Chapter 39
Balthazar
For years, I was swallowing by the need for revenge against Alina. Her betrayal had carved a hole in me so deep that it echoed with rage. I spent decades plotting and scheming, fueling my existence with the single-minded desire to make her pay.
But everything changed the moment my son was born.
The fury dulled. The need for vengeance faded. In its place bloomed something unexpected—joy. Purpose. A fierce, unwavering love.
I no longer wanted retribution. I wanted to be the best father I could be.
I refused to leave him in the care of nannies or strangers. Tristan was mine, and I would raise him myself. I was there every sleepless night, every first step, every stumble. Those early years became the most fulfilling moments of my life.
As he grew, I tried to shape him—not into a kind man but into a powerful one. In my world, kindness was weakness. Violence, fear, and dominance were the tools of survival. That was the legacy I intended to leave him.
I remembered kneeling before him one day, voice low and firm.
“If someone pushes you,” I said, “you push harder. You hit back. Kick. Break something if you must. Make sure they never touch you again. Teach them with pain. Teach them with fear.”
But no matter how many times the other children provoked him, Tristan’s response never changed—tears streaming down his cheeks, his small hands clenched at his sides as he refused to fight back.
Month after month, I watched with growing concern. There was not a flicker of rage, not even a spark of defiance.
I tried to teach him—over and over—that showing weakness was a death sentence, that the world only respected strength and feared cruelty. He listened, wide-eyed and solemn, as if he understood, but the lesson never took root.
It became painfully clear—my son might never carry the darkness I had hoped to pass down.
As much as I hated to admit it, Tristan was too kind. Too soft.
Too pure.
Instead of dominance, he exuded calm. He had an unsettling ability to soothe those around him with little more than a few gentle words. People listened to him, trusted him, and this disturbed me deeply.
He reminded me of everything I despised. Everything I had tried to bury.
He was too much like his mother.
Too much like Cora—Mathias’ sweet, saccharine wife.
I had dreamed of raising a warrior like Malik—a blade forged in fire and vengeance. But instead, I got Tristan. The meek. The gentle. The disappointment.
Each passing day became a fresh reminder of my failure. My resentment festered, growing like wildfire until it consumed everything else.
And then, clarity struck like lightning. There was only one person to blame for this misfortune.
Alina.
The hunt would resume. She would pay for what she had done.