The carriage finally stopped in front of a titanic mansion. No, "mansion" was far too modest a term. It was a real palace—an imposing architectural structure that rose toward the sky with its slender towers, ornate balconies, and stained glass windows that sparkled in the sunlight.
Damn… It's really a castle.
The coachman quickly descended and opened the door with a ceremonious gesture.
"Please step down, miss."
Arthur turned his head toward his mother. At first glance, Anastasia displayed a serene face, a light smile floating on her lips. But Arthur knew better. He saw her hands clasped together on her knees, knuckles white from pressing so hard. He felt the tension emanating from her like an invisible wave.
She's terrified.
Without a word, Arthur extended his little hand and gently stroked his mother's. Their eyes met.
"Let's go, mom."
His child's voice carried an assurance it shouldn't have.
Anastasia blinked, surprised by the maturity in her three-year-old son's gaze. She slowly nodded, firming up her expression.
Let's get this day over with as quickly as possible, Arthur thought wearily. It's my birthday, damn it. This should be a joyful celebration, not a public humiliation ceremony. Well… I hope I'm wrong.
Spoiler: he wasn't wrong.
As soon as Arthur and his mother crossed the massive doors of the great hall, silence fell like a leaden weight.
All eyes converged on them.
Dozens of pairs of eyes—some curious, others frankly hostile, a few simply indifferent—sized them up from head to toe like objects of curiosity.
And here we go. The bastard and his commoner mother make their entrance.
The hall was sumptuous, decorated with ancient tapestries, crystal chandeliers, and marble columns. At the back, on a slightly raised platform, sat three richly ornate armchairs.
His father, Aldric Berher—Arthur had finally learned his name—sat in the center, dressed in a black tunic embroidered with gold thread. His immaculate white hair contrasted violently with his scarlet red eyes that shone with cold intelligence.
To his right sat a blonde woman of icy beauty, pale skin and perfectly chiseled aristocratic features. To his left, a brown-haired woman with an elegant figure, piercing hazel eyes, and a haughty bearing.
The legitimate wives, I suppose. Or at least, higher-ranking concubines.
Next to the blonde woman stood a teenager of about fifteen, tall and slender, with golden blond hair. He wore a mocking, almost cruel smile, his blue eyes shining with palpable arrogance. He looked at Arthur like one would look at a particularly disgusting insect.
Near him, a little girl of about eight with white hair identical to their father's. Her red eyes, also inherited from the patriarch, stared at Arthur with total indifference—as if nothing in this world had any value in her eyes. She was beautiful, with an almost supernatural beauty, but her expression was that of a soulless porcelain doll.
On the brunette woman's side were two identical boys—twins around four or five years old. Curly brown hair, hazel eyes, features similar to the point of being disturbing. They looked at Arthur with curiosity tinged with haughtiness, like young nobles evaluating a potential new toy.
Anastasia stepped forward gracefully despite her nervousness, bowing respectfully before the two women.
"Good day, ladies," she said in a clear but slightly trembling voice. "I present to you Arthur, my son."
The blonde woman tilted her head slightly, a contemptuous smile stretching her perfectly drawn lips.
"Well, well… The bastard."
The word fell like a cleaver, heavy with disdain and contempt.
The brunette woman emitted a small crystalline laugh, delicately covering her mouth with a gloved hand.
"How… cute. For a child of his kind."
Throughout this time, Aldric Berher observed the scene with his cold, calculating gaze, gauging each reaction, evaluating how Arthur would react to this deliberate provocation.
He's testing me. Obviously.
Arthur didn't flinch. He didn't lower his eyes. He didn't have a crying fit like a "normal" three-year-old would have in the face of such cruelty.
No.
He simply remained standing, straight, face neutral, his red eyes—so similar to his father's—calmly staring at the two women.
I'm not a three-year-old kid who's going to lose it over so little. I have thirty-three years of experience. You think your cheap insults are going to shake me?
But turning his head slightly, he saw his mother.
Anastasia had her head bowed, hands clenched so hard her knuckles were white. Her lips trembled imperceptibly. She couldn't say anything, couldn't do anything to defend her honor or her son's.
Because she knows her place. Because in this shitty world, she has no power.
A cold, controlled rage ignited in Arthur's heart. Not the explosive anger of a child, but the icy determination of a man who'd just received an affront he would never forget.
One day. One day, I'll make you swallow this contempt.
His father finally rose from his seat, descending from the platform with an almost feline grace. He approached Arthur, towering over the little boy with his imposing height.
"Arthur," he said in his deep, authoritative voice. "I present to you your eldest brother, Eric."
The blond teenager deigned to throw a dark look at Arthur, sizing him up from head to toe with a grimace of disgust, before ostentatiously turning his head as if the mere sight of his half-brother offended him.
"Your sister, Nyssal."
The white-haired little girl didn't even glance at him. She continued staring at the void in front of her, completely indifferent to his existence.
"And here are your twin brothers, Dyson and Ericson."
The two boys, unlike their elders, smiled broadly—but there was something false in those smiles, something calculated.
"Hello, little brother!" they said in unison, their perfect synchronization being vaguely disturbing.
"Happy birthday!"
At least those two are pretending to be polite. That's something.
Dyson and Ericson were about four or five years old—barely older than Arthur. Still children, technically.
Aldric stepped back, crossing his arms over his massive chest, still observing Arthur with that disturbing intensity.
"So, Arthur," he finally said. "What do you have to say?"
What am I supposed to say? "Thanks for publicly humiliating me and my mother on my birthday"?
Arthur held his father's gaze without blinking.
"Thank you for introducing me to my family, father."
His voice was calm, composed, almost adult in its intonation.
A heavy silence settled in.
Something passed in Aldric's eyes—surprise? Interest? Hard to say.
"Hm. Interesting."