anyone.
Walking to the window, I yanked back the dusty curtains. Sunlight struck my eyes, exposing every layer of grime, every empty bottle, and every stain on the carpet.
I started with the bottles. Methodically, I gathered them and lined them up in perfect rows by the door. Every bottle had to be flush. Then I moved on to the clothes strewn across the room. My stomach turned from the stench and my head was splitting, but I pushed through. I used a small knife to scrape the dirt from under my fingernails until they were spotlessly clean.
It took about half an hour to bring the room to order. Looking in the mirror, despite the pallor and the shadows under my eyes, I looked stunning. It was almost a cause for envy—how unfairly handsome Victor was.
Ready at last, I gripped the bronze handle and threw open the double doors.
The chatter in the hallway died instantly, like a severed thread.
A maid froze, tray in hand. A manservant, who had been leaning against the wall, snapped to attention so sharply he nearly dropped his rag.
"M-my Lord..."
The maid managed to choke out, turning pale before my eyes. The tray in her hands trembled.
I didn't deign to answer her and stepped forward. By the door stood the empty bottles, arranged in a flawlessly straight line.
"Take these away. Air out the room. Burn the bedding. Wipe down all the furniture with vinegar."
"Y-yes, Lord Hellsworth... right away!"
The man bolted as if the wolves themselves were at his heels.
Then, I turned to the maid. She shrank back, expecting the usual barked insult or a glass thrown at her head. Instead, I merely pointed to a tea stain on her apron.
"Fix that. There shall be no stains in my house."
I walked past her without a second glance. The servants watched my back with looks of primal terror mixed with utter bewilderment. Hardly surprising; to them, I was like a corpse that had suddenly climbed out of its coffin to demand perfect cleanliness.
The staircase to the ground floor greeted me with the dim light of torches and the smell of roasted meat wafting from the dining room. With every step down, I felt the air grow heavier. There, behind the double doors, sat those who, in the original story, were meant to be my executioners.
"He won't come, Kyle. And thank God for that. At least one breakfast without his stench and his screaming."
It was a girl's voice.
Evelina. My daughter, who in the future would burn this very building to the ground.
"Father is awake," — Kyle replied tonelessly. — "But he was... different. Too sober."
"Sober?"
A mocking scoff sharped Evelina's voice.
"More like he just hasn't reached for a new bottle yet. Ethan, hide that book under the table before he walks in and burns it along with your hands."
I stopped before the dining room door. My fingers brushed the wood. I waited just long enough to steady the last of the tremors in my hands. In this world, a single slip in character would mean a final curtain call.
Taking a breath, I pushed the doors open.
The clatter of silverware ceased at once. Four pairs of eyes fixed on me. There they sat: Kyle, his gaze heavy with suspicion; Evelina, whose emerald eyes flashed with naked hatred; Ethan, who flinched so violently he nearly tumbled from his chair; and little Leon, frozen with a spoon in his mouth.
As if rehearsing every movement, I walked to the head of the table. The chair was crooked—barely an inch to the left of where it should be. Without a word, I stopped, took the back of the chair, and aligned it so it was perfectly symmetrical with the edges of the carpet. Only then did I sit.
Scanning the table, I looked at Leon and noticed his napkin was crumpled. The boy turned white and dropped his spoon. It hit the plate with a loud clang, splashing droplets of soup across the tablecloth. A stain began to spread over the white fabric.
I shifted my gaze to that stain. The silence in the room grew so thick it felt as though it could be cut with a knife. Kyle half-rose from his seat, his hand instinctively dropping to the hilt of the dagger at his belt.
"Why are you silent? We are gathered here for breakfast. Proceed."
Kyle slowly lowered his hand from his dagger, but he didn't relax, continuing to bore into me with a look of pure distrust. Evelina remained frozen, her mouth slightly agape. She had likely expected me to start screaming about the ruined tablecloth immediately.
I reached for the crystal decanter at my right hand. All four children held their breath in unison.
In their memory, this motion always signaled the beginning of the end: the first sip, followed by a fit of uncontrollable rage.
I poured a small amount of dark red liquid into the glass. The wine was heavy, with a sharp, alcoholic bite that hit my nose instantly. I brought the glass to my lips and took a tiny sip, barely wetting my tongue, and paused for a second to adjust to the sensation.
Sour and cheap.
With a light click, the glass returned to the table. I then pushed it away from me toward the very edge, much to the astonishment of those present.
"Take this away. And bring me black tea. Five cubes of sugar."
Kyle gripped his fork so hard it nearly bent.
"Tea?" — he repeated, as if the word were foreign to him. — "You... you aren't drinking?"
"I am not. And replace the tablecloth by Leon. The stain is distracting."
Ethan, sitting next to his younger brother, hurriedly grabbed a napkin and tried to blot the soup, but his fingers shook so much he only smeared the spot further. The boy pulled his head into his shoulders, bracing for the inevitable blow.
"Enough, Ethan. Leave it to the servants. Eat your breakfast."
Evelina finally snapped. She shoved her plate away, the sound of porcelain on wood cracking like a gunshot. Standing up, she slammed her hand against the table.
"I feel sick just being here."
Without waiting for a response, Evelina spun around and marched toward the exit. A moment later, the dining room doors slammed shut behind her with a dull thud, leaving the rest of us in an even deadlier silence.
Despite her departure, I remained sitting with a straight back and turned my gaze to Kyle.
He sat as tense as a coiled spring, looking toward the door through which Evelina had just fled. His eyes read as a readiness to leap up and block his father's path should I decide to give chase.
"Kyle, your plate is getting cold."
The eldest son flinched. He had expected anything: for his father to flip the table, to order the servants to lock Evelina in a tower, to start smashing the china. But this mundane observation threw him off balance more than a thrown knife would have.
"You... you're just letting her go?"
"She is full, given she had the strength to slam the door so loudly."
I turned my head slightly toward the maid who had frozen at the entrance with a clean cloth.
"Change the linen for the young lord. Now."
The maid scurried to the table, moving with feverish speed. She carefully tucked the clean cloth under Leon's plate, trying not to even breathe in my direction. Little Leon sat motionless, clutching his spoon like a lone shield.
I shifted my focus to Ethan. The boy was still trying to hide the book under the hem of his clothes, his shoulders trembling slightly.
"Ethan."
The teenager froze, holding his breath. A dull thud came from under the table. The book had slipped from his lap to the floor. The boy squeezed his eyes shut, hunching his shoulders in anticipation of the wrath that usually followed "useless reading."
"Pick it up."
With trembling hands, Ethan reached down and retrieved the book.
"A book should be on the table if you are reading it, not in the dirt beneath your feet. Place it beside your cutlery."
Ethan looked at me, utterly stunned. A question was clearly etched in his eyes, but he didn't dare utter a word. As if fearing the book might burst into flames, he placed it on the edge of the table.
At that moment, the tea was brought in—steaming in a porcelain cup, with five sugar cubes lined up on the saucer. I took the silver tongs. One by one, I dropped the cubes into the tea.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
I began to slowly stir the sugar, watching the vortex in the cup.
Kyle, Ethan, and Leon sat frozen over their plates. Everyone's appetite had vanished, it seemed, except for my own. It was understandable, considering that their father's new behavior terrified them far more than his usual drunkenness.
Ignoring their stares, I took a leisurely sip. The tea was strong, scalding, and sweet—exactly what an exhausted body needed to finally suppress the trembling in my fingers.
"What are you planning?"
Kyle finally forced out.
"Clean clothes, tea, sudden concern for Ethan's books... What is this masquerade? If you've decided to mock us again before finally cutting off our inheritance, just say it plainly."
"You ask too many questions for someone who hasn't finished his breakfast. What is there to talk about? The food is on the table, and I am sober. That should be enough for one morning."
Kyle opened his mouth to retort, but I raised a hand, cutting off any attempt to continue the argument. The gesture was so commanding and natural that my eldest son fell silent involuntarily, without making a sound.
"Finish your meal. Then you may be dismissed."
Without granting my sons another look, I turned and headed for the exit. At the very doors, my gaze lingered for a split second on a speck of dust on the handle, but I restrained myself and simply stepped out, pulling the doors shut behind me.
Leaving the children in a state of total paralysis, I walked down the corridor toward the stairs. My head was still throbbing, and colored spots danced before my eyes.
***
Instead of returning to my room, I headed for the East Wing. Victor's memory, tangled with fragments of the original script, guided me toward the Lord's study.
The corridors of Hellsworth Manor felt like a crypt: once-luxurious carpets had faded and were now buried under layers of dust, while suits of armor stood askew like drunken guardsmen. Every time my gaze caught a crooked painting or a smudge on a window, a flare of irritation sparked within me. But I forced myself to keep moving.
An old servant stood guard by the study doors. As I approached, he pressed himself against the wall, bracing for the habitual shove or barked insult, but I merely walked past him in silence.
The study door yielded with a heavy groan. The scent of old paper, dried ink, and stale alcohol hit my nostrils. Here, the chaos was even more extensive than in the bedroom. The desk was buried under heaps of parchment, a broken inkwell lay in the corner, and empty wine bottles lined the mantelpiece.
I walked to the massive oak desk and ran a finger across its surface. Leaving a stark trail in the dust, I grimaced.
"Clean this up,"
I tossed over my shoulder, knowing the servant was lingering outside the door, too afraid to enter.
"Wash the windows. And find the steward. Dead or alive, he is to be here in an hour with all the ledger books."
Without waiting for a reply, I sank into the deep leather armchair. It was stiff, but that helped me keep my back straight. Now, away from the watchful eyes of the children, the mask of icy composure flickered ever so slightly. I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers to my throbbing temples.
I had so little time. According to the plot, in just a few months, the Hellsworth lands were meant to suffer the first attack, and Victor's death would serve as the signal for the start of a full-scale war.
I opened my eyes and looked at the nearest stack of papers. On top lay a bill from a merchant's shop, marked with a red seal: "Overdue." Beneath it was a complaint from a village elder about a failed harvest and a shortage of seed grain.
"So, this is how it is," — I whispered, leafing through the sheets. — "Victor didn't just drink. He systematically dismantled everything this kingdom stood upon."
I picked up a quill from the desk. Its nib was split, and the ink in the jar had turned into thick soot. Disgusting.
I needed to restore the finances, mend relations with the neighbors, and most importantly, convince the children that I was no longer their primary target. But looking at this papery shambles, I realized one thing: before I could save the world, I would have to save this desk from the dust.