Malrik's second year brought a widening of his world, though it was a world steeped in disdain. He was no longer confined to the nursery, but his movements within the ducal estate were heavily restricted, his presence tolerated rather than accepted. He became intimately acquainted with the complex social web of the ducal household, a world teeming with relatives, servants, and sycophants, all united in their contempt for the Duke's strange, unwanted son.
His step-siblings were his primary tormentors. Duke Gareth's children from his first marriage, Lord Elian and Lady Seraphina, were a study in contrasts, yet united in their dislike of Malrik. Elian, the heir, was a mirror of his father's cruelty, tall and athletic, with a sneering charm that masked a vicious heart. He saw Malrik not only as an affront but as a rival, a чужой who dared to share his father's name and potentially his inheritance.
"Look at the little ghost," Elian would sneer, his voice echoing through the grand halls, "Creeping around like a shadow. Does he even speak? Or has the cat got his tongue?"
His taunts were relentless, a constant barrage of insults and humiliations, designed to remind Malrik of his place at the bottom of the social hierarchy.
Seraphina, outwardly more delicate, possessed a more subtle cruelty. She rarely engaged with Malrik directly, but her disdain was evident in every averted gaze, every dismissive gesture. She treated him as if he were a stain on the family tapestry, a blemish to be ignored.
"He's not like us," she once whispered to a visiting cousin, her voice laced with distaste, loud enough for Malrik to hear. "He's... different. It's unsettling."
The cousins, a sprawling network of lesser nobles who infested the estate like parasites, were equally vicious. They saw Malrik as an easy target, a convenient outlet for their own petty frustrations and insecurities. Their visits were a constant ordeal, filled with their mocking laughter and cruel games.
"Is it true the babe can't even speak properly?" one cousin, a hulking brute named Gregor, would bellow, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. "Perhaps he's a simpleton. A curse upon the Duke's lineage!"
Their words were like knives, each one carefully crafted to wound and demean.
The servants, for the most part, reflected the attitudes of their masters. They avoided Malrik, their faces turning away as he passed, their whispers following him like a dark cloud. He was seen as an ill omen, a child touched by darkness, and they wanted nothing to do with him.
The head housekeeper, a stern woman named Mrs. Adler, would address him only when necessary, her voice cold and clipped. "Boy," she would snap, "Don't loiter in the corridors. You're in the way."
Even the lowliest scullery maid felt entitled to treat him with contempt.
Only a few dared to show him any kindness. Old Elmsworth, the ancient steward, sometimes watched him with a sad, knowing look, his silence a stark contrast to the venom around them. But even he offered no words of comfort, only cryptic mutterings that hinted at dark prophecies and forgotten sins.
Mara, the young kitchen maid, remained his sole source of solace. She risked the wrath of her fellow servants to slip him scraps of food and offer a few stolen moments of warmth. But even her kindness was tinged with fear.
"You should have been smothered at birth," she once whispered, her eyes wide with a morbid fascination. "They say you're not natural, that you bring a chill to this house. But you ain't evil, are you? Just... alone."
His interactions with his father, Duke Gareth, were a study in cold indifference. Gareth made no secret of his displeasure, viewing Malrik as a burden and an embarrassment.
"He is a constant reminder of my weakness," he snarled at a visiting dignitary, his voice dripping with resentment. "My late wife was too fragile, her bloodline diluted. And this... this thing is the result."
The dignitary, Lord Harrington, a man as cruel and ambitious as Gareth himself, merely nodded, his gaze sweeping over Malrik with a predatory gleam. "A pity," he murmured, his smile sharp and cold. "But perhaps the boy will yet prove useful. In time."
Malrik, though young, understood the implications of their words. He was a tool, a pawn in their game of power, and his own feelings were of no consequence. He was the the outsider, the despised one, and his only value lay in his potential to serve their purposes.