I drummed my fingers against my father's desk, my eyes aimlessly scanning his blackwood shelves and the multitude of various tomes lining them. Some were Krovic, some Casterinan - even a vast collection of Khamginese, but I doubted any of them would've been more beneficial to me than the one that sat under my right palm.
However, I hesitated to open it. Only for a fraction of a moment, of course.
Its outer coat was soft with wear, the leather cord securing it closed, dulled and malleable, yet still of use. It felt familiar beneath my fingers, because it was something I read often growing up, which made my apprehension - no matter how fleeting - all the more irritating.
"Fuck," I exhaled, untying the haphazard knot before opening the journal.
My father always had damn near illegible penmanship - whether in the stormy throes of derangement or not - but because that was a quality I directly inherited from him, it served more as a level of security rather than a pitfall. Fitting, since most people weren't privy to my father's innermost thoughts, anyway. Even in death, he managed to keep prowling eyes in the dark.
This particular journal was not the first of his. Note taking was a habit he had fostered since his childhood, likely because grandfather and great grandfather both found it suitable to chronicle their lives.
'If you haven't accomplished things worth writing down for future peoples to discover, are you truly worthy of the Kazbirati name?' That is the philosophical quandary that great-grandfather asked grandfather, who asked my father, who, in turn, asked me.
Still, I hated scribing my exploits. It felt to me as if all I was achieving by doing so was providing my hand in lengthy detail. Events that I intended to keep shrouded would be demystified should the notebook ever fall into the wrong hands. I supposed it wouldn't have been my downfall if someone were to figure out how I snuffed the Bull's Rebellion, or, perhaps, the exact ingredients of the elixir that revived me from the realm of the dead, but it certainly wouldn't have been advantageous, either. The damn priest, Vitale, already knew both, and that was one body too many.
Especially in the moment, when he had yet to provide me the rationale behind offering that fucking pest ultimate clemency by allowing him to leave me presence with his vile, pitiable life.
"Focus," I murmured softly. "Anger brewed is anger diluted."
And I was intent on serving the priest with the full brunt of my ire. So, instead, I distracted myself.
I began to leaf through the pages of parchment, heavy with ink. I knew exactly the section for which I was searching. My father felt no paternal instinct towards brood which fled from him and had made multiple implications of his intentions to kill them. Not for the sake of revenge, of course, since such things were born from pride and hubris, but, rather, to comply with the most vital tenet of Kazbirati lineage - singularity.
Infighting within family was not only asinine, but eventually and inevitably detrimental. It allowed outside actors to make an impact in ways that they otherwise would and could not. Conflicts of inheritance or power were precisely what the tenet protected against, but without a proper Kazbirati upbringing, the Aquiladessi bastards would not understand the importance of it. Thus, my father made plans to correct his mistake.
When I had happened upon it for the first time, it was simply a good read - just the right mix of gore and objectivity. I quite enjoyed it over a late supper. But now, reading it a set of instructions rather than a wonderful bedtime story, it didn't seem quite detailed enough for my tastes.
'It is safe to say that this was the plan all along. The speed and urgency at which the summer emperor stole my sons was equal parts impressive and deplorable. And in the dead of night, as if us Krovs ever slumbered so heavily that we wouldn't hear the scuttling of pests.
It was, without a shred of doubt, a moment of weakness, allowing them to flee. I did not know if they were mired in confusion and grief over their mother's passing, which I convinced myself may have clouded their judgment. I did not want to fault them for leaving their home. But Grisha has since speared this disgraceful beating heart of mine, cutting off the trickle of uncertainty and pity I continued to nurture for them.
This cub was born with fangs that grew faster than his fur. It's a laughable prospect to think he would ever allow himself to be compelled to abandon his family. He, alone, is the heir of this bloodline, ordained by the gods in an indisputable fashion.
I have strayed from our customs and have no choice but to rectify my wrongdoings.
The weak ones must be systematically hunted and slaughtered.
~ Year 19 of Rispiti Cycle, Season of Ice, Day 23'
I exhaled and thumbed ahead a few pages, past the extensive retelling of the of ice spirits that tormented him and sat upon his chest in the middle of night. Five pages past, I came to a familiar, lucid entry once again.
'Emerentius III is a wonderful name for the first to die.'
The sentence let loose a giddying flutter in my stomach.
'He was always arrogant due to his station as the eldest of the brood, and his exposure to that vain summer emperor will only inflate his already bloated ego. If ever there was a spot for pride, it would be placed last in the order of things, as it serves no purpose to anyone but its handler.
Being the first born was a happenstance given to him by luck, and not an achievement in itself. Still, the emperor will continue to feed him cloying compliments as if it were.
This particular quarry will be easy to deflate. Prick the delusion of his reverence and he will lose his identity in its entirety.
This prey needn't even a weapon of metal to fell, only astutely sharpened words.'
I sat back. It was a shrewd observation, considering my father hadn't been around the pathetic excuse of a man for more than half a decade before writing it down. Especially since he was correct. If my interchange with the Casterian that had taken place not an hour ago was any indication of his typical demeanor, then there was no doubt that words could be weaponized successfully against him.
That was, until my father's death.
There was no way, however, he could've account for this current predicament. The very fact that Rens was being utilized as a puppet made him a far more resilient foe. Any blow that I landed on his grandiose ego - no matter how low or vicious - he would simply accept as a symptom of utilizing restraint. He would convince himself that, should his grandfather have granted him carte blanche, he would've easily been able to fend off my strikes. Perhaps even supersede them. Delusional indeed.