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Chapter 2

Penulis: Steam & Honey
I followed my ruined corpse all the way to the mass grave.

My limbs were twisted at unnatural angles, my body covered in crisscrossing bruises, my face drained of every drop of color—like a weed that had been stomped flat by a hundred boots.

Soon, a pack of mangy stray dogs caught the scent of fresh meat. Their eyes glowed hungry and green in the darkness as they circled in. At first, they just tugged at the edges of my clothes. Then one bolder mutt sank its teeth into my calf and ripped off a chunk of flesh.

The pain cut straight through to my soul. I screamed without thinking, trying to scare them off. "Get back! Don't touch me! Get away!"

But no one could hear me. My hands passed through their bodies every time I tried to shove them. All I could do was watch as those animals turned my flesh into a feast—tearing, gnawing, reducing me to something unrecognizable.

I remembered my father, after hearing of Matthew's death, pointing a finger at my face—every word a poison-tipped dagger. "Eli! I curse you to die a wretched death, with no body left to bury!"

So his curse really did come true.

I shut my eyes, too drained to feel anything but a hollow calm.

And then, something wrenched me upward. The world blurred past, wind screaming in my ears. When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the place I both knew and dreaded: home.

It was December 29th. The manor was strung with gold tinsel and paper snowflakes—every corner bright with seasonal cheer. But I felt no warmth. The festive colors only burned my eyes, sharp and unsettling.

I drifted through the frozen courtyard and toward my father's study. He wasn't in his own room, though—he was next door, in Matthew's old quarters.

Everything in the courtyard was kept just as Matthew had left it. Spotless. As if its owner had only stepped out for a moment and would be back any second.

Father sat at the desk, holding one of Matthew's favorite possessions—a vintage fountain pen—polishing it with a white silk handkerchief. His movements were so gentle, so tender, like he was handling something priceless.

In the candlelight, his profile looked gentle. There was even a sad little smile on his lips.

"Matthew, my sweet boy. Soon, it'll be New Year's again. Don't you worry—that cursed wretch who brought you harm, I've made him pay. He's in the filthiest place, living the lowest life, suffering for you day and night."

His voice was light, almost like he was humming a lullaby. But the words cut deeper than any blade.

"You can rest in peace now."

My ghost trembled in the air, nearly coming apart. So even after my death, even in my father's mind, I was still nothing but a doomed curse—and my suffering was nothing but an offering to comfort his dead son.

Just then, Old George, the family butler, came in carrying a steaming bowl of nutritional broth. George had watched us boys grow up—and he was the only soul in this cold house who'd ever shown me any kindness.

"Master, it's late," he said, setting the bowl down. "Have something warm to keep the chill off."

He couldn't bear to see his master in this state. He worked up his courage and added, "Master, please—you can't go on like this. Young Master Eli is your flesh and blood too. It's been over a year since he left. We have not received a word from him. You really ought to send someone to look for him..."

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  • The House of Ash and Guilt   Chapter 8

    Every word out of Matthew's mouth was a blade, slicing into my father's heart one cut at a time.I watched the color drain from his face—he looked paler than I'd been in death. He stumbled backward, crashing into the display cabinet behind him. Delicate porcelain plates and crystal ornaments shattered across the floor like his own broken heart.The son he'd tortured to death, the son he'd hated with every fiber of his being—had been innocent all along. That devastating truth broke him completely."Aaaagh—!"A guttural, inhuman howl tore from his throat. He ran like a madman to the family shrine, grabbed my memorial plaque, and began slapping himself across the face with both hands, as hard as he could.The sharp, wet sounds echoed through the empty hall. His face swelled and reddened, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. But he didn't stop. He couldn't feel it."Eli... my poor son, Eli... I've failed you... I was blind..."I was wrong... let me pay with my life... pleas

  • The House of Ash and Guilt   Chapter 7

    But that revelation planted a seed—invisible, poison-tipped—between my father and Matthew.Without even realizing it, he began comparing me to Matthew. And those comparisons became a slow, silent torture between the father and son.After Matthew returned, he'd grown accustomed to being pampered. Money burned a hole in his pocket. One day, he wanted a new thoroughbred imported from the West; the next, it was a robe tailored from the finest silk fresh from the looms.My father stared at the mounting bills from the accountant—each one thicker than the last—until he finally snapped. "Matthew, our household expenses are getting out of hand. You need to be more careful. Eli never wasted a penny. He'd patch his own clothes until they were more stitches than fabric, rather than ask for new ones."Matthew was in front of the mirror, trying on a new jeweled coronet. He pouted, clearly annoyed. "Father, that was Eli. I'm not him! Besides, my benefactor said she'll cover all my expenses fr

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    It was nothing more than a pile of gnawed, scattered bones, with a few scraps of ragged cloth still clinging to them—barely recognizable as a human form.George fainted on the spot.The servants carefully gathered my remains in a clean white sheet and carried them back to the manor.When that heavy bundle of bones was laid before my father, even his iron heart couldn't help but recoil. He stumbled back several steps, face drained of color, stomach churning.He'd never imagined—not in his worst nightmares—that his own flesh and blood would come back to him like this. Broken. Violated. Reduced to filth.There was no grief in him. Just the panic of something spinning out of his control—and revulsion at being confronted with such dirty, disgusting remains.When it came time to settle my affairs, my father had to go to the county clerk's office to officially close my records.The clerk on duty was a chatty sort. Glancing at the file, he remarked casually, "Mr. Duncan? Oh, right—you'r

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    The wild joy on my father's face froze instantly—like a bucket of ice water had been thrown over him.His jaw clenched. Every word came out through gritted teeth, dripping with venom. "Don't you dare mention that cursed wretch! I sold him to the brothel to pay for your suffering! He got exactly what he deserved!"Matthew went pale, as if the news had struck him like a blow. Tears spilled down his cheeks without warning. He clutched at my father's sleeve, sobbing. "Father! How could you! Eli was innocent! He only lost me by accident—he didn't deserve this! Please—go get him back! I'm begging you!"He wept and pleaded with such heart-wrenching sincerity—the picture of a loving, compassionate brother.If I weren't already dead, if I hadn't been watching it all unfold with my own eyes, I might have been moved by his performance.I stared at him coldly.'Matthew, Matthew. You play your part so well. So well, in fact, that you almost believe it yourself.'Day after day, Matthew crie

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    Just then, a commotion erupted at the front gate—followed by the butler's frantic, stumbling announcement.A lavish carriage had pulled up to the door, its polished walnut body inlaid with mother-of-pearl and gemstones that glittered in the lantern light. The curtain was pushed aside by a well-manicured hand, a gold signet ring gleaming on the finger. A young man stepped out, assisted by two servants, dressed in embroidered gold brocade and wearing a jeweled circlet.I'd recognize that face anywhere—even if it turned to ash.It was Matthew, my brother, who was supposed to be dead for over a year. The brother I'd given my life to atone for.He was back. Alive. Radiant. Dressed like a true prince of nobility.I hung there in the air, struck dumb as if by a bolt of lightning. My ghost trembled on the verge of unraveling.I was dead. I'd been sold to the brothel, tortured beyond measure, devoured by dogs until nothing was left of me. And all of it—every last shred of suffering, every

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    Before George could finish, Father snatched up the bowl of broth and hurled it to the floor—bowl, soup, and all."Shut your mouth!"He shot to his feet, eyes bloodshot like a raging lion—all trace of his earlier tenderness gone. "He is not my flesh and blood! He's the monster who killed Matthew! He's my enemy! I'd eat his flesh and sleep on his hide if I could! Say one more word about him in my presence, and you can pack your things and get the hell out of this house!"George went pale as a sheet. He dropped to his knees, too terrified to utter another word.I drifted above, perched on the carved wooden beam, watching it all with cold eyes.Of course, my father wouldn't look for me. He wanted me dead—the worse, the better.It had always been this way.I remembered when I was seven. Matthew had just received a new emerald pendant—a tribute from some foreign merchant. It was worth a small fortune. He treasured it like gold.The next day, it was gone.Matthew came crying to Fathe

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