As Pius' bodiless head lay on the marble floor, the light fading from his eyes, his life unspooled like a cruel play he was forced to watch.
He was not always this way.
He had been the second son of Richard, the 18th Lord of Shantel, born beneath good omens, bright-eyed and gentle-hearted. His elder brother, Josiah, was destined to inherit their father's mantle, while Pius was meant to grow into a trusted support. For a time, that was enough.
But everything changed the day his mother died.
Her passing carved something hollow in him, a wound that no comfort could fill. His father mourned. His brother mourned. But Pius, he heard a voice.
At first it whispered in the dark, a phantom murmur against the silence of grief. If it had stayed a torment, perhaps he could have endured it. But it grew. It commanded. It warped. It urged his hand to cruelty.
And Pius obeyed.
