Surviving A Novel I Don't Remember: A Tutor's Guide To Staying Alive

The early morning light filtered through the sheer balcony curtains, casting long, soft shadows across the room.

Julian stirred, the movement making the silk sheets rustle like dry leaves under his weight. His head felt heavy, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes, but as he forced his lashes to flutter open, the first thing he saw was the silhouette of two people by the tea table.

The Duke and Lucius.

Lucius was sitting upright, his small hand awkwardly holding a spoon as he picked at a bowl of porridge. His right shoulder was bound stiffly under his shirt, but he was trying his best not to let the pain show.

Opposite him, the Duke sat still. He wasn’t eating. Instead, his large hands were gripping a newspaper so tightly the edges were beginning to crinkle and tear.

Alaric’s face had this irritation written all over his face, like he was staring at someone who just pissed their pants in front of him. His brow was furrowed, his jaw tight, and his eyes—usually so warm when looking at Julian—were currently burning with a cold, sharp annoyance.

Julian shifted, trying to prop himself up on one elbow. The movement sent a sharp spike of pain through his legs, a reminder of his 32% physical integrity. He let out a small, unintentional huff of breath that quickly alerted the Duke and Lucius of his wake.

The Duke’s head snapped up instantly, and he abandoned the newspaper on the table with no second thought, discarded like trash.

Lucius wanted to get up as well, but the Duke dropped a hand on his head and said,

"Finish your breakfast, Lucius."

Lucius pouted, but he couldn’t go against his father’s words.

Then, the duke headed for the bedside.

"You’re awake," he said. The growl of annoyance from just now was gone, replaced by that low, gravelly softness that was reserved only for the people in this room.

He didn’t wait for Julian to respond; his hand reached out to check the temperature of Julian’s forehead, and luckily, he wasn’t burning up.

"How do you feel?" He asked, and Julian rolled his eyes down, the actions of the previous night rushing in all at once.

He flushed and then whispered with a dry voice.

"Like I was trampled by a carriage,"

He glanced at the Duke, the care on his face, and the staggering 90% affection level atop his head that made Julian discard any thought of assuming the previous night was all a dream.

Then, he looked past the Duke toward the table, at the source of his annoyance discarded there.

"What is in the paper that makes you look like you want to declare war?"

Duke Alaric’s expression darkened again. He turned and retraced his steps, grabbed the crumpled paper, and handed it to Julian for him to see.

Julian took a look and saw the headline that was written in bold and ugly scripts: "THE NORTHERN BARRICADE: MARQUIS ASTREA PLEADS FOR CRIPPLED SON’S FREEDOM."

The article was a masterpiece of manipulation. It painted the Marquis as a grieving, desperate father claiming the Duke was holding Julian under ’house arrest’ to exploit his genius.

It hinted that the Duke was obsessed with Julian’s talent and was keeping him isolated, refusing to let his own family see him.

Well, the Duke was indeed obsessed, just not with the talent but the man himself.

"He’s been busy," Julian murmured, his eyes scanning the lies. "He’s making me look like a prisoner, and you like a tyrant."

"Let him talk," Alaric spat, his voice vibrating with a dangerous edge, though he was nonchalant to it all. "Words don’t break bones, though I find myself wishing I’d broken more than just his son’s arm."

"Father," Julian muttered, not out of longing, but with this bitter acknowledgement as to what a man would do, what lengths he would go, just to fulfill his ambitions and gain more power and influence.

Julian shifted his weight, trying to find a position that didn’t make his nerves scream, when the Duke’s words finally registered.

"Wait," Julian breathed, his eyes wide, and he turned to look at the Duke. "You broke my brother’s arm?"

No one had told him of that event.

Alaric went still. The room, which had felt so warm and intimate just moments ago, suddenly turned heavy. The Duke’s hand stayed on the edge of the bed, his fingers tensing. He didn’t look away, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his blue eyes—a silent, tense wait to see if Julian would recoil.

He was wondering if Julian would see the ’monster’ he feared being.

"I did," Alaric said, his voice flat and unapologetic, yet braced for a blow.

Julian stared at him for a second, the silence stretching between them. Then, he blinked and asked quite simply:

"Which one?"

Alaric blinked, the defensive tension in his jaw slackening in surprise. He hadn’t expected a question of logistics.

"The eldest." He said. "The one who thought he could stand in my way and push me out with words while his father begged."

Julian leaned back into his pillows, his mind briefly flickering through the blurry faces of the Astrea household. He hadn’t had many encounters with the eldest brother since waking up in this world, but the original Julian’s history was a different story.

The way those people had treated him—starving him, mocking his mother, using him as a punching bag, treating his very existence as a stain to be scrubbed away—was no different from having every bone in his body shattered slowly over the years.

He was glad he didn’t possess the full, vivid memories of that trauma, but his body hadn’t forgotten. The silent shivers and the instinctive urge to hide when he heard a loud, demanding voice, or whenever a member of the Astrea household was approaching, told him all he needed to know.

"The eldest," Julian repeated, his voice devoid of any pity. He didn’t care if they were run over by a carriage or fell from a horse and died tomorrow.

He had no affection for that family.

Though he wished this misfortune had fallen on one of the twins instead. They were lucky this time.

He let out a little huff, and the Duke watched him closely, his brow still slightly furrowed.

"Do you find it cruel? My method?" He asked, not understanding how to interpret Julian’s reaction.

Julian’s eyes sharpened, the mismatched colors catching the morning light with a cold, clear focus.

"He hurt your son," Julian said, his gaze shifting briefly to Lucius’s bound shoulder before locking back onto the Duke. "My father bruised your heir, a child. It’s only right that you did the same to him. In my eyes, it was a fair trade."