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To believe in destiny, one must also believe in succession. If plans and not paradox rule the world, then it must also be ordered, measured, paced out, first to last: If this. Then this.

Serge Ded Morzo knew nothing of the dancing lights and their history in the stars, but if someone told him they stood for loyalty, for duty, for immobility of faith. Then he would have easily believed it. For Serge, destiny was the vehicle for purpose, for reason. If this, then this. If he were born a Fetilsvell son, then he would know no other identity. If he were born a second son, then he would revere his brother, King Damitri the Second, as the heir. If he saw his father, his brother, or his kingdom being wronged, then he would defend them without regard for the cost. He would take a threat made against his family line as surely as if it were his own physical body in harm's way.

The methodology of purpose was for love and duty of family, of the monarchy, but it was more than that, wasn't it? If Serge truly believed in succession, then it was being the firstborn that drove him entirely mad. How was it possible to feel such greatness in one's bones and yet be kept from it by the simple inadequacies of who his mother was? To give in to such feelings would be to submit, inadvertently, to chaos.

So- If this, then why not this?

If Serge Ded Morzo understood he couldn't own this power by birthright, if it would be barred from him by a simple miscalculation of which whore he sprung from-then he decided he would own the people who controlled the succession. Because Serge made useful things appear. Ideas half-formed, the holy glow of revelation, the opiffany. Using it to his benefit was no less criminal than killing the king, but certainly far more useful. Something that would gain him power but wouldn't cost him the kingdom, ot the million manipulative ideas he had planted thus far into the world. If he labored with the small seed, then he would witness it bear fruit.

Serge was forty years old when he first laid eyes on a new avenue, a new vehicle to his proper destiny. Fourth-born, Jack Fetilsvell was the youngest yet largest of the three predecessors before him. One might have thought he was pre-destined for bloodshed with the way he tore from that Windura b***h. And Serge's brother, the king, hated the fourth for it. Referring to Jack only as 'that child' from then on out.

The hatred had been simmering for five years between Jack's older siblings and his father. Serge only needed to shape it, enhance it. Then, when the king finally caved and threw the child on his doorstep, Serge willfully agreed to take him. He would strip Jack of his name and give Ivan the roots for the foundation of a Ded Morzo monarchy. If a Fetisvell fell, then Ded Morzo would rule.

If this, then this.

The fire crackling dimly in the hearth popped, the stick structure crumbling to send embers of golden light fluttering through the main hall. Serge sat propped forward on his chair, his massive shadow stretching the span of the stone hall.

A sound behind him drew Serge's attention, and he turned his head, locating the small side door creaking open just large enough for a small servant boy to step through. "You found it." He noted without ceremony, angling himself in the boy's direction, who now straightened beneath Serge's stare.

"We located the slave you requested, General Ded Morzo." He reported. When Serge had first seen the slave in question, they stood out, entirely sun-kissed against the blinding white snow of Hyouden. A slim figure curled, helping some other insignificant slave to their feet even after being demanded to abandon them. Their shoulders were tight, glowing and bronzed in a way that meant the sun had seen all parts of them, that at one time they had been cast carelessly beneath its rays, unconcerned with burning. Alore he pinned near instantly, and Serge found himself... Interested in the workings of their mind. Their body.

"Good. Send it in." The General finally prompted, and the boy nodded, followed by the sound of chains yanking taut against a figure still cast in the shadows behind him.

Translation:

Serge’s icy stare remained on the hearth, cold enough to smother it if he tried. The rattling clatter of chains behind him was enough to know the slave had found home where they belonged, shriveled down into the dirt like all blooms did beneath the looming threat of an ice storm. A silent order and tick of his wrist was enough to send the servant boy retreating, leaving a heavy silence stretching through the room. Serge made no move to grab the chain left unattended on the floor.

Beasty wouldn’t run. It knew better than to try picking up its roots.

The sick part of Serge wished they would dare to, though, longing to plant the fear that could send the slave's heart racing just to feel his own blood pump the way it used to during a hunt. His fingers tracing the Ded Morzo crest embedded into the sword pommel leaning against his chair, stretching his ears to catch the slightest rattling that would result in severed tendons in seconds.

But no such sound came—only the subtle, numbing hymn of burning wood continued to lull through the space. The longer it sang, the deeper his irritation stirred—an age-old disgust rattling his bones by the need to utilize the element they despised.

“The rug isn’t for the animals.” He bitterly thundered into the space, and as the words left his lips, two ice figures congealed, kicking the trash off the fine coal colored threads. It could have stopped there, but Surge added two more brutal kicks for good measure. So the beast would learn it did not belong on the finery. Once finished, they dragged the body over, and Serge leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His scowl only deepened further while coldly observing the person before him. Person was a loosely fitting term. About as loose as the wool jumpsuit clinging to his figure. Spots of dirt and crust clung to the fibers, and at this close proximity, the pungent smell began burning his nose.

“I can't stand the smell of you. Get out of those rags.” He ordered just as the boy returned with an array of house slaves in tow, carrying buckets of cold water and scrubbing cloths. But they did not soil their hands. Serge’s ice sculptures swept the trash into a corner, their frozen fingers ripping the furs from their body and scrubbing the grime off them. Once finished, they dissolved, leaving the slave standing cold and bare in the corner. Before his house slaves could move to dress it, Serge stopped them.

“Why do you think I’ve plucked you from your brethren tonight?” He finally addressed the creature with a questioning tone. Yet the hardened expression carved into his features left room to imply that there was little the great Ded Morzo didn’t already know.

The problem was… He didn’t.

Something about how this person's mind worked barred Serge from surveying their inner thoughts the way he usually would. He couldn’t even plant an idea or enhance an emotion. Each time he tried, it was like glaring into the sun, sending writhing pain radiating behind his eyes.

So instead, he stripped the slave bare and left it to stand in the freezing cold. Clean and unable to hide from his prying eyes in the cruelest of ways.


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