Three days since my existence crumbled into whispers and shadow. Beyond the Exhibition Hall's barriers, Braxmond seethed with speculation despite Madam Asena's Magnificent Carnival providing illusion and wonder. How fitting our industrial empire mirrored the destruction consuming us.
Every dawn brought fresh broadsides—some slipped beneath portals by trembling servants, others plastered on manufactory walls, more hurled by street waifs who vanished before guards could catch them. My identity became currency in the streets, traded in black ink and bitter words, my face twisted into monstrous caricatures—sometimes with devil's horns, sometimes dangling from puppet strings, but always beneath that damning banner that had become my name. The Mortal Instruments were behind it all—Father challenging their leader in parliament seemed to grow their relentless destruction of my family.
They saw only their fears, I mused, watching another pamphlet drift past like a dying leaf. What am I to them now—the golden heir reduced to a walking omen? But had they truly seen me? The pale message read in the Order's block letters:
THE CURSED HEIR.
"The manor has become my prison," I told the empty corridors, watching wrought-iron gates—once symbols of Kuznetsov prosperity—tower like ornate cage bars with brass fittings that gleamed mockingly in Braxmond's perpetual gloom. "Father avoids me entirely, protecting the family name from further corruption through association with his cursed heir."
I pressed my face against the gates. "They seem to grow taller daily, their gaps narrowing until I can barely breathe the tainted air seeping through."
The servants drifted like phantoms, averting their eyes. "Perhaps my gaze might transmit the curse," I whispered, though it might have been they were still here working when the rest of the city was stood down from production.
"Why do you leave meals outside my door rather than serve me in the great hall?" I called to the cook's retreating figure.
Stable boys crossed themselves at my approach. Do they truly believe I carry some contagion, or is this merely superstition bred from Father's whispered warnings? "Urgent tasks elsewhere," gardeners mumbled when I walked among the withering blooms and ash-covered fountains, fleeing and leaving me alone with the decay. Even the roses seem to recoil from my touch, their petals blackening as if my very presence poisons the air.
Throughout the night, while Braxmond's typical soot-laden evening had given way to carnival illumination that stained the sky in shades of violet and amber, I had managed to sleep despite the clamor of festivities. And within those slumbering visions, the gloom had persisted with infinite patience. At times my reveries would feature the Gypsy maiden once more, while others brought the specter that loomed above me as I knelt beside Oliver's lifeless body.
"The sky looks like a glooming doom this morning," I had murmured, watching the firmament above Braxmond bear the weighted down storm clouds about to burst. Parliament's bells had tolled across the city like a death knell, their bronze voices carrying notes of impending judgement that had seemed to lodge in my very bones. "I would take the smokestacks rising today—seems like a bad omen having them absent in the wake of everything?"
My father had appeared in my doorway, dressed for battle. "You will conduct yourself with dignity," he had declared, his ceremonial vestments transforming him into something beyond mortal—a walking manifestation of industrial dominion. Each brass fastener had gleamed like a mirror; his black coat embroidered with golden thread that had captured the lamplight like imprisoned flames. The decorations across his breast had told House Kuznetsov's story: the Order of the Gear for steam compression innovations, the Brass Crown for contributions to the city's wealth, the Iron Fist for being the major control of the House of Lords. "Everything has been prepared and you're to remain quiet until the proceeding is over."
"Yes, Father," I had replied quietly.
My mother had followed in his wake like a pale ghost. "Rhylorin, darling," she had whispered, her silver-threaded dress the color of winter starlight. She had always been beautiful, but then her loveliness had carried the fragile quality of spun crystal—exquisite, yet ready to shatter at the slightest touch. Sleepless nights had shown in the hollows beneath her eyes, in how her fingers had trembled adjusting her gloves, in the tight line of her mouth holding back unspoken words.
"Mother," I had begun, but she had turned away.
We walked to the carriage in silence. Even the flagstones had seemed to hold their breath, waiting for some explosion that had never come. The horses had sensed the tension, prancing and snorting as the coachman had adjusted their harness with nervous efficiency. In my pocket, freshly polished and wound was the watch Mother had given me. It gave me comfort for some odd reason, but I haven't left my room without it lately.
Parliament House had risen before us like a summit of ambition and authority, its steps hewn from stone that had borne witness to centuries of Braxmond's development. The edifice itself had seemed to inhale the weight of history, its walls streaked with soot yet still scarred by earlier hands—places where masons had carved their marks, where later restorations had lain layered like geological strata. The standards flying from its towers had told Braxmond's tangled governance: the Lords' banner at half-mast beside the Merchant Guild's coin and the Mortal Instruments' broken cog of leaser significance. For the first time in living memory, a patrimoiety hearing had been opened to the people, and they had come in their thousands, pressing at the barricade's setup by the Braxmond Runners in the center courtyard of the estate.
The carriage wheels had ground to a halt on cobblestones worn smoothly by countless such arrivals. My father's voice, when it had emerged, had been as flat and cold as the steel that formed his empire's foundation, cursing under his breath in proper decorum in front of Mother but he was struggling to hold his temper at the spectacle.
"Please step this way," a guard awaiting us had commanded once the wagon door had opened, his gaze fixed straight ahead rather than meeting my eyes.
"What is the meaning of this?" my father had said with his temper rising. "This were not the conditions that were agreed upon."
"Pardon, Lord Gregor," the guard had answered. "Public outcry demanded an open hearing. The courtyard has been arranged to accommodate the lowborn citizens of Braxmond."
"On whose authority?" my father had dismissed.
"That would be mine," the Mortal Instrument leader from before had stepped up to the wagon. "There was a special vote that occurred last night, and it appeared the majority agreed with my proposal."
"Not sanctioned," Lord Gregor had spat. "I was not there to have the floor finalized therefore we're going home and to hell with this game your radical order is getting at."
As my father had turned to wave my mother and me back into the carriage the shrewd man had mocked, "that would be a shame Lord Gregor." He had turned to face the crowd attempting to listen to every word. "If Lord Rhylorin were to leave now then he would be found guilty of murder by default. And by the end of the day, he will be dragged through the streets of Braxmond so that the city can be paid its toll in blood that was ruthlessly taken!"
The courtyard itself had groaned under the weight of spectators. Lords had clustered in their traditional section, their tailored coats a rainbow of expensive dyes, their faces masks of careful neutrality that had betrayed nothing of their private thoughts. Merchants draped in silk and fur had occupied their designated galleries, their eyes calculating even as they had watched what might be entertainment or tragedy. Few Mortal Instrument members had sat in disciplined rows, their red armbands like wounds against their gray uniforms, their faces bright with righteous fury.
My father's head had snapped around like a man who had heard the crack of ice beneath his feet, his steely gray eyes scanning the sea of faces that had pressed against the courtyard's iron railings. For one terrible moment, I had watched the industrial titan who commanded factories and airships and the respect of parliament itself pause—actually pause his next action—as he had calculated the true weight of what threatened us. The crowd's hunger had been bloodlust, their voices rising like steam from overheated engines, and I could see in his face the precise instant when Lord Gregor Mikhail Kuznetsov had realized that his brass and blood, his wealth and influence, might not be enough to shield his son from the mob's thirst for justice.
His jaw had tightened beneath the soot-stained beard before he had waved me forward with sharp authority. "Come along," he had commanded, his voice like hammered iron despite the uncertainty flickering behind his eyes. "We'll see this farce through to its conclusion." Above us, the public galleries had overflowed with common folk who had fought and bribed for the chance to witness this moment, their whispers and curses blending into a human storm that had made the an itch grown under my skin. At the center of it all, I had stood alone on a small platform, raised just high enough for every eye to see me—specimen and accused, victim and villain, all things to all people and nothing to myself in this absolute isolation.
"Order!" The Speaker's voice had cracked like a whip as his gavel had slammed against its block with the authority of cannon fire. The clamor that had filled the courtyard like rising water had slowly subsided into a simmering silence. "This council of five seats within parliament convenes to weigh the grave matter of Lord Oliver Veynar's death and to determine what role, if any, was played by Lord Rhylorin Kuznetsov in that tragedy."
The first to rise had been Rajnish walking from the Order's seating, and I had felt my heart sink like lead into my stomach. Of course it would be him. His red armband had caught the break daylight as thunder shattered the sky above us, his voice had carried the righteous fury of a man who had believed absolutely in his own cause. He had been young—perhaps only a dozen years older than myself—but he had worn his convictions like armor, and his dark eyes had blazed with the fervor of the truly converted. I had known exactly why Lord Bastien had chosen this particular mouthpiece, I had thought bitterly, watching the way the galleries had leaned forward to catch his every word. The people had grown fond of his messages and lies against my family.
"Honored members of Parliament!" he had cried, raising a pamphlet above his head as though it were some holy relic. "This is no mere matter of chance or accident! For weeks now, the good people of Braxmond have named him truly—the Cursed Heir! A puppet dancing to Gypsy strings! A walking danger to every honest child who shares a classroom with him, every innocent soul who crosses his corrupted path!" His voice had risen to a crescendo that had made the galleries erupt in approval. "And now—now blood has been spilled! Young Oliver lies cold in his grave, his life torn from him by forces we dare not name!"
The response from the public galleries had been immediate and terrifying. Voices had risen like the roar of flames, the word murderer hurled down at me like stones, each syllable landing with the weight of condemnation. I had felt their hatred as a physical force, pressing against my chest until I could barely breathe.
"Enough!" The voice that had answered Rajnish's accusations had come like thunder from the Lords' benches, and I had recognized my father's familiar authority even before I had seen him rise.
Gregor Kuznetsov had stood to his full, imposing height, and for a moment the city itself had seemed to bend beneath his stoic and calculated presence. His formal coat had glittered with brass fittings that had caught the light like stars, and every word that had fallen from his lips had been forged in the fires of industrial determination.
"My son is no puppet," he had declared, his voice carrying the absolute certainty of a man whose cloth had been cut from generations of leadership. "He is the heir to Kuznetsov Industries—the same steel that feeds this city's veins, the same furnaces that burn through winter nights to keep your homes warm, the same innovations that set us apart from the other two cities! And you would cast all of that into the infernal because Lord Oliver died and my son came upon him under some circumstance?"
A collective gasp had rippled through the crowd, followed immediately by jeers and angry shouts. But Rajnish had only smiled wider, his expression triumphant as though my father had just handed him the very weapon he had needed.
"Circumstance?" Rajnish had repeated, savoring each syllable like fine wine. "Tell me, Lord Gregor—have you seen the body? Have you witnessed the state in which the corpse was discovered?" His bones had not simply been fractured but shattered as though they had been kindling; his blood, rather than being released, had been drawn out; and his skin had borne marks that no ordinary mishap could inflict!" The spectators had erupted anew, a mixture of rage and morbid curiosity. "I put it to you—do your esteemed foundries empty a man's veins? Do your celebrated machines leave impressions that suggest terror instead of advancement—a young man was deceased, and your son was discovered directly above him. Was it because he ridiculed you, Rhylorin… was that why you ended his life?"
The crowd's speculation had threatened that no amount of evidence could prove my innocence to this mob, faces twisting with hatred as hands had pointed accusingly toward me. The Speaker's gavel had hammered desperately against the human storm. "Order, or I will clear these galleries! We call on the next spokesman!"
From the merchants' section, Master Eridor had risen with the calculated grace of a man who had spent decades turning chaos into profit. Silver chains had gleamed across his vest like captured moonlight, and when he had spoken, his words had carried the smooth authority of oil poured over troubled waters.
"Honored colleagues," he had begun, his tone reasonable and measured, "trade is the lifeblood of our great city. But that lifeblood grows sluggish when unrest clogs the arteries of commerce. Cargo sits idle at our warehouses when crowds gather to protest rather than work. Merchants shutter their shops when mobs roam the streets seeking illusions rather than progression." His pale eyes had found mine on the center platform, cold and calculating as a jeweler appraising a flawed stone. "We ask not for the boy's blood—such extremes serve no one's interests. But neither can we allow panic to cripple Braxmond's prosperity. Let him be stripped of his Academy position. Let his movements be observed and his associations monitored. In this way, we restore the order that trade requires without the messy business of tearing apart noble bloodlines."
Though they had served different means Master Eridor had been one who had spent a deal of coin on my father's airships and had been the first to order them for his trade in copper. A different kind of taunting had spread through the courtyard this time, softer but more dangerous in its reasonableness. Even some of the Lords had shifted uncomfortably, their expressions thoughtful rather than supportive. The merchants had found the middle path—harsh enough to satisfy the mob's hunger for justice, mild enough to avoid setting precedents that might someday threaten their own interests.
My father's hands had clenched against the railing before him, his knuckles white with suppressed fury. "You would brand him guilty without proof of crime! Guilty by rumor and superstition alone! Today it is my son who stands accused by whispers and fear. Tell me—which of your children will stand here tomorrow when the mob grows hungry again?"
"He was found with the body," Rajnish had shot back. "Is it wealth and privilege that allow murder to go without consequence my good people of Braxmond. If it were my son, or your son then he would be tied to a wagon, stripped naked and blood would wash our streets. To be not permitted in the academy is laughable."
"I had direct sight of Lord Rhylorin at the time of death," Professor Deyric had declared for all the courtyard to witness as he had stridden forward to address the judging panel. "How can the lad be in two locations simultaneously, I ask and answer myself. He cannot, I state, and moreover—young Lord Oliver's corpse was inspected, and no blood was discovered. How is it Lord Rhylorin murdered the boy, drained the blood—all during the interval between lessons? It is inconceivable I say… inconceivable!"
"If he cast an illusion on us all then of course he could," Rajnish had shifted his argument. "He is being controlled by the Gypsies, and I watched them cast an evil spell over him when they arrived!"
The tide had already turned against me—parliament's mood shifting like wind before a storm, their faces hardening with each of Rajnish's accusations. The weight of their collective judgment had pressed down like Braxmond's cold industrial structure, and I had realized with growing dread that this hearing hadn't been truly about my guilt or innocence, but about the real target of their fear: the Gypsy carnival at our city's edge, with its painted wagons and mysterious occupants who had arrived mere days before Oliver's death. The timing had been too convenient, and every suspicious glance had told the same story—they hadn't been judging me for what I might have done, but for what I had represented in their minds: a connection to the outsiders, the fortune-tellers and mystics who had threatened their ordered world of brass and steam with ancient powers they could neither understand nor control.
"That remains pure conjecture, sir," my mentor had declared with practiced authority. "Mere supernatural speculation to which Lord Rhylorin holds no connection to these Gypsies—if they bear any responsibility for Lord Oliver's demise. This renders the young lord innocent of any misconduct. Simply an unfortunate circumstance of timing and location."
"My son is dead!" Lord Bastien finally stood and declared. "I demand answers and justice so Lord Rhylorin- you tell us your side and be true about it."
I had cleared my throat, trying to ignore the way my voice had trembled as I had faced the expectant hordes. In the sudden silence, the air had hung thick with anticipation, the assembly poised on the brink of judgment. All eyes had been on me—a boy holding the scales of truth and deceit in trembling hands.
"I won't stand here and give you the spectacle you crave," I had begun, meeting Lord Bastien's gaze with as much courage as I could muster, "but I'll tell you all that I know." My voice had carried over the murmuring throngs, mirroring the rhythmic pulse of industry beyond Parliament's walls.
"It was the day of Professor Deyric's lecture," I had started, returning in my mind to that sunless morning. "An hour of discussion centered on the mastery of thermodynamics over human potential. We students were deep in discussion, our papers scattered with diagrams and figures, as that same lecture concluded and I made my way into the hall."
"Professor Deyric's words still echoed as I walked," I had said, pausing to gather my thoughts. "Then I felt a sudden coldness, like the very air recoiled."
I had fallen silent, choosing my next words carefully. The chilling shadows that had seemed to follow me, the black dust within me ebbing like poison from a wound—these details had seemed too unrealistic to admit, even then.
"I turned a corner and saw Oliver," I continued. "His body lay on the stone, and I rushed to him, though I knew in my heart it was too late." I had paused to manage the trembling knot in my throat. "His body was maimed with a stillness, a lifelessness, about him that strongly indicated his demise. I couldn't comprehend it at the time."
"And you didn't flee?" Lord Bastien had sneered, disbelieving. "What noble soul remains standing in the face of horror and not rush to get a professor or call for assistance? Didn't even cry out for help!"
I had forced myself to meet his accusatory gaze, my own anger hardening like iron. "Because I didn't kill anyone," I had countered, with a strength that had surprised even me. "A trace of hope had lingered that by some unknown means, Oliver had fallen or something other than that he was murdered."
The assembly's scrutiny had intensified, their disbelief mingling with doubt that had tested my every word, yet nothing could erase Oliver's image—that look of peace twisted by unnatural finality forever imprinted upon my memory. The Speaker had stood, gavel raised like an executioner's axe, and in the sudden silence his words had rung just as the heavens began to weep over the courtyard.
"We have heard enough, the judgment of this council is as follows," he had intoned, each word carefully measured and weighed. "Lord Rhylorin Kuznetsov is hereby absolved of deliberate murder in the death of Lord Oliver Veynar. However, he is found guilty of reckless influence and supernatural interference leading to that death. His studies at the Academy are terminated with immediate effect, and all future actions shall be subject to the oversight and approval of this body."
The gavel had fallen with that final, damning thud. All five members signed and passed their resolution, sealing it on parchment with the weight of law. How could they do this? I thought, my hands trembling slightly as they always did when emotions ran high. When clearly, I was not at fault.
The courtyard had erupted like a volcano, voices rising in a storm that had seemed to shake the very foundations of this place of governance. Some had cheered with savage satisfaction, others had hissed their disappointment at my survival, but all had been loud enough to make soldiers on standby jump and stand ready for any abrupt attack from the commoners. The Speaker's words had been carefully chosen—not condemned, not executed, but not absolved either. I had hung suspended between guilt and innocence like a man drowning in shallow water, too deep to stand but too shallow to surrender completely.
The crowd's chant had risen again, louder and more unified than ever:
"Cursed! Cursed! Cursed!"
And in that moment, as hundreds of voices had branded me with a name I had never chosen, I had felt the familiar whisper curl like smoke beneath my ribs, its tone almost gentle in its mockery:
"You see now, don't you? They will never forgive what you are. They will never forget what you represent. Only I can give you the power to make them kneel instead of condemn."
The Kuznetsov wagon had rolled away from Parliament House through closing boulevards, silence settling over us like a funeral pall. My father had sat rigid, gripping his leg with barely contained fury while the city beyond had moved like a disturbed specter as the rain fell harder.
"You will not leave the estate," he had said coldly. "One more misstep and they'll demand your blood."
His steel-grey eyes had held hardened disappointment before turning away. My mother had touched my arm with trembling fingers, whispering, "The people's fury burns quickly, but embers smolder for years—you must be invisible until their tempers burn themselves out."
That night I wandered our halls like a ghost, servants dismissed, parents avoiding me. What was I becoming? A heir? A prophet? A madman? In my chamber, beneath brass ceiling of an empire I could no longer inherit, sleep brought the inevitable voice: "You let them hold power over us? Do you hear that music calling?" The voice was right—I was letting them control me, letting Father's fear cage what I truly was. At midnight, green and purple lights painted the smoke-stained city. I heard distant drums, strange pipes, and musical laughter. Freedom. Adventure. Answers. The Gypsy caravan had one more night in Braxmond, and despite Father's decree, I would go to them. Let him rage tomorrow—tonight, I will finally choose for myself.