Marcus’s words, intended to break me, instead ignited a cold fury. The old wounds still throbbed, but his callous disregard for truth, for Clara’s suffering, for the stolen lives, solidified my resolve.
“You’re wrong, Marcus,” I said, my voice low and firm. For the first time, I stood my ground, my gaze unwavering.
His smile faltered. He took a step back, sensing a shift. “Wrong about what, little brother? That you’re a nobody? That you’re nothing without me?”
“Wrong about what you’ve done to our family,” I countered.
I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket. My fingers closed around a worn, leather-bound book. It was small, unassuming, but its contents were devastating. My childhood diary.
I pulled it out, holding it up. “You claim I’m delusional. That this ‘entity’ is a metaphor. But you knew, didn’t you, Marcus? You knew what was under this building long before Aetheris.”
His eyes widened, a flicker of genuine shock crossing his face. He recognized the book. It was an object he had dismissed as childish nonsense decades ago.
“This is my diary,” I explained, my voice steady now. “I wrote in it every day. Even back then.”
I flipped to a dog-eared page, my finger tracing faded ink. “Entry, October 23rd, aged nine. ‘Marcus said the bad men under the old house want Mama’s dreams. He said he would help them. He made me promise not to tell.'”
The colour drained from Marcus’s face. He remembered. The specific date. The hushed conversation in our shared bedroom. The unspoken pact.
“You knew,” I pressed. “You actively participated in binding our own lineage to that thing. To feed it, in exchange for whatever dark power it promised you. Our family’s ‘mental breakdowns’ were never genetic. They were simply early manifestations of the severance, long before your microchips.”
He stared at the diary, then at me. The gaslighting, his primary weapon, had been turned against him. The past, meticulously documented by a forgotten child, was now undeniably present.
“No,” Marcus choked out, a raw, animal sound. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” I said, flipping to another page. “January 17th, aged twelve. ‘Marcus drew strange symbols today. He said they were for ‘prosperity.’ They looked like the ones from the old carvings in the basement wall.'”
His composure shattered. His eyes darted around the penthouse, desperate, looking for an escape, for a way to reassert control. He saw none.
With a sudden, desperate lunge, Marcus sprang across the room, his eyes wild. He grabbed my arm, his grip like steel.
“You won’t ruin this,” he hissed, his face contorted. “You won’t break my pact.”
He yanked me across the polished floor, towards a circular, slightly raised plate of etched metal in the center of the room. It was integrated seamlessly into the floor, almost invisible. The severance altar plate.
“You’ll join the others,” he snarled, shoving me with surprising force. “A clean, efficient mind-wipe. The quiet, worthless little brother, finally put to use!”
He tried to force me onto the plate, to activate it. I stumbled, my feet catching, but I resisted, twisting away, my hand still clutching my diary.
A silent, violent struggle ensued, desperate and brutal, between two brothers, the future of their family’s tortured legacy hanging in the balance.
➡️ Read CHAPTER 13 to continue the story
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