EMPIRE REWRITTEN

Chapter 15: The Weight of Survival

The stench was unbearable, clinging to the thick, damp air like a suffocating cloak. Despite the scented incense burning in the corner and the servants' diligent scrubbing, the odor of human filth lingered, seeping into the very stones of the chamber. Michael sat on the edge of the bed, his hands limp on his knees, staring vacantly at the floor.

His wife's death had left a hollow, aching void inside him. Buried only days ago, her pale face haunted him. The memory of their stillborn child—silent before she ever took a breath—gnawed at him every moment. He had wanted to save them both but had been powerless.

Now the world seemed smaller, darker. The filth, the grime—it repulsed him. He had thought he could adapt, and he was, to this world that wasn't his, but since her death, everything had become unbearable.

A faint creak sliced through his reverie. Michael glanced up as the door inched open. Lukas, a young servant, stepped in, head bowed, cradling the all-too-familiar chamber pot. The sight of it tightened the knot in Michael's stomach. Another day, the same wretched routine.

"Just take it and go," Michael muttered, his voice hoarse. His head pounded with relentless grief and exhaustion.

Lukas, moved quickly, but in his haste, his foot caught the edge of the rug. The chamber pot slipped from his hands, crashing to the floor. The contents spilled out, soaking into the cracks between the stones, the pungent odor intensifying despite the sweet incense.

For a moment, the world froze.

Michael stared at the mess, the smell wrapping around him, squeezing his chest. His heart hammered. The image of his wife's final moments surged forward—her labored breaths, the life fading from her eyes. The helplessness engulfed him anew.

"Goddamn it!" he roared, jumping to his feet. Lukas flinched, scrambling back, his face pale.

"My lord, I—I'm sorry, please—"

"Shut up!" Michael spat, stepping toward him. His voice trembled with grief and boiling disgust. The stench filled his nostrils, making him feel as though the world was rotting around him.

Lukas dropped to his knees, fingers trembling as he tried to gather the mess with his bare hands. The sight of him, groveling in the filth, twisted something deep within Michael—a mix of revulsion and a haunting reflection of his own helplessness.

Michael's hand shot out before he could stop himself. He struck Lukas across the face, the blow echoing in the stone chamber. The boy gasped, collapsing to the floor, clutching his cheek.

A wave of guilt crashed over him. This boy wasn't to blame. The filth, the relentless stench—it wasn't his doing. But the chasm left by his wife's death consumed everything. It was too much.

"You filthy little..." he muttered bitterly. Lukas lay on the floor, shaking with fear.

Silence filled the room. Michael stared at him, his palm stinging from the blow. What am I doing?

He hadn't meant to lash out. The grief, the loss—it was consuming him.

Michael's hand fell to his side. "Get up," he muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion. He turned away, gazing out the window at the rolling hills of the Morea under a canopy of storm-laden clouds. "Clean it up. And get out."

Lukas scrambled to his feet, quickly gathering the soiled pot and mopping up the mess. The rustling of cloth and clatter of pottery intensified the ache within Michael.

The stench lingered—a sharp reminder of the filth consuming his life. But it wasn't the smell that haunted him now.

It was the cold realization that he was changing. The grief, the relentless loss, the unyielding squalor—this world— they were molding him into someone else.