Days turned into weeks, then months, and Marius replayed that day over and over in his mind like a treasured dream. Each night, after his duties were complete and the mansion had fallen silent, he would take out the handkerchief and trace the embroidery, remembering the way Sonia had smiled at him—like he wasn't just a nuisance or a burden.
When the nights were particularly harsh, and the duchess's punishments left him bruised and aching, he would imagine Sonia's gentle hands tending to his wounds. The fantasy was enough to dull the pain, just enough to get through the night.
As he grew older, he continued to hone his skills. His education was rigorous, overseen by stern tutors who cared more about results than well-being. Still, Marius absorbed every lesson, every piece of information, as if each success would bring him closer to something better.
Whenever the day had been especially cruel, Marius would retreat to his room and take up his embroidery. Sonia was his only warmth in a world that had never been kind—his sanctuary. Stitch by stitch, he remembered her.
He also spent time training, his body hardening from both chores and the combat lessons the duke insisted upon. Every swing of the practice sword, every calculated step, he envisioned himself strong enough to protect Sonia from anything—especially from people like the duchess.
Two years passed. By the time Marius turned twelve and began appearing at social gatherings once more, Sonia was nowhere to be found. She had vanished from the social scene entirely.
Rumors whispered that the Mitford daughter had fallen ill, but no one knew the details. His heart ached at the thought that she might be suffering, yet there was nothing he could do. Night after night, he clutched the handkerchief he had embroidered with her favorite yellow bird, willing himself to believe she would recover.
One evening, after yet another particularly harsh berating from the duchess, she sneered at him with her usual venom.
"What a pathetic waste you are. You had a chance—however small—to secure a tie to Count Mitford's family, and you let it slip through your fingers. Do you have any idea how valuable that girl could have been to us? She was a doorway, a step up, and you failed to walk through it when she was still within reach. Typical. You're good for nothing but letting me down."
Marius clenched his fists, his whole body trembling. The duchess was right about one thing—he had lost whatever chance he'd had to stay close to Sonia. But his anger wasn't for himself. It was for her.
The duchess spoke of Sonia as if she were a pawn, a tool to be used for political gain. Marius didn't care that the woman treated him like dirt, but to reduce Sonia to nothing more than a connection—something useful—made his blood boil.
His mind raced with memories of that gentle girl in the garden, her soft voice telling him he wasn't worthless. To the duchess, Sonia was just a name—a status symbol to wield.
Sleep abandoned him that night, chased off by fury and memory. The duchess's words echoed in his mind, intertwining with memories of how she had struck him, degraded him, made him feel small. None of that mattered—but this was different. She dared to insult Sonia. She dared to think she could use her.
When he heard that the duchess planned a journey to visit her relatives, something in him snapped. He had been careful, always cautious, never letting his darker thoughts surface. But now, as he sat hunched over in his dim room, he made a decision that felt almost peaceful in its finality.
On the day of the journey, Marius slipped into the stables and carefully loosened the screws on the carriage wheels. The road the duchess would take was narrow, winding through rocky hillsides. One wrong move, one malfunction, and the carriage would be at the mercy of gravity.
He made sure no one saw him, slipping back to his quarters as if nothing had happened. Hours later, news swept through the manor—an accident on the road. The carriage had veered off the path and tumbled down a slope. The duchess was dead.
No one suspected him. Marius had planned it meticulously, making sure to leave no trace, no hint that the accident was anything but a tragic mishap. As the servants mourned and gossiped, Marius remained silent, his face unreadable. Inside, he felt a heavy, strange satisfaction—one that he didn't allow himself to savor. It was just justice. Nothing more.
After the duchess's death, the household became quieter. The duke barely acknowledged his son, more preoccupied with his own declining health. Marius continued his studies, mastering both academic and martial skills with a cold, relentless efficiency.
By the time he turned seventeen, his patience had worn thin. The duke's health had steadily declined, weakened by an undetectable poison Marius had been administering for years. Little by little, drop by drop, the concoction seeped into the old man's body, gradually sapping his vitality.
One evening, the news came—Duke Wittelsbach had passed away in his sleep. Marius attended the funeral with a blank expression, watching as the noble families whispered about the sudden loss. None of them knew, none could guess that the frail boy who stood at the edge of the crowd was the architect of both deaths.
At eighteen, Marius inherited the title, standing alone in the vast, oppressive estate that had been his prison.
With power in his hands, Marius did not forget. The servants who had tormented him over the years now found themselves at the mercy of his authority. The cook who once struck him had his fingers crushed in the iron jaws of a bear trap. The stable boy who mocked him and kicked his shins was thrown into the dungeons, left to rot without sunlight.
Others fared no better. Those who had sneered, whispered, or turned a blind eye to his suffering were punished swiftly—each in a manner tailored to their particular cruelties.
Dismissal would have been too merciful. Most were locked away in the manor's long-forgotten dungeons: damp, airless cells where time stretched like agony.
They were replaced at once—by new ones: loyal, silent, obedient.
Marius did not revel in their suffering. This was not vengeance, he told himself. It was justice. A balancing of scales weighed down by years of pain.
Yet some nights, his thoughts drifted back to Sonia—her gentle hands, her quiet voice. He never stopped embroidering the handkerchiefs, always stitching the yellow bird into each one, a memory rendered in thread.
Years went by and Marius grew into a man who was feared and respected, his brutality contained by his cold, calculating mind. Nobody was brave enough to oppose him.
But the loneliness never left. Even surrounded by power, he found his thoughts drifting back to that garden and the girl who had smiled at him without malice.
He needed to see her again. To be reminded that the world could still hold warmth—even for someone like him.
And then, at a grand ball hosted by the imperial family, he saw her. Sonia Mitford—alive, radiant, her smile as captivating as ever.
His heart pounded. For the first time in years, something like happiness stirred within him.
To be continued