"Fountain! Water, splashing around. If there's a chance, I'll bathe in its splendour."
The voice sang a rather harmless tune bearing the most innocent of themes -- naive passion. However, that wasn't how it sounded to Horen. To him, the identity behind the voice was most possibly the perpetrator of the massacre within the Duchy.
"The lioness was slain, but the heroine was a snake! Bad, bad heroine! Heroine should be slain!"
Horen surveyed his surroundings, trying to find where the voice was coming from. But other than his family, there was no one in sight. Even though he wanted to walk around to inspect, he couldn't urge his feet to move.
Fear was slowly replacing his resolution.
In the intervening time, the Duke had just sorted out his emotions. It gave him the worst of frights to see two of his children dead. Withal, it wasn't the right time for them to grieve.
To give justice to his children, revenge was the only way.
The Duke decided to confer with his son. Exploiting two brilliant minds was better than a hefty bunch of ignorants. In that very second, his mind finally recognized that there was a voice echoing within the Banquet Hall. His ears started to ring, making him want to shut his hearing. The Duke put his hands over his ears -- hoping to subdue the sound -- yet it was for naught.
"Bad, bad heroine. Heroine should be slain. Heroine is the snake! Bad, bad heroine. Heroine should be slain."
Brahm Gertrude could sense that the voice was nearing him by the moment. Horripilation covered his entire body. Beads after beads of sweat swamped his skin. He had not known fear as dreadful as his present.
"Heroine will be punished! Bad, bad heroine."
His eyes started to shake. He could feel someone's breath on his nape. Rather than warmth, it carried the frostiness of the northernmost ocean.
"I'll come back soon. Please wait for me, dear family."
The voice came directly to the Duke's ears and it scared him out of his wits.
The Duke fell to the ground, hitting the hard marble with his knees, then his hands, lastly his head. Instead of standing up to look, the Duke remained on the floor, now covered with sweat. His eyes were widened, looking as if they were going to escape their sockets.
"Dear father, why are you kneeling on the floor? That's not proper for a Duke. Here, let me give you some assistance."
A few seconds later, the Duke noticed a pair of pale feet in front of him. Looking further up, Brahm saw the hem of a gown, but one soaked in blood.
Before the Duke knew it, his hair was forcefully grabbed. He gritted his jaw to stop himself from groaning. Thereafter, he was pulled by his hair, urging him to take a stand. Once he was on his feet, he could finally see the face of the one who had sinned against his family.
He was met with a countenance that he had no hopes of seeing for as long as he was alive. Despite the difference in age, Brahm discerned how similar the mother and daughter were when it came to their tall noses, rose petal-like lips, and slim faces.
"You… why are-- why are you he--here?" The Duke stuttered all the while levelling his breathing.
His query was returned with a smile, much to his frustration. The silence was one thing, but when it's accompanied by a show of amusement, it bordered insult.
It would be a mistake to be mindful of respect when lives were already taken. Nevertheless, the Duke was ready to commit that very mistake.
Brahm Gertrude's marriage with Hevelia von Bismarck was the envy of aristocratic women for the first two years. Lamentably, the harmony crumbled once Hevelia informed the Duke that she was expecting. At the outset, the Duke was ecstatic.
But soon, there was a rumour regarding Hevelia's infidelity with one of the men in the same knight order as her. Because of that, Brahm suspected that the child was not his. He didn't even exert any effort in confirming the rumours. He was downright angered by the betrayal. From that point on, Hevelia had no place in his heart.
When Ilya was born, there was not an inch of resemblance between her and his father. That was the final nail in the coffin for the Duke. It was not his child, so why would he go out of his way to treat her with care?
Brahm Gertrude's decision sealed the fate of Ilya von Bismarck.
That was why the Duke assumed that Ilya, who was now afore him, wished to take revenge. He was beaten because of his momentary hesitation.
"What should we do with you, father? Your appearance is that of a dishevelled drunkard. Why are you sweating so much?"
Ilya might have sounded concerned, yet her tightening grip on Brahm's hair conveyed otherwise.
"Have you no decency to give a response? Respect warrants respect, dear father. I've been engaged in our conversation but it seems to me that you don't share that."
The Duke swallowed his adamance right away. He was planning on dismissing every word that Ilya would say. Her sentiment made it clear that he should not. Within the briefness of a second, he arrived at a similar conclusion with Horen. He figured that it would be best to avoid offending Ilya.
"I-- I apologize for… for such an unsightly appearance." Brahm put a smile on his face -- a poor attempt to look cordial. "Can you… can you let go for a second?"
Ilya did let go of her father, but not before patting him twice on the head.
"Good boy, asking politely works for everyone, doesn't it?"
"Ye- yes."
The moment he was free, the Duke retreated several steps away from Ilya. His breathing was erratic, almost as if he was about to hyperventilate. Thankfully, he was amply calm to regain his composure, albeit taking him more time than he expected.
Once he had stabilized his breathing, the Duke inconspicuously gave Horen a glance. To his relief, Horen was keenly observing Ilya's behaviour. It needed to be said that Horen was done with his preparations. The second that an opportunity showed itself, he would launch an attack.
And that opportunity came with the Duke's gaze.
Horen received the signal, heaving as much air as he could thereafter. When he was done, he exhaled ahead of uttering his incantation.
"Lartom Ad--"
"I advise that you stop what you are doing, Marquess Horen Gertrude."
There and then, the siblings -- disassociated by their own blood -- met gazes. A harrowing emptiness held its hand out to Horen.