Ten years ago…
The world tilted on its axis. One minute, his father had been reviewing ledgers, his brow furrowed in concentration. The next, he was crumpled on the floor, a grotesque parody of his usual imposing figure. The acrid smell of iron filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of his father's sandalwood cologne. Edward, fifteen, barely two months past his birthday, stood frozen in horror, the polished silver inkwell slipping from his numb fingers, clattering to the floor with a deafening clang.
He stumbled back, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Father?" he whispered, his voice trembling. He reached out a hand, but hesitated, fear gripping him like a vise. The crimson stain spreading across his father's crisp white shirt seemed to pulse before his eyes.
A strangled gasp escaped his lips. He dropped to his knees beside his father, his fingers brushing against the cold, clammy skin. His father's eyes were open, but they stared blankly at the ornate ceiling, devoid of life. Tears welled in Edward's eyes, blurring his vision. He shook his father's shoulder gently. "Father, wake up," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Please, wake up."
But his father remained still, his body limp and lifeless. The only sound was the frantic pounding of Edward's heart and the ragged breaths that tore through his throat.
Suddenly, the study door burst open, and two men in dark cloaks rushed in. They ignored Edward, their eyes fixed on his father's body. One of them knelt down and checked his pulse. He shook his head grimly.
"He's gone," the man said, his voice flat. "Clean this up."
The two men moved with a chilling efficiency, their movements precise and cold. They lifted his father's body, their hands rough and uncaring, and carried him out of the study. Edward watched them go, his mind numb with shock. He didn't understand what was happening. His father was dead. Gone. Just like that.
The next few days were a blur of hushed whispers and somber faces. Many people he barely knew or had ever met arrived at the manor, their expressions a mixture of sympathy and something else… something that looked like anticipation. Edward felt lost and alone, adrift in a sea of unfamiliar faces and unspoken agendas.
That night, he found a letter on his father's desk, sealed with his family's crest. His hands trembled as he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. As he read the words, his heart sank. His father was dead, and with him, a mountain of debt. The weight of responsibility crashed down on Edward, crushing him with its immensity. He was just fifteen, a boy still, but he was now the head of the family, burdened with obligations he didn't understand and enemies he couldn't see.
The funeral was a grim affair, a necessary formality. The church, its stone walls cold and damp, was packed, but not with genuine mourners. Most faces wore a mask of polite sympathy, their eyes distant. Edward recognized a few – tradespeople, looking somber out of obligation. Then there were the others. Lord Harrington, his father's rival, a man whose smile never quite reached his eyes, offered his condolences with a touch too much enthusiasm. Lady Beatrice, her face carefully neutral, lingered a moment too long, her gaze assessing Edward with an unnerving intensity. They were vultures, he realized, circling a wounded animal.
Mixed in with the crowd were faces Edward didn't recognize – distant relatives, perhaps, or those who simply felt obligated to attend the funeral of a Marquis. Their expressions were nonchalant, bored even. They were there for the title, not the man. His father hadn't had many friends lately. Things hadn't been going well for him, not since… not since his mother died a few years ago of what the doctors said was a severe cold. That had changed everything.
The air was thick with the cloying scent of lilies and incense, a suffocating perfume that mingled with the barely suppressed tension. The priest droned on, his words about eternal rest and divine judgment echoing hollowly in the vast space. Edward stood beside his mother's empty place, the space beside him a stark reminder of another loss. His father had never been the same after she died.
As the coffin was lowered, a collective sigh rippled through the crowd. Edward felt a pang of grief, sharp and sudden, but it was mixed with something else – a cold dread. He knew what this meant. His father was gone, and with him, any pretense of security. He was alone now, truly alone, facing a world that suddenly felt much more dangerous.
Lord Harrington stepped forward, his voice smooth. "Such a tragedy," he murmured, his gaze briefly meeting Edward's. "Your father was… a remarkable man." The words echoed with a hollow insincerity.
Lady Beatrice, too, offered her condolences, her eyes lingering on Edward. "Such a heavy burden for one so young," she said, her voice low, a hint of something predatory in her tone.
Edward met her gaze, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. He knew what they wanted. They wanted to see him crumble.
After the funeral, the relatives dispersed, leaving Edward alone in the vast, empty manor. Edward wandered through the empty rooms, his footsteps echoing through the stillness. He felt a heavy weight settling on his shoulders, a burden he didn't understand, but knew he would have to carry.
A few months later…
The weight on Edward's shoulders grew heavier with each passing day. The debts his father had left behind were a crushing burden, and the vultures were circling, their presence a constant, low hum of threat. He had tried to manage, to learn the intricacies of running the estate, but he was just fifteen, a boy thrown into a man's world.
And then, just when he thought things couldn't get worse, Mr. Finch fell ill. A swift, unexpected illness that took him within weeks. Edward sat by his bedside, watching as the man who had been his father's most loyal servant, and his own quiet support, slipped away. With Mr. Finch's passing, Edward lost his last anchor, his final connection to a time before everything had fallen apart. He was truly alone now, facing the darkness with nothing but his own fear and uncertainty.
Ten years passed…
Edward's life became a relentless struggle against the crushing weight of debt. He poured all his energy into trying to salvage the estate, to honor his father's memory and secure his own future. He invested in new ventures, putting his trust in those who swore they could help him. But every venture seemed to crumble, every promise turned to dust. The vineyard, which he'd hoped would bring in much-needed income, was ravaged by an unexpected blight. The trade deal he'd brokered with a neighboring lord fell apart when the lord suddenly declared bankruptcy (a convenient bankruptcy, Edward suspected).
And the people he trusted… they betrayed him. His father's former advisors, men who had sworn loyalty to the family, siphoned off funds, leaving him with even less than before. A distant cousin, whom he'd taken in and given a position of responsibility, ran off with the estate's prize stallion and a year's worth of grain. Each betrayal was a fresh wound, a sharp reminder of his vulnerability and the ruthlessness of the world he now inhabited.
There were moments, fleeting glimpses of hope, when it seemed like he might finally break free. A promising harvest, a successful negotiation, a chance encounter with a potential investor. But each time, just as he dared to believe that things might finally be turning around, fate dealt him another cruel blow. The promising harvest was destroyed by a hailstorm. The successful negotiation was sabotaged by Lord Harrington, who used his influence to undermine the deal. The potential investor turned out to be a con artist, leaving Edward deeper in debt than ever.
The weight of responsibility, the crushing burden of expectations, grew heavier with each passing year. He slept little, his dreams haunted by the faces of his creditors and the whispers of his enemies. He aged prematurely, the lines of worry etched deep into his face, his youthful optimism replaced by a weary resignation. He had fought, he had struggled, he had clawed his way through ten years of hardship, but it was no use. He was drowning, slowly but surely, in a sea of debt and despair. Finally, he decided to give up. There was no point in fighting anymore. He was tired, broken, and utterly defeated.
... (Back to Present)