Not once since the moment I was born had I ever been truly loved.
I came into this world as the eldest son of Marquis Jacob Grenville, the current head of the noble house governing the easternmost part of the Empire of Southenklein.
My mother was Ava Norfolk, the daughter of Margrave Norfolk, but she passed away soon after giving birth to me, as if trading her own life for mine.
When I was old enough to understand, my nanny gleefully informed me that my parents’ marriage had been a matter of political expedience for both families. My father hadn’t shed so much as a single tear at my mother’s death—he simply stared down at her lifeless body, and at me, the infant crying beside her.
Having done his duty, my father went on to take one Angela Hill, the daughter of Baron Hill, as his second wife.
Then, less than six months after my birth, the pair was gifted with a second son, my younger brother, Louis. In other words, my father and stepmother must have already been deeply involved while I was still in my mother’s womb. Unlike when I was born, it was said that my father was extraordinarily pleased with the birth of my brother.
Two years later, my younger sister, Anna, came into the world, and the four of them—my father, stepmother, and two half siblings—were, to all outward appearances, a happy, picture-perfect family.
I alone was relegated to a cottage detached from the main house to live a lonely life with only my nanny and a few additional maids.
I saw my father no more than once a year, when Margrave Norfolk, my maternal grandfather, came to visit.
And yet my grandfather never once spoke to me—he merely gave me a quick once-over and was done. And so, whenever my father and grandfather met, I would simply stand nearby, as still as a wooden doll.
Even my stepmother hated me, criticizing and cursing me whenever she saw my face. Sometimes, she even disciplined me by whipping my back or legs.
Unlike me, my brother and sister were raised with their parents’ boundless love and care, and they grew up happy, arrogant, and haughty.
And that was why—
“Brother, I accidentally broke one of Father’s favorite vases. Could you apologize to him for me?”
—requests such as these were more or less a daily occurrence.
Why did I always have to take the fall in my brother’s place? I thought it unfair, but that didn’t stop me from going along with it every time.
“Yeah. Got it, Louis,” I said with a faint smile as I picked up the shattered pieces of the vase.
I understood, of course, why my stepmother found me such an eyesore. I was the son of her husband’s late wife, after all. I also knew that Louis and Anna considered me a nuisance and an obstacle. We were only half siblings, and their mother already had it in for me.
My parents’ marriage was never anything more than a political arrangement, and now that a second son had been born into the family as a potential heir, my presence was unnecessary.
And yet…
…all I wanted was to be part of the family.
I desperately hoped that if I took the blame for my brother, maybe, just maybe, he would come to see me in a positive light.
If everyone thought I’d been the one to break the vase, maybe my sister would worry about me and ask if I was hurt.
Then maybe my father and stepmother would praise me for looking out for my younger siblings. Well done. You’re always there for your brother and sister.
Possessed by that simple dream, more impossible than the most fantastical of fairy tales, I took responsibility for yet another of my brother’s mistakes.
What awaited me instead was a month-long confinement in a dim, damp shed without so much as a single window to the outside.
And yet still I dreamed of being recognized as a member of the family, and to that end, I continued to make every effort to improve myself.
But unlike Louis and Anna, I was never allowed to learn such things as academics or swordsmanship or etiquette. And so I taught myself, by sneaking into the book vault to read as much as I could while no one was looking, or by lying low and watching my siblings while they studied with their tutors. Neglected as I was, I had nothing but time, and thus plenty of opportunities to better myself.
Eventually, I reached the summer of my fourteenth year—when, for whatever reason, I ended up in a swordsmanship match with a knight in the family’s service.
Of course, everyone knew that I had never learned how to properly wield a sword. But still they arranged the match without my knowledge… My stepmother, it seemed, simply wanted to see me suffer.
Yet I thought to myself… If I could manage to defeat the knight, maybe, just maybe, my father would finally accept me. Clinging to that hope, I gave the bout my all.
“I—I give up!” the knight cried, admitting defeat as he prostrated himself on the ground.
I glanced up, my eyes filled with expectation.
Ha-ha… At last, Father will finally take notice of me!
I turned his way… And he looked back at me and nodded in satisfaction!
What joy! My body trembled with delight.
Ah… Maybe now he would finally treat me as part of the family.
After that, I was recognized for my prowess with the blade and placed in the care of a middle-aged tutor. Under his instruction, I was thoroughly educated in the art of combat. His training was merciless, and often left me coughing up blood or screaming at the top of my lungs… And in time, I became an assassin.