The years passed in a whirlwind of isolation, pain and loneliness. Perhaps it would have been better if I had spoken, but I refused to give in to him.

Or so I told myself.

Perhaps my voice was already lost to me by then. I doubt I will ever know for sure. In the end, all I could do was suffer in silence, telling myself that I wouldn't give in to my mother's murderer. Eventually, I forgot that I'd ever had a voice.

My father, however, never forgot that I had a voice he'd never heard. He never forgot how I refused to obey him, or that I was my mother's son before his. If at first he simply disdained me, in time he grew to truly loathe me. Instead of trying to tame me, he would call me to his study just to beat me, like he did the night we first met. As he vented his rage on my body, he would tell me over and over again what a disappointment I was. Disappointing. Worthless. Pathetic.

Slowly, I began to believe him.

There were times when I'd be locked in my room and starved for days as punishment for some supposed act of defiance. When I was finally released, I'd be reminded that I could have a good life, if only I would speak and obey. 

Sometimes, he would give me to the black haired man, Albrecht.

My stepmother, the Duchess, didn’t want to lay eyes upon me at all and avoided my presence at all times. It was one of the few things I had to be grateful for. My sister, on the other hand, took great pleasure in tormenting her mute bastard brother, who would be the offical heir to the duchy she wanted for herself. I avoided her as much as my stepmother avoided me. 

My bedroom, located in a secluded wing of their home, was incomparably more luxurious than my room in my mother's house, but was nothing more than a gilded prison. The large canopied bed was plush and soft, the decor immaculate and beautiful, but all I saw were the metal bars on the windows that reminded me I was a prisoner, not a guest. 

I came of age during my fourth year in that house. My birthday was no longer an occasion I cared to celebrate, but my father insisted on throwing a grand banquet to celebrate my eighteenth year. After all, he had to keep up appearances. In the weeks leading up to the banquet, I was given a rare reprieve from his constant violence, but only so the southern nobles wouldn't see my bruises. 

It all seemed like a pointless farce to me. I had never understood why a male heir was so important to him. My sister would have gladly taken my place, but my father's pride wouldn't allow him to adopt a son in law and pass the duchy to her. Even though I was an obvious failure, my father had obsessed over having a son of his blood for so long that he couldn't let it go. His stubbornness persisted beyond reason, despite the constant pleas of his wife and daughter to just get rid of me.

At my birthday banquet, I was introduced to the high ranking nobles of the duchy one by one, seated in my chair of honor. They must have been warned that I couldn't speak, because no one batted an eye when I didn't respond to their well wishes. 

For my part, I had been instructed to sit, smile, and not make a fuss, with a clear warning of what would happen to me if I disobeyed. And so, one after another, the southern nobles approached me, offering me joyous tidings for my coming of age, trying to curry favor for when I became Duke. I nodded silently to all of them and did my best not to scowl, all the while feeling disgusted by their obvious pandering.

That night, it was the knights who had brought me to Ramport four years earlier that were standing guard at the doors of the banquet hall. To outsiders, they appeared to be the proud protectors of my father, the Duke, and his family. But I knew the truth: they were the thugs who did my father's dirty work.

Growing up, I had thought that knights were chivalrous and kind men who protected and served their Lord, but those men had shattered that illusion; they were nothing but monsters who enjoyed causing pain. Perhaps by design, or perhaps not, they served as a stark reminder of where I came from, and that I was just a prisoner who had to act in accordance with the will of his captor.

Except for that banquet, I was rarely allowed to leave the isolated wing where my bedroom was located. My food, when I received it, was delivered to me there. With the exception of the servants, who ignored me, and my family, who I would have been happy to never see, I didn't have any interaction with the outside world for years.

In all that time, I never once allowed myself the luxury of succumbing to my grief. If I was to survive, I couldn't waste my time on things like tears and mourning. So I took all of it and locked it away, deep in the depths of my mind, beyong the veil of the fog. I promised myself that one day I would set them free. One day, when I found the freedom I longed for, when I was free to be Falyn again. Then, and only then, would I be allowed to cry.