The Life of Aurelius Valemont: The Replica (Part 1)
Aurelius: Age 14
Months had passed since the gala. Life at the Valemont estate continued in its usual strange rhythm—grandeur and cruelty blending into one seamless thread.
Matthew, ever stoic, had finally begun speaking to Yumi. Not full conversations, but short phrases—quiet words that hinted at something deeper. Philip, naturally, was thrilled. His mission to play matchmaker between the two never wavered. Peter, still our loyal librarian, often chuckled from his corner when the drama unfolded.
Father's wives were well. Beatrice continued her relentless push on young Leonard, now four, determined to shape him into the heir—even if everyone knew the position was already mine. Laurel had recently given birth, and Anne had welcomed a baby too. Theresa was busy raising hers as well. A nursery wing was practically being built with how quickly children appeared.
Then came the night that changed everything.
Matthew came to fetch me. As always, he only needed to say, "Master Victor," and I understood. I followed him in silence down the long, dim halls. When we reached Father's office, Matthew stood by the door while I took my usual seat on the leather sofa.
That's when I saw her.
A girl. Around my age—maybe a bit older. She stood awkwardly in the corner, her posture tense, as though she expected to be punished at any moment. Her clothes were expensive but modest. Her eyes… those eyes were filled with fear. And something else—dignity?
I turned to Father, frowning. "Who is she?"
He barely glanced up from his desk. "My wife. On paper."
What?
My heart skipped. I looked at the girl again. She couldn't be more than seventeen. Her hands were trembling.
Father waved a hand, as if it were no big deal. "It's a political agreement. Keep it quiet. No one in the public must know." He didn't even try to hide the disdain in his voice.
I exhaled, already feeling the familiar disgust rise in my chest.
"Take care of her," he added. "I don't like her. But she's useful. Powerful lineage. You understand."
Of course. I always understand. That's what he expects.
I glanced at the girl again, her eyes now locking with mine. "My name is Luciana Valemont," she said softly, then hesitated. "Or rather… Luciana Windsor-Hawthorne. Daughter of the late Duke of Hawthorne."
I blinked.
Windsor… Hawthorne?
She nodded, as though confirming my silent thoughts. "I'm a descendant of the House of Windsor."
My heart thudded.
Father leaned back, unbothered. "She's the last remaining piece. I took care of the others. The Parliament records confirm it."
Took care.
He meant murdered.
The entire royal bloodline… gone. Wiped clean by this man. This devil.
I stared at him, the nausea rising. My fingers curled into fists, but I forced my expression to remain calm.
Luciana stood quietly, her shoulders rigid. She hadn't flinched at his words. Perhaps she'd already known. Or perhaps, like me, she was just too used to horror to react anymore.
I looked at her again.
A fragile bird in a cage of gold and fire. Trapped with a man who had killed her entire legacy. A man who had done the same to my mother.
"I'll protect you," I said under my breath, so low that only I could hear it.
She didn't need to become another broken name on his list. Not while I was here.
Not again.
Father dismissed us with a wave of his hand, already losing interest in both me and Luciana as he returned to his paperwork. The door closed behind us with a soft click.
Luciana stood frozen by my side, her body still tense, her fingers trembling. I hesitated only a second before I reached out and gently took her hand. Her eyes widened slightly at the gesture, like she didn't expect kindness here—especially not from a Valemont.
We began walking slowly down the hallway, silent. The mansion was as grand and cold as always, its marble floors echoing beneath our steps. Maids passed us like ghosts, keeping their heads down. None dared to meet our gaze.
Suddenly, Luciana flinched. I turned toward her. She looked like she was bracing herself—for pain, for cruelty, for whatever she thought I might do next.
I sighed quietly, then stopped walking.
"Hey," I said softly, and cupped her cheeks with both hands. Her skin was cold, her face pale.
"I'll be your knight," I whispered, "from him."
Her eyes widened in disbelief, shimmering with unshed tears. And then she broke. She collapsed forward, her arms wrapping around me as she cried—desperately, freely—burying her face in my shoulder like a child who hadn't known warmth in years.
I let her. I stood still as she sobbed, letting her emotions pour out into the stillness of the hallway. She clung to me like I was her lifeline—and maybe, in that moment, I was.
A few servants walked past. One of them paused when he noticed us. Without needing to explain, I simply said, "Tissue. Or a handkerchief."
He nodded quickly and returned moments later with both.
"Thank you," I murmured, taking them and gently offering them to Luciana. She took them with shaking hands, wiping her eyes and nose.
After a long, quiet pause, she sniffled and whispered, "My little knight."
I blinked.
Then she smiled. Just barely. It was faint and sad, but it was there.
I smiled too, and reached for her hand again. She let me hold it this time—firmly, without flinching.
Matthew silently followed behind us, as usual.
We finally arrived at the library. Yumi looked up from organizing a shelf, her expression immediately turning confused the moment she saw Luciana with me.
"This is Luciana," I told her, gently guiding Luciana inside. "Seventeen. Father's wife. Royal blood."
Yumi's eyes widened. "What—? She's—?" Her mouth dropped open, then closed again. She glanced at Luciana with something between pity and astonishment. "I… I didn't even know…"
"I know," I said. "She's staying here from now on."
Luciana gave a small nod, still clinging to my hand.
Peter looked up from his pile of ancient books at the corner of the library. "Ah, so this is the new addition to the house," he said warmly, his voice grandfatherly. "Welcome, young lady. You're safe here in this room."
Luciana nodded again, tears still lingering in her lashes.
Then there was Philip.
He was seated on the couch with his laptop, typing furiously as always—probably hacking into some offshore server just for fun. But the moment Luciana stepped in, he froze mid-keystroke.
I swear, he didn't blink for a whole minute.
His jaw dropped slightly. His eyes didn't leave her face.
I nudged him hard with my elbow. "Bro. Are you crushing on her or something?"
He blinked like he'd just returned from another universe. "Wh—What? No. No, of course not."
"You sure?" I grinned. "Didn't know you were into older women."
He cleared his throat and muttered, "I'm not. She's just… really pretty. That's all."
Luciana tilted her head, unsure if she should be flattered or worried. I laughed, loud and full for the first time that day.
"She's married, dude," I teased.
"Yeah, to your father," Philip muttered under his breath. "Which somehow makes it even more messed up."
Luciana giggled softly, surprising everyone—including herself.
The library, once a place of quiet knowledge and codes, had become a strange haven that afternoon. A place where laughter, tears, and protection blended into something new. Something fragile. Something worth guarding.
And I would guard it.
Because for people like us, peace wasn't given.
It was earned.
Matthew quietly excused himself from the library, giving a small bow and curt nod before turning on his heel and stepping out into the hallway. He was always proper like that, even though he was barely older than me. I heard a soft whisper behind me—just barely audible over the creak of the library door.
"Don't go… stay," Yumi murmured under her breath, so quietly that only someone as used to silence as I was would catch it.
I turned my head, smirking. "He likes your cookies, you know."
Yumi's face went bright red. "Y-Young Master Aurelius!" she stammered, clutching the tray of books she'd been sorting.
I shrugged innocently. "What? I'm just telling the truth."
Her stuttering continued as she busied herself with the nearest bookshelf, cheeks still crimson.
Behind me, Luciana giggled—light and melodic, like bells on a spring day. I turned to look at her, and sure enough, she was standing close. Too close, in fact. She had this habit now—always keeping near me, reaching for my hand when we walked, leaning into me when we sat. And she never called me by name anymore.
Just one phrase. Over and over again.
"My little knight."
It was… endearing. But also kind of embarrassing. I had said I'd be her knight, but I didn't think she'd make it a permanent title. And every time she said it in front of others, I felt my ears burn.
Philip, for one, seemed thoroughly unimpressed.
He scoffed from the armchair, flipping his laptop shut with a little too much force. I glanced at him, then smirked.
"Oh? Someone's jealous."
He glared at me. "Please. I just think it's a little much."
Luciana looked confused. "What's a little much?"
"Never mind him," I said, wrapping an arm protectively around her shoulder. "He's just not used to seeing a real lady around here."
Philip snorted. "Real lady or not, I don't need someone calling you her knight every five seconds like it's a fairy tale."
I leaned in and whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, "Still think she's just 'pretty,' huh?"
His face flushed. "Shut up."
Luciana blinked between us, amused but not fully understanding the banter. "You two are strange," she said softly. "But… I like it here."
For the past few days, I'd noticed things changing. The way she walked into a room lit it up. Not because she was loud or commanding—far from it. She was gentle. Soft-spoken. But everything about her carried the grace of someone raised among lords and diplomats.
She reminded me so much of Mama.
Luciana would always check on the maids, ask if they had eaten, offer to help Yumi carry books—even when Yumi insisted she didn't have to. Her voice was warm and filled with care, but her posture was upright, elegant. Regal.
"She belongs to royalty," Peter had whispered to me once when she walked past. "It's in her blood."
Yumi and Philip were clearly trying to adjust. They were raised in this house, like me, but they were commoners—plain in manner, direct in speech. Now they were bowing more, using formal words they weren't used to, fumbling over phrases like "My Lady" and "Your Grace." It was awkward, but kind of funny.
Luciana didn't correct them, though. She just smiled—patient and forgiving. She never demanded respect, but somehow, everyone gave it.
I let them be.
In a mansion ruled by fear and silence, she was something new. Something tender.
Something like hope.
One early morning, around 5 a.m., I was ripped from the last threads of sleep by a firm knock on my door.
Groaning, I muttered, "Come in," without even opening my eyes.
Of course it was Matthew.
Just my luck.
Still blinking away the remnants of a dream I couldn't quite recall, I sat up, half expecting him to say the usual—'Your father has summoned you.' I was already mentally preparing myself for another stiff meeting in his office, probably involving political reports, estate matters, or watching someone get punished.
But Matthew simply said, "Follow me."
No explanation. No context. That was it.
Still groggy, I threw on the nearest clothes hanging over the back of my chair—a neatly pressed black suit. I didn't even question it. This was a Valemont house; formality was required even in our misery. Buttoning the last of my cuffs, I followed Matthew through the still-dark hallways, trying not to trip over my own feet.
Except he wasn't leading me to Father's office.
We passed it.
I frowned, confused. "Where are we going?"
Matthew stayed silent. His face blank, as usual.
Then we reached it—the training room.
It was colder than the rest of the house, all marble and metal. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The room was enormous, with dummies, weapons racks, and combat mats spread across the floor like a militarized gymnasium. And there, right in the center of it, was Father.
Sparring.
He moved like a shadow, each strike vicious and precise. His opponent—a grown man, probably one of his guards—was struggling to keep up. In seconds, Father landed a clean blow and knocked him to the floor with the flat of a sword. The clang echoed in the room.
Sweat dripped down his brow, his chest rising and falling steadily. Like he'd done this a thousand times. Because he had.
Matthew stepped in without a word. I followed hesitantly.
Then, to my surprise, Matthew turned and gently handed me something—cold, metallic.
A dagger.
A real one. Sharp. Polished. Deadly.
I blinked at it, holding it awkwardly in my hand.
"What's going on?" I asked, still half-asleep. "I literally just woke up."
Matthew didn't answer. He turned his gaze toward Father.
Father looked at me—expression unreadable, like a judge handing down a sentence.
"This is your new routine," he said flatly. "From now on, every morning at this hour, you will train. You will learn to wield blades—daggers, swords, and others. Once you master them, we'll move to firearms. But we begin here."
He crossed the room toward me. Each step echoed like thunder.
"You will become my replica, Aurelius. My heir in more than just name. A true Valemont."
My hand tightened around the dagger's hilt. It felt too heavy for me, like it didn't belong in my hand.
I swallowed hard.
Is he serious?
I'm in a suit, for crying out loud. I thought I was being summoned to a meeting or something—definitely not a combat session. I shot Matthew a glare.
You could've told me I'd be fighting.
But Matthew was already turning away, avoiding eye contact.
I shifted my stance, unsteady. I didn't know how to hold a dagger properly, let alone fight with one. My entire life had been books, codes, computer screens, hacking simulations—this was completely foreign.
Me? An assassin?
Father picked up another dagger from the weapons rack, spinning it effortlessly in his fingers before leveling his eyes at me.
"Lesson one," he said coldly. "You don't get to choose the circumstances. Only your reaction."
And with that, he raised his blade.
Oh great.
He's actually going to fight me.
I gripped the dagger tighter the moment Father lunged at me.
No warning. No countdown. No mercy.
His blade sliced through the air, and I barely managed to dodge—more by instinct than skill. My shoes slid slightly on the polished floor as I stumbled back, heart pounding like a drum in my chest.
"What are you doing?" I shouted, panic lacing my voice.
Father didn't answer. He struck again—swift and precise, aiming for my shoulder this time. I ducked. Barely.
I tried to swing my own dagger in retaliation, but it was clumsy, untrained. The blade felt unnatural in my grip, like it belonged to someone else. Father knocked it aside with ease, and the force of the impact sent a tremor up my arm.
"You're slow," he barked. "And sloppy. You hesitate."
"I've never held a dagger in my life!" I snapped, breathless.
"That's not an excuse," he growled. "The world won't wait for you to learn. It will kill you before you ask for a lesson."
He lunged again. This time, I barely managed to parry—but the shock of it numbed my wrist. I stumbled back, chest heaving.
My suit clung to me with sweat already. This isn't fair. This isn't normal. What kind of father throws his son into combat half-awake at dawn?
But he didn't stop.
He never stopped.
Every strike was a lesson. Every dodge, a test. I was getting bruised. Scraped. Out of breath.
And angry.
Not just at him—but at everything.
At the way he broke people. The way he made monsters and called them sons. The way he destroyed my mother. The way he was now trying to mold me into something like him.
I bit my tongue and lunged.
My blade missed.
He twisted behind me in one fluid motion, pressing his dagger flat against my neck. Not hard enough to cut—but enough to warn.
"Dead," he said, voice calm. "Again."
He stepped back. I sank to my knees, gasping for air. My arms trembled from exhaustion.
Father wiped his brow and tossed his dagger aside like it was nothing. "Training resumes tomorrow at 5 a.m. sharp."
I didn't answer. I couldn't. My pride felt crushed under the weight of his expectations.
As he left the room, Matthew came forward with a towel and a bottle of water.
I took them wordlessly, sweat stinging my eyes.
"Is this what it means to be your replica?" I whispered under my breath.
No one answered.
But I already knew.
End of chapter 47.