Chapter 3: The One Who Suffers

“I’m easy to talk with, my dear sons. You just need to find the last person who carries the blood of Moretti. That will be your final mission... but for now,” the matriarch of the house said, her voice smooth yet laced with authority as she raised a hand to signal her people.

Without hesitation, her guards stepped forward and seized the two sons, Jaxon and Dorian. Their expressions were unreadable—whether out of defiance or resignation, it was hard to tell under the dim lighting of the room.

“I just want to enjoy myself,” she continued with a wicked smile, her eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. The sharp click of her heels echoed through the marble floor as she turned away, her voice like silk over steel.

“Bring them to my pen,” she ordered coldly. “I want to entertain myself by watching them fight. Let them spill blood if they must.”

She slowly waved a piece of black paper in the air, the edges glinting faintly under the chandelier’s light.

“The prize for this little show... the invitation to the Aihara Annual Auction House,” she added, her tone soaked in satisfaction as she watched her sons being dragged away, like pawns in her grand, twisted game.

“Just surrender now, Dorian. We both know I’m the strongest,” Jaxon said proudly, a smirk playing on his lips as he rolled his shoulders, stepping confidently into the center of the arena. “You’re nothing but a weak piece of shit when it comes to this.”

Dorian let out a quiet sigh, his eyes heavy with disinterest rather than fear. He didn’t want to waste his energy on something so meaningless. He already knew the truth—this wasn’t about proving who was stronger. Their mother thrived on chaos, on violence. She longed to see blood spill between her own sons, to be entertained by the very cruelty she cultivated.

This fight wasn’t about power or legacy. Everyone knew that Jaxon was the favored one—the chosen heir to the Gates bloodline, groomed to lead, trained to destroy. Dorian was merely the other piece on the board, there for balance, for contrast, for cruelty.

“No… I don’t like that,” Dorian said quietly, his voice tinged with disdain. He looked at Jaxon not with fear, but with pity. “You’re making everything boring, Jaxon.”

Their mother’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.

“Carlos! Ten slashes for Jaxon,” she commanded without missing a beat, her voice rich with twisted pleasure.

Carlos, ever loyal and without hesitation, stepped forward. The sound of the whip slicing through the air filled the room, followed by the sharp crack of leather striking flesh. Jaxon gritted his teeth but didn’t scream, his pride refusing to give their mother the satisfaction.

The punishment wasn’t for disobedience—it was for making the game dull.

Each lash landed with brutal precision, echoing through the cold stone chamber like thunder. Blood began to bloom through the fabric of Jaxon’s shirt, dark red seeping across his back in angry lines. Yet he didn’t cry out—not once. His jaw clenched, his fists tightened, but he bore it with a twisted sense of pride, as if the pain proved his worth.

Dorian stood silently, watching. Not out of concern, but out of quiet observation. This was their world—where affection came in the form of punishments, and love was measured by how much pain one could endure.

Their mother sat back on her velvet throne, legs crossed elegantly, sipping a glass of deep red wine as if she were enjoying a show at the theater. Her eyes sparkled with perverse satisfaction.

“See, Dorian?” she said, almost playfully. “This is why your brother will always be superior. He takes pain like a man. He doesn't hide behind silence or principles.”

Dorian’s gaze shifted slowly toward her, calm and unreadable. “He takes pain like a dog being told to sit,” he said, voice low. “There’s a difference.”

A beat of silence followed. Carlos had stopped the slashing but still held the whip in his hand, waiting for further command.

The matriarch’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened.

“Oh, Dorian… you’ve always had that tongue,” she mused. “Sharp like your father’s. But look where it got him.”

That struck something. A flicker in Dorian’s eyes—fury restrained, buried deep under years of control. But still, he didn’t move. He just stood there, fists curled at his sides.

“Shall I entertain myself further?” she asked aloud, looking between her sons like they were pieces in her private coliseum. “Or will one of you give me something new to watch?”

Everyone fell silent.

And that silence—tense, thick, and suffocating—brought the matriarch a twisted kind of joy. Her smile widened, and a laugh, rich and cold, bubbled up from her throat.

“No one?” she said, voice lilting with mock disappointment. “Very well. Let’s continue the show.”

She rose slowly, her movements graceful and deliberate, every step commanding attention.

“Put them in the arena,” she ordered, waving her hand lazily. “I’ll follow after a minute.”

The guards responded without hesitation. They seized Jaxon and Dorian once again, dragging them through a narrow passage that led deep into the underground. The air grew colder with each step, the walls narrowing, lined with metal torches that flickered weakly in the dim corridor. The scent of rust, sweat, and dried blood lingered like a curse in the air.

Once they reached the underground chamber, the arena came into view—round, caged, and reeking of past violence. The guards shoved them inside without ceremony, the heavy gate clanging shut behind them.

Dorian made no resistance. He walked quietly to one corner and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze falling on Jaxon. His brother was standing, but barely—his body tense, breathing shallow, blood still dripping from the lashes across his back.

“Don’t you dare look at me, you weakling,” Jaxon snapped, his voice rough and low. “Like you pity me.”

Dorian tilted his head slightly, eyes calm. “I’m not,” he said coolly. “I’m happy to see you like that.”

But his words betrayed his truth.

Deep inside, beneath the layers of detachment he had mastered since childhood, Dorian felt something else—pity. Not for what Jaxon had done, but for what he had become. A brother twisted into a weapon, dancing for the approval of a mother who saw them as entertainment.

Still, Dorian didn’t show it. He never had. He had perfected the art of concealment—of masking every trace of weakness, every flicker of emotion. No one could read him. No one ever would.

Moments passed in strained silence.

The low hum of flickering torches cast long, dancing shadows across the arena walls. Jaxon paced like a wounded beast, trying to hide the tremble in his limbs, while Dorian remained still, eyes half-lidded, as if conserving every ounce of energy.

Then came the sound—heels clicking steadily against stone.

Slow. Purposeful.

The heavy iron doors creaked open, and the air shifted. The guards straightened immediately, tension rippling through the chamber as the matriarch stepped inside.

She descended the narrow staircase with regal poise, draped in a deep crimson gown that shimmered like freshly spilled blood. Her presence was undeniable—commanding, cruel, divine in her own wicked right.

“Ah,” she breathed, the corners of her mouth curling into a satisfied smile as she reached the viewing platform above the cage. “My lovely sons. How beautiful you look beneath this light… like beasts awaiting judgment.”

She rested her hands on the stone railing, leaning forward slightly to watch them better.

“Jaxon, still standing... how admirable,” she said mockingly, eyes glinting with pleasure. “And Dorian—always so composed. But tell me, which of you will earn my favor tonight?”

Neither of them responded.

That silence only made her more delighted.

“You see,” she continued, voice dripping with poisonous sweetness, “this isn't just about survival. It’s about devotion. Show me who truly deserves the Gates name. Show me who’s willing to stain their hands for my approval.”

She snapped her fingers.

The gate at the far side of the arena creaked open—and two long blades were tossed inside, clattering to the ground between the brothers.

“Begin,” she whispered, eyes gleaming. “Let the blood speak.”