The walk back from the Duke's study felt ten times longer than the journey there. With every step I took, the sharp, burning pain in my left ankle flared up, shooting a jolt of agony straight up my spine. Yet, I refused to let my face betray the torment. I kept my posture stiff, my expression completely neutral, dragging my wounded leg across the cold stone floor of the main corridor.
Outside the heavy double doors of the study, Shane stood like a gargoyle. As I limped past him, he offered a low, nasal snort—a sound dripping with contempt. He didn't say a word, and neither did I. Engaging with a lackey like him was a waste of breath. My mind was elsewhere, processing the cold reality of my new existence. A father who viewed me as a defect, brothers who wished me dead, and a fragile body that felt like it could shatter at any moment.
When I finally reached the dimly lit corridor leading to my quarters, a familiar figure was pacing back and forth near the door.
"Young Master!" Marie gasped, her eyes wide with a mixture of anxiety and disbelief as she hurried toward me. She stopped short, staring at my face as if searching for tears, bruises, or signs of emotional ruin. "You… you're back. Did the Duke—?"
"He didn't do anything," I interrupted, my voice flat and devoid of panic. "He just reminded me of what I already knew. Open the door, Marie."
Startled by my calmness—so entirely unlike the hysterical boy she had spent the last few days nursing—Marie quickly fumbled with the iron key and pushed the door open.
Once inside, the biting chill of the isolated room hit me. Marie immediately helped me onto the edge of the narrow bed. Without wasting a second, she knelt before me, her small hands gently taking off my mud-stained boot. As the leather parted from my foot, a soft gasp escaped her lips.
My left ankle was severely swollen, the skin stretched taut and stained a sickening shade of deep purple and black.
"Oh, Holy Light… your foot is completely ruined, Young Master!" Marie whispered, her eyes welling up with sudden tears. She quickly ran to fetch a basin of warm water and a clean linen cloth.
As she tenderly washed away the dried blood and dirt, then began wrapping the swollen joint with a soothing herbal compress, the contrast between her warmth and the cruelty of the Romario household couldn't have been starker. I watched her bowed head, feeling a strange foreign warmth in my chest. In this vast, freezing estate filled with wolves, this frightened maid was the only human being offering true kindness.
"Thank you, Marie," I said softly.
She paused, looking up in surprise, her cheeks flushing slightly before she lowered her gaze again. "It is my duty, Young Master. Please… try to rest. I will bring you some warm soup soon."
After Marie quietly slipped out of the room, locking the door behind her, I was left alone in the silence of the night.
The physical pain in my ankle acted as a catalyst, slowly unlocking the deeper, fragmented memories buried within this body's mind. I closed my eyes, letting the darkness behind my eyelids replay the sequence of events that had nearly ended Benedict's life a few days ago.
It wasn't an accident.
The memory surfaced with crystalline clarity. It was a freezing afternoon in the rear garden near the old greenhouse. I—the original Benedict—had been cornered by two senior guards serving under Raymond, my second-oldest brother. Raymond had stood a few feet away, leaning casually against a stone pillar, watching with a cold, amused smirk.
"The bastard of the third floor needs to learn his place," Raymond's voice echoed in my head, accompanied by the cruel laughter of his lackey.
In the memory, one of the guards had swept his leg out with brutal force, snapping my ankle with a sickening crunch. As I collapsed into the freezing mud, gasping for air, Raymond had stepped forward, pressing the heel of his polished boot squarely into my chest, crushing the remaining breath out of my lungs.
"If you ever dare to breathe the same air as me in the main hall again, next time it won't just be your ankle," Raymond had whispered coldly before turning his back and walking away, leaving me to bleed out in the snow.
My eyes snapped open. The reflection in the dark glass of the window showed a pale, gaunt face, but the eyes looking back were sharp, calculating, and completely devoid of fear.
Survival required more than just hiding in a dark room. As long as Raymond viewed me as a convenient punching bag, the threat of death would forever hang over my head. They thought they had broken me. They had no idea that what they actually did was awaken something far more dangerous.