Chapter 23: The Melancholy of a Duke’s Son
Kishtarial was a noble in name only, born to a house that could barely be called noble at all.
His father, a man loose with women, had forcibly made his beautiful mother a mistress.
Thus Kishtarial was born as the son of a concubine.
The legal wife and her sons loathed him.
He received no proper education and was not allowed in the main house.
Instead, he was given a narrow shed that had once been a storage room.
The man who was his father paid him no attention.
Yet he would not allow his mother Latiune or Kishtarial to leave.
He would not protect them from the wife’s wrath, but still clung to his beautiful mistress.
Kishtarial despised the way those greasy, lust-filled eyes crawled over his mother.
Their dwelling could hardly be called a house.
In summer they sweated.
In winter they froze.
Thin, salty bean broth with scraps of vegetables.
Hard, sour black bread.
An egg or a scrap of meat was a feast.
Hunger was constant.
Their clothes were worn and patched.
He and his mother survived shoulder to shoulder.
Simply existing invited cruelty from the legal wife and her children.
Clothes were dirtied and torn.
Windows broken so rain and wind poured in.
He was chased, beaten, kicked.
His mother did small handiwork to earn a little coin.
The legal wife would come solely to mock and sabotage her.
The servants treated them coldly.
He had no friends.
He was forbidden to call his father “Father.”
Forbidden to call his half-brothers “Brother.”
One day, one of those brothers began looking at his mother with the same greedy gaze as their father.
At first, furtively.
Then openly.
He approached her and shamelessly ordered her to become his mistress instead.
She refused.
He flew into a rage and tried to violate her—
Or perhaps to kill her.
Something inside Kishtarial, long stagnant like sludge, exploded.
He remembered little.
When he came to, trees were snapped, bricks shattered, the mansion half destroyed.
They looked at him as if he were a monster.
Monster.
Stay away.
He understood he would be cast out.
At last, he might escape.
The power he unleashed was magic.
He possessed vast magical power.
Soon after, his father came—smiling differently this time.
Still repulsive.
There was an offer.
A prestigious house wished to adopt him.
A far superior noble lineage.
Distantly related.
They would nurture his magic.
Perhaps even let him inherit a title.
It sounded too good.
But his father had already accepted advance payment.
Refusal was impossible.
Their declining house devoured the gold.
Kishtarial accepted.
It must be better than here.
He wanted only one thing.
“Please take my mother with me,” he said.
“She need not be your wife.
Just allow her to come.”
The Duke of Lattiche smiled.
“Very well.”
Beautiful.
Terrifying.
Like something crafted rather than born.
Gold changed hands.
He was purchased.
In the carriage, the Duke glanced at them.
“This will not do.
Albert cannot see them like this.
Clean them up.”
So that was the truth.
He did not care for his mother.
That was enough.
They were scrubbed clean, retrained, reshaped.
Spartan, but warm rooms and full meals softened the hardship.
Who was “Albert”?
Albertina?
Eventually they were permitted to visit the main house.
Beforehand, the Duke spoke.
“You will live and die for my daughter, Albertina.
Defy me and you will pay in death and despair.
Your value lies only in serving her.”
It was monstrous.
But clear.
They agreed.
Then he saw her.
Long glossy black hair.
Rose-tinted cheeks.
Large deep green eyes framed by impossibly long lashes.
Pink lips.
An angel.
When she saw the Duke—
“Father!”
Her voice rang sweet and bright.
Kishtarial felt pierced through.
He scarcely remembered introductions.
She was shy.
She hid behind a boy named Julius.
But she peeked at him like a timid animal.
It was unbearably adorable.
He wanted to hear her voice again.
To see her face.
He did not understand why.
Over time, she invited him to tea.
Always with Julius or Anna nearby.
Sometimes with Dora, a sharp-tongued maid.
Dora looked down on them.
Later, she was expelled for tormenting Albertina in the dark.
Perhaps worse.
Albertina herself did not dwell on it.
But those who loved her did.
She was naive.
Yet brilliant in her ideas.
The Duke indulged her inventions.
Cuisine.
Fashion.
Medicine.
Goods beyond imagination.
The estate flourished.
All credited the Duke.
Few knew the truth.
If that ignorance kept her safe, so be it.
Kishtarial learned she would not be married off.
The Duke never intended it.
Good.
She could remain beside him forever.
He met many ladies in society.
None stirred him.
He already knew a girl more beautiful.
Her voice was sweeter than any other.
I want to stay with her forever.
If necessary, he would guard their narrow paradise for life.
His first love had become obsession.
He would keep it hidden.
Let her sink slowly into him.
So slowly she would never notice.
Until she could not breathe without him.
Just as he had drowned in her.
“Kishtarial, is there a lady you fancy?”
“Why suddenly?” (You are right in front of me.)
“It is strange that you have no fiancée.”
“It concerns the ducal house.” (All others are the same.)
“If you are troubled, I shall help you choose!”
“Absolutely not.” (If Father hears, it becomes settled!)
Albertina meant well.
And nearly killed him with kindness.
He confiscated a stack of portraits from her hands.
She reached to reclaim them.
He stroked her hair instead.
A privilege granted to few.
She narrowed her eyes contentedly.
“Ticklish, Kishtarial.”
“Sorry.”
For now, this is enough.
He ignored the servant watching from behind.
Later, his mother Latiune scolded him fiercely.
Her heel dented furniture when enraged.
Even the Duke stepped aside when she was furious.
Albertina remained unaware of the undercurrents.
Kishtarial resented the calm-faced Julius most of all.
“…Julius.”
“That is Anna, young master.”
“Anna!?”
“Do refrain from behavior unfit for milady’s education.”
“…Understood.”
He saw in her eyes the same warning as his mother’s.
Why did women grow terrifying when it came to Albertina?
There were many extremists devoted to Albert in the House of Lattiche.