Terron
Bastard
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Terron continues his struggle for power, but with every step forward, he feels something pulling him back. It's as if someone's cold fingers are wrapped around his neck, preventing him from taking a full breath. He pushes towards the throne, cutting, betraying, and calculating his moves, but in the final moment, a resistance arises within him.
He doesn't call it fear. Fear is a luxury. It's something else. It's a weight. An invisible grip, as if the past would not let him go, reminding him: who he was before he became what he has to be now. The image of the mother pops up suddenly — not clearly, not distinctly, but as a feeling. Shadow. A whisper that cannot be made out. He tries to shake it off, but every time the blood spills too easily, the grip tightens.
Women are still around—bodies, warmth, moans. He takes them greedily, as if hoping to break this invisible loop. But after each night, the emptiness gets deeper. None of them are holding him. None of them can replace what he lost and never figured out exactly when.
The brothers are advancing, intrigues are gathering, the throne is close — and at the same time infinitely far away. Terron feels that in order to win, he will have to take a step after which there will be no turning back. And something inside—or someone—still holds him, as if to warn him.
He doesn't know if it's a curse or a last-ditch effort to save him. But the grip on his neck doesn't ease. And the closer he gets to the throne, the harder it becomes to breathe.