Chapter 21: House Catherine Psychopaths

  The World of Dudda Catherine: Archer Hell, Battlefield Hell, and the Dolls of Terror

  In the shadowed halls of House Catherine's fortress, where the air hung heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the distant echoes of breaking bones, there lived a man who seemed utterly out of place among his savage kin. Dudda Catherine was soft-spoken, with a voice that carried the gentle cadence of a storyteller sharing tales by the fireside. His brown hair fell in neat, unassuming waves, framing a face lit by warm brown eyes that sparkled with what many mistook for kindness. At roughly 180 pounds, his frame was plump and rounded, the build of a scholar or a baker rather than a warrior. He moved with a quiet, unhurried grace, his steps light on the stone floors that bore the weight of centuries of cruelty. To those who met him briefly—in the courtyards or during rare feasts—he appeared genuinely likable, a man who might offer a sympathetic ear or a shared laugh over a mug of ale. Harmless, they thought. Perhaps even a moderating influence in a family notorious for its bloodlust.

  But the reality was far more fucked up. Dudda Catherine was no gentle soul. He was the quiet architect of unspeakable horrors, a mind so coldly efficient and sadistically creative that he outstripped even his infamous brothers in the art of destruction. While Grimwald and Grimjoy wielded swords and commanded armies on the battlefield, Dudda was the unseen hand that shaped their victories—and the world's nightmares. He was the inventor of tortures that turned human bodies into grotesque art, the strategist who orchestrated genocides from the safety of his chamber, and the remorseless innovator who transformed fear into a weapon sharper than any blade. His crimes were often indirect, committed through plans and designs that others carried out, but that distance only amplified his depravity. Dudda didn't soil his hands with blood; he designed the systems that drowned the world in it.

  As the youngest of the direct Catherine siblings—born after Grimwald and Grimjoy—Dudda's genius manifested early. While his brothers reveled in the visceral thrill of combat, Dudda preferred the precision of the mind. He authored books on philosophy and warfare, penning elegant treatises on the nature of pain and power even as he plotted the extermination of entire populations. His contributions to House Catherine's 1,000-year reign of terror were profound: he planned the genocide of 80 million souls, ensuring the dynasty's dominance through calculated slaughter. He remodeled the family's banner into a chilling icon—a black background with a white Catherine Wheel enclosing a broken man, woven between the spokes as a promise of inevitable agony. This symbol was etched onto every soldier's shield, turning each warrior into a walking harbinger of doom: "Capture means hell." Dudda's designs didn't just kill; they broke spirits, eroded wills, and sowed terror that outlasted the battles themselves.

  Dudda's most infamous creations were born in his private torture chambers, where he would personally instruct new executioners. With a calm, almost professorial demeanor, he demonstrated his methods on prisoners, explaining the anatomy of pain as if lecturing on poetry. "Suffering is the purest teacher," he would say softly, his brown eyes gleaming with intellectual fascination as screams filled the air. It was here that he perfected his inventions, blending artistry with atrocity in ways that haunted survivors for generations.

  The Invention of "The Doll"

  Dudda's crowning horror was the Doll torture, a method so dehumanizing that even hardened veterans of House Catherine's campaigns whispered of it with unease. The process began with the victim strapped to a wooden frame in Dudda's chamber, lit by flickering torches that cast long shadows across the stone walls. Dudda would approach slowly, his plump frame casting a deceptively benign silhouette. "You see," he would explain to his apprentices in that soft, likable voice, "the human body is resilient, but the mind is fragile. To break one without the other is inefficient. We must create a vessel for prolonged instruction."

  The first stage was the dismemberment. Dudda preferred precision: the lower limbs—legs from the knees down—were either broken with calculated hammer strikes or severed completely with a heated blade to cauterize the wounds and minimize bleeding. He would narrate the procedure like a surgeon teaching interns, pointing out the major arteries to avoid fatal loss. "We want them alive, not expired," he'd say with a gentle smile, as the victim's screams echoed off the walls. The upper limbs followed if necessary, but Dudda often left the arms intact for "play," as he called it—allowing the victim a false hope of resistance that only amplified their despair.

  Once limbless, the victim was transformed into a "doll"—a helpless, screaming puppet incapable of fight or flight, only able to talk, beg, or wail. Dudda would then enter the second stage: unlimited torment. The doll was positioned on a table or suspended by chains, and the executioners were free to experiment. Whips laced with salt, branding irons heated to glowing red, needles driven into sensitive nerves—anything the mind could conceive. Dudda encouraged creativity: "Pain is an art form. Explore its palette." Victims endured for days, weeks even, their bodies kept alive through force-feeding and minimal medical care, their minds shattered long before death granted mercy. The Doll was not just punishment; it was psychological erasure, reducing a person to an object for amusement.

  Dudda's inspiration for the Doll came from his observation of broken toys in the fortress nursery—limbless figures discarded by children. "If a doll cannot run, it cannot escape its fate," he wrote in one of his books, a treatise on control disguised as philosophy. This torture became a staple for high-value prisoners, a slow, intimate horror that broke spirits and extracted confessions. Dudda personally oversaw the first hundred Dolls, refining the method until it was flawless. His apprentices learned quickly under his tutelage, spreading the technique across the empire's dungeons.

  The Invention of the Butterfly Torture

  Before the Doll, Dudda created the Butterfly—a torture so aesthetically grotesque it bordered on macabre poetry. The victim was laid prone on a wooden slab, their back exposed under the chamber's dim light. Dudda, with his soft voice, would explain the process to his students as if describing a painting. "The back is a canvas of vulnerability. We shall give it wings."

  The executioner made a precise Y-incision from shoulders to waist, peeling the skin back in two broad flaps. These were hooked with iron barbs and pulled taut by ropes or chains, forming four "wings" of flesh that remained attached at the edges. Coarse salt was then poured liberally into the exposed wound, searing the raw muscles, nerves, and spine. "Behold the butterfly's flight," Dudda would say with a faint smile, as the victim's convulsions mimicked desperate flutters. The pain was excruciating, amplified by the salt's burn, and death came slowly—if at all. Survivors were left crippled, their backs scarred into twisted parodies of beauty, a living reminder of House Catherine's ingenuity.

  Dudda invented the Butterfly as a "refined" form of flaying, designed for nobles and traitors who deserved "artistic" punishment. He demonstrated it personally, his plump hands steady as he guided the knife, narrating the anatomy: "Here, the latissimus dorsi—peel gently to preserve the form." The torture spread across the empire, becoming a public spectacle in town squares, where crowds watched in horrified fascination. Dudda's books described it as "a metamorphosis of pain," blending his literary elegance with sadistic detail.

  Dudda's Role as the Ultimate Strategist

  Dudda's true genius lay not in torture chambers but in war rooms. As the youngest sibling, he was the family's intellectual anchor, planning battles that allowed Grimwald and Grimjoy to dominate the continent. While his brothers led charges and ate hearts, Dudda mapped victory from parchment and ink. He organized tactics that turned numerical disadvantages into slaughters, ensuring House Catherine's expansion through calculated carnage. His plans caused the genocide of 80 million, depopulating regions to break resistance and instill terror.

  Dudda remodeled the family's banner into its iconic form—a black background with a white Catherine Wheel enclosing a broken man woven between the spokes. This symbol was etched onto every soldier's shield, a psychological weapon: "If captured, you will be broken." Dudda crafted Grimjoy's infamous robe, stitching it from the skinned faces of tortured prisoners, each face a "trophy" from battles he planned. "A cloak of memories," he called it in his writings, a garment that whispered defeat to enemies.

  Dudda's strategic innovations were legendary for their efficiency and horror. He wrote books on warfare while scheming, blending philosophy with mass murder: "Victory is not in the sword, but in the mind that directs it." His indirect crimes were vast, but in the chambers, he taught executioners hands-on, demonstrating Butterfly and Doll on live subjects with a teacher's patience.

  Scene: Archer Hell

  Dudda's Archer Hell was a masterpiece of ranged devastation, turning forests and hills into death traps. Archers were positioned with mathematical precision—fifteen feet apart, across high ground, ridges, or dense woodlands. Ambushes erupted from everywhere: arrows from trees, crossbow bolts from bushes, early gunshots from hidden snipers. In foot battles, archers formed two lines, spread fifteen feet each, making compact catapults useless against their dispersed formation.

  With 60 archers, the line stretched 885 feet—(60-1) x 15 = 885 feet of unrelenting fire. Enemies, packed tightly, became pincushions. Dudda's math ensured maximum coverage with minimal risk: archers too spread for counter-fire, but arrows overlapping in kill zones. In one battle, 60 archers slaughtered 400 soldiers, the field a porcupine of feathered shafts. "Death from the unseen," Dudda wrote, "is the purest fear."

  Scene: Battlefield Hell

  Dudda's Battlefield Hell dismantled cavalry—the era's shock troops—with spread formations that defied traditional charges. Infantry lines spaced every five feet, archers every twenty-five feet in curved kill zones. Cavalry couldn't maintain momentum; horses stumbled through gaps, riders exposed to spears and arrows.

  Dudda's layers: Front infantry drew charges, archers behind rained death over the line. Cavalry split, becoming easy targets. "The horse is fast, but space is infinite," Dudda noted. In one clash, a cavalry force of 1,000 shattered against 500 spread soldiers, arrows and pikes turning the field into a slaughter pen. The fifth layer of hell: no escape, only calculated demise.

  Scene: Shield Hell

  Dudda revolutionized defense with Shield Hell—three-foot-tall, fifteen-inch-wide shields topped with ten three-inch spikes. Short spikes avoided friendly fire but lacerated enemies on contact. Strapped to forearms, shields became offensive weapons: punch, slash, stab.

  The design's unfairness: enemies couldn't press without injury, while Catherine soldiers swung with lethal force. Losing a hand? Strap it on anyway. Dudda's shields turned every clash into a one-sided brawl, spikes drawing blood with every block. "Defense that bites back," he quipped in his writings.

  Scene: Heavy Soldiers

  Dudda categorized troops by weight for Heavy Soldiers—185+ pounds (skinnyfat, fat, or muscular) in heavy armor with flexible joints at hands, feet, elbows, knees. Reinforced plating (2 inches thick) made them tanks: withstand swords, arrows, cavalry strikes.

  Their role: fistfighters. Punch, kick, elbow, knee, headbutt lighter-armored foes. Over 220 pounds? Add a two-handed 35-inch sword with 6mm-thick blade (5 pounds), swung at 20 mph to bend armor and rupture organs—like Mike Tyson liver shots (1,200+ lbs force). They ripped riders from horses, punched mounts unconscious. "The body is the ultimate weapon," Dudda wrote, turning soldiers into living battering rams.

  Scene: The Slammer

  Dudda's Slammer was a "humane" death machine—a wooden catapult contraption where victims' ankles were strapped to the launch arm. Released, bodies slammed into boulders with catapult force, killing in two impacts within 15 seconds. The gore was horrific: body parts exploding, blood splattering like a "fest." Prisoners feared it more than the wheel, a quick but messy end that turned executions into spectacles. Dudda called it "efficient mercy," but it was engineered terror.

  The Psychology of Dudda Catherine

  Dudda's psychology was a labyrinth of contradictions. Soft-spoken and likable, he hid a ruthless mind that viewed people as pieces on a board. As the youngest sibling, he was the family's intellectual core—planning battles while his brothers executed. His indirect crimes (80 million genocide) were calculated, but in chambers, he taught with hands-on sadism. Dudda didn't crave blood; he craved perfection in pain. His books blended philosophy with torture: "Suffering refines the soul—or shatters it." He was the worst Catherine because he enabled everything—strategies, symbols, horrors—with a gentle smile, making evil feel inevitable.

  Dudda Catherine was war incarnate: the brain behind the brawn, turning House Catherine into an unstoppable force of calculated terror.

  SCENE: Mother Catherine – The Tame Horror

  In the vast, drafty halls of Castle Catherine, where the stone walls seemed to whisper secrets of broken bones and salted screams, Laura Catherine moved like a gentle breeze amid a storm. She was the mother of the dynasty's most infamous sons—Grimwald, Grimjoy, and Dudda—and in a family that measured worth by the rivers of blood they spilled, Laura was often called "the most tame." It was a title that, in the twisted context of House Catherine, meant little more than she didn't wield a sword herself or eat hearts raw on the battlefield. But tame? No, Laura was a quiet monster, her cruelty woven into the fabric of everyday life, a poison that seeped slowly but inevitably into those around her.

  Laura was a woman of striking beauty, even in her middle years. Her hair, a cascade of golden waves, framed a face that could have belonged to a saint in a cathedral painting—soft features, warm hazel eyes, and a smile that disarmed even the most wary courtiers. She dressed in fine silks and velvets, favoring deep crimson gowns that hid the stains of her private indulgences. To the servants and lesser nobles, she was a figure of grace, offering kind words or a gentle touch on the shoulder. "Such a lovely day for a ride," she might say, her voice melodic and soothing, as if the world weren't a charnel house built on her family's legacy.

  But Laura's "tame" nature was a facade as thin as the skin peeled in her family's infamous tortures. She burned villages for fun—riding out with a small entourage on clear afternoons, watching flames consume thatched roofs and hearing the distant cries of peasants as entertainment. "It clears the air," she'd laugh lightly upon returning, brushing ash from her gown. And her diet? Laura was a cannibal, though she preferred her human flesh prepared with delicacy—roasted with herbs, sliced thin and served on silver platters. "The essence of life," she'd murmur, savoring each bite, as if it were a gourmet delicacy rather than the remains of some poor captive from the dungeons.

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  Her true cruelty, however, was reserved for her children. Laura was a terrible mother, the kind whose neglect and abuse left scars deeper than any blade. She set the perfect conditions for serial killers, combining the family's genetic psychopathy (nature) with a nurturing environment of emotional torment (nurture). From the moment her sons could walk, she instilled in them a worldview where weakness was sin and empathy a flaw. But her treatment wasn't equal. Grimwald and Grimjoy, the older brothers, were her favorites. They "looked better"—tall, muscular, with sharp features and the family's signature fair skin and blue eyes. They embodied violence from a young age, earning her praise. "My strong boys," she'd coo, ruffling their hair after they returned from "play" that involved tormenting animals or servants. She was less harsh with them, offering occasional affection—a hug after a successful hunt or a story before bed.

  Dudda, the youngest, was different. Plump and unassuming, with brown hair and eyes that lacked the icy Catherine glare, he was her target. Laura's verbal abuse was relentless, a daily barrage that chipped away at his spirit. "Look at you, fat and useless," she'd snap over breakfast, her warm eyes turning cold. "Your brothers are out training, and you're here scribbling in books like a monk. No woman will want you—ugly, weak, and soft." She'd criticize everything: his appearance ("You'll never be handsome like Grimwald"), his lack of relationships ("Why can't you charm a girl like Grimjoy?"), his reluctance for violence ("A Catherine who doesn't enjoy a good kill? Pathetic"). Dudda had normal empathy as a child—he'd wince at the screams from the dungeons, feel pity for the tortured—but Laura's overbearing emotional neglect and abuse crushed it. She ignored his achievements, belittled his ideas, and made him feel less than his brothers simply because he didn't fit the "violent Adonis" mold.

  This favoritism bred resentment. Grimwald and Grimjoy received her "love"—sparse as it was—while Dudda was the scapegoat. He developed antisocial personality disorder from the extreme emotional neglect, verbal abuse, and constant comparison. Empathy faded; the ability to love withered. "Why feel for others when Mother feels nothing for me?" he once wrote in a private journal, his words a quiet harbinger of the monster he'd become.

  The turning point came when Dudda, at 18, redesigned the House Catherine banner. The original was simple; Dudda made it significantly more cruel—a black background with a white Catherine Wheel enclosing a broken man woven between the spokes, symbolizing the inevitable agony of capture. Conrad praised it, and suddenly Laura's attitude flipped. She treated Dudda better than his older brothers—lavishing compliments, inviting him to private dinners, even calling him "my clever boy." Grimwald and Grimjoy saw it for what it was: a switch-up, a traitor move. "Mother's nothing but a fickle bitch," Grimjoy muttered once, but they did nothing. Dudda's value as inventor and strategist was too high. Dudda saw it too—the favoritism was shallow, based on utility, not love. It cemented his loss of empathy; people were tools, nothing more.

  One fateful evening, the argument erupted in the family solar. Laura, in one of her moods, berated Dudda for a minor delay in a battle plan. "You're still the weak one! Fat, ugly, no fire in you like your brothers!" Her voice, usually melodic, turned sharp as a flaying knife. Dudda stood silent, his brown eyes flat. He'd learned that day—through whispers from servants—that his mother was a village-burning cannibal, a terrible human being who'd set the stage for her sons' monstrosity. The neglect, the abuse—it all clicked. She wasn't a mother; she was a catalyst for killers.

  Without a word, Dudda drew a hidden dagger—forged in his own workshop—and plunged it into her throat. the stab wound was so deep, it decapitated her. Laura's eyes widened in shock, her hands clutching at the wound as blood bubbled forth. "You… ungrateful—" she gasped, but Dudda twisted the blade, silencing her forever. There was no regret, no remorse—just calm efficiency. He severed her head with practiced cuts, placing it in a jar of alcohol to preserve it, her expression frozen in eternal surprise. The jar now sat on his desk in his working area, a macabre trophy and daily reminder: "Even mothers are disposable."

  The brothers were fucking shocked. Grimwald burst into the room at the sound of the struggle, his sword drawn, only to find Dudda calmly wiping the blade on Laura's gown. "You… killed Mother?" he stammered, his usual cold demeanor cracking. Grimjoy arrived next, his face twisting in rage. "What the fuck, Dudda? She was ours!" Even Conrad, the patriarch, entered with wide eyes, staring at the headless body. "Boy… what have you done?" But they did nothing. Dudda was too valuable—the inventor of Butterfly, Doll, Slammer, spiked shields, heavy soldiers, and the banner that struck fear into armies. Without him, their conquests would falter.

  That night, at the royal dinner table, the family gathered in tense silence. Laura's body had been dismembered in the kitchens—arms, legs, torso portioned like venison. The cooks, under Dudda's quiet instructions, prepared her with herbs and spices, roasting the flesh to perfection. Conrad sat at the head, his fork hovering over a slice. Grimwald and Grimjoy exchanged glances, their plates untouched at first. Dudda ate calmly, his soft voice breaking the silence: "She always said family is everything. Now she's part of us forever." Conrad finally took a bite, nodding slowly. "Practical. Waste not." The brothers followed, the meal a grotesque ritual of acceptance. Laura's head watched from Dudda's room, preserved in alcohol, her eyes clouded but eternally judging.

  In the end, Laura Catherine's "tame" cruelty—cannibalism, village burnings, emotional/verbal abuse—created the perfect storm for her sons' psychopathy. Nature (the gene) and nurture (her neglect) forged killers. The older brothers escaped the worst of her wrath, but Dudda's daily insults turned him into the coldest monster. House Catherine wasn't just dysfunctional—it was a breeding ground for evil, where even death became dinner.

  SCENE: The Fall of France – Dudda’s Reckoning

  The air in Paris was thick with ash and the stench of smoke. The once-proud city, jewel of the French crown, was now a smoldering ruin under the black-and-white banner of House Catherine. Twenty thousand homes had been reduced to charred skeletons. Over three hundred thousand lay dead in the streets, fields, and rivers—slaughtered with surgical precision by an army that moved like locusts. Dudda Catherine’s corporation system had worked flawlessly: sixty thousand soldiers divided into self-sufficient groups of cavalry, heavy infantry, artillery, and scouts. They lived off the land, moved faster than supply trains could dream, split like ants to surround and devour any resistance. They looted first—every coin, every scrap of food, every axe, every sword—then burned. The French called them the Army of Thieves, and the name fit. Nothing was left behind. Not even dignity.

  Dudda had orchestrated it all from a commandeered chateau outside the city, maps spread across tables, his soft voice issuing orders while he sipped wine and sketched new banner designs. When the last pocket of resistance fell, he gave the command: gather every surviving soul in Paris. The great square before Notre-Dame was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with the broken remnants of France—men, women, children, nobles, peasants, priests. They stood in terrified silence as Dudda ascended the podium, flanked by Grimwald and Grimjoy. His plump frame was draped in simple black robes, brown hair neat, brown eyes calm. He looked like a kindly scholar addressing a lecture hall. The only sound was the wind rattling the tattered French banners still clinging to poles.

  Dudda raised a hand. The silence deepened.

  “We are here today,” he began, voice gentle, almost conversational, “to celebrate the takeover of France under the name of House Catherine.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd—fear, disbelief, rage. Dudda continued as if speaking to friends.

  “Thanks to a political betrayal by Barbara Catherine.”

  He paused, letting the name hang. Heads turned; whispers became gasps. Barbara—golden child, the only nonviolent Catherine, the one who had fled to France, married the prince, sought refuge—stood bound to a post at the edge of the square, the French prince tied beside her. Her face was pale, eyes wide with the horror of what she had unleashed.

  Dudda’s gaze swept the crowd.

  “In House Catherine, we have a law. The law states: it is either Catherine or die. Barbara did not listen. She broke the rule. Either be loyal, or die—the most important law in House Catherine. Now she, and the entirety of France, is in peril. In destruction. For she has paid for the consequences of her action via the spilled blood of the French people.”

  He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a near-whisper that somehow carried to every ear.

  “And to end my speech, the rule and the law of House Catherine is…”

  He straightened, eyes cold as steel.

  “YOU EITHER BE CATHERINE OR DIE.”

  The words landed like a guillotine. A collective shudder ran through the square. Some wept. Some stared blankly. Some looked at Barbara with pure hatred.

  Dudda stepped back. Grimwald and Grimjoy stood on either side of the podium, faces hard but visibly unsettled. They had seen massacres, eaten hearts, worn cloaks of faces—but this? This was different. Dudda’s calm, his absolute certainty, unnerved even them.

  The soldiers dragged Barbara and the prince forward, tying them to twin posts in the center of the square. Barbara’s gown was torn, hair disheveled, but her eyes burned with defiance—and terror. The prince, young and proud, struggled against his bonds, shouting curses until a gauntlet cracked across his face.

  Dudda turned to the crowd, voice soft again.

  “So, people of France… will any of you take revenge on this lady? For she has destroyed this country by betraying us—her own family. A great dishonor.”

  A peasant near the front, face streaked with soot and tears, stepped forward. His voice shook.

  “We kill her. We beat her to death.”

  Dudda tilted his head, as if considering a reasonable suggestion.

  “No,” he said gently. “I have a fate worse than death.”

  He gestured. The soldiers forced the prince to his knees before Barbara’s post. Chains rattled as they secured him facing her, close enough to see every detail.

  “Her prince will be tied inside the dungeon,” Dudda continued, voice steady, “and will be forced to watch as the men of France have their time with her in front of him. Consensually or not. And he will be forced to watch until the day he dies.”

  A stunned silence fell over the square. Then a low, horrified moan rose from the crowd. Grimwald’s hand twitched toward his sword. Grimjoy’s jaw clenched, eyes wide. Even they—heart-eaters, face-cloak wearers—had never seen cruelty this precise, this intimate. Conrad, watching from the shadows of the podium, said nothing. His face was unreadable, but his knuckles whitened on the railing.

  Barbara’s defiance shattered. She began to shake, tears streaming down her face. Her voice broke as she looked at Dudda—her little brother, the one she’d once protected from their mother’s insults.

  “Dudda… please… I’m your sister… mercy… I beg you… don’t do this…”

  Her voice rose, desperate, raw.

  “Dudda! Look at me! I’m begging you! Don’t let them—please, I’ll do anything, anything! Just stop this! I’m sorry—I was wrong—I shouldn’t have run—I shouldn’t have betrayed you—please, Dudda, please have mercy!”

  She sobbed, body trembling against the ropes, hair falling into her face.

  “I’m your sister… your little sister… remember when we were children? I held you when Mother yelled… I told you you were enough… please… don’t let them touch me… don’t let them… Dudda, please… I love you…”

  Her words dissolved into broken sobs.

  Dudda stood motionless, brown eyes flat. His voice, when it came, was the same soft monotone he’d used as a child—calm, rational, utterly devoid of warmth.

  “Sorry, sister. I couldn’t hear you over the sounds of the men having their way with you.”

  He turned away.

  The soldiers stepped forward. Barbara’s screams began—high, animal, unending. The prince roared, straining against his chains, tears streaming down his face as he watched the first men approach. The crowd, forced to witness, wept or looked away or stared in numb horror. Some turned on each other in grief and rage; others simply collapsed.

  Grimwald gripped the podium railing until the stone cracked. “Dudda… this is beyond cruelty. Even Father never—”

  Grimjoy cut him off, voice low, shaking. “He’s not Father. He’s worse. Look at him. He’s not even angry. He’s… satisfied.”

  Conrad remained silent, eyes on Dudda’s back. The youngest son had just broken the last boundary the family had left. And no one dared stop him.

  Dudda walked down from the podium, soft steps echoing on stone. Behind him, Barbara’s screams rose and fell, the prince’s roars turning to broken sobs. The crowd dispersed slowly, some fleeing, some joining the line of men waiting their turn. The moral boundary had been shattered. Generations of Frenchmen would carry the stain—rape and abuse normalized, justified by “revenge.”

  Dudda returned to his tent outside the city. He sat at his desk, opened a book, and began sketching new shield designs. On the shelf behind him, Laura’s head floated in its jar, eyes clouded but eternally watching.

  He smiled faintly.

  “Family is everything,” he murmured.

  And somewhere in Paris, a nation screamed.

  SCENE: Cruelty – The Brothers' Reckoning

  The great stone chamber in the east wing of Castle Catherine was dim, lit only by a low fire in the hearth and a single candelabrum on the heavy oak table. The air smelled of old wine, sweat, and the faint metallic tang that never quite left any room in the castle. Grimwald and Grimjoy sat slumped in high-backed chairs, armor discarded in piles on the floor, boots still on. Empty flagons littered the table between them. A half-drained cask of dark Burgundian red stood within arm's reach, its contents steadily diminishing.

  Grimwald’s massive hand closed around his cup, knuckles white. He stared into the fire, eyes glassy, voice thick with drink.

  “He killed her. One stab. One fucking stab and her head came off like it was nothing. I’ve seen men take ten blades to the gut and keep swinging. She didn’t even scream.”

  Grimjoy laughed—a low, broken sound that turned into a cough. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing wine across his chin.

  “She screamed plenty when Mother was alive. Every day. ‘Fat. Ugly. Weak. No woman will ever want you.’ Over and over. And we just… sat there. Like it was normal.”

  Grimwald’s head dropped. His voice cracked.

  “I should have said something. I should have told her to stop. But I didn’t. Neither did you. We were afraid of her. And now… now he’s worse than she ever was.”

  Grimjoy drained his cup in one long pull, then slammed it down so hard the stem snapped.

  “He’s not worse. He’s… different. Mother burned villages because she was bored. She ate flesh because she liked the taste. Dudda? He doesn’t enjoy it. He perfects it. The Doll. The Butterfly. The Slammer. The spiked shields. The heavy soldiers punching horses unconscious. The Army of Thieves stripping France to the bones. He plans it all like it’s mathematics. Like pain is just another equation to solve.”

  Grimwald rubbed his face, fingers trembling.

  “Father saw it too. You saw his face when he walked in. Conrad Catherine—the man who salted half of Europe—looked at his youngest son like he was staring at something he didn’t understand. Something he was afraid of.”

  Grimjoy leaned back, chair creaking under his weight.

  “He should be. Dudda’s not like us. We kill because we can. Dudda kills because it’s Efficient. Because it fits the plan. Mother broke him—every day, every insult, every time she said he was less than us. She made him feel unwanted, ugly, weak. And he turned that into… this.”

  He gestured vaguely at the castle walls, at the world beyond.

  “He lost the ability to love. To feel anything. And now he’s the most violent one of all—not with swords, but with ideas . Psychological cruelty. He turned France into a message. ‘Catherine or die.’ And he meant it. He didn’t even blink when they started with Barbara.”

  Grimwald’s voice dropped to a whisper.

  “I heard her begging. My own sister. Screaming for him to stop. ‘Dudda, I’m your sister. I love you. Please.’ And he just… looked at her. Like she was a variable in a calculation. ‘Sorry, sister. I couldn’t hear you over the sounds of the men having their way with you.’”

  Grimjoy shuddered.

  “Even Father didn’t stop him. Conrad sat there at the dinner table, eating her flesh like it was roast lamb. Didn’t say a word. Just nodded. ‘Waste not.’ That’s all he said. ‘Waste not.’”

  Grimwald stared into the fire again.

  “I keep thinking… if I’d spoken up when we were children. If I’d told Mother to leave him alone. If I’d protected him instead of letting her tear him apart every day… maybe he wouldn’t have become this. Maybe he’d still feel something.”

  Grimjoy laughed again—bitter, hollow.

  “Too late, brother. Mother made him a monster. Father made him useful. And now he’s the one holding the leash. We’re lucky he hasn’t turned on us.”

  Grimwald drained the last of the wine from the broken cup.

  “I’m afraid he might. One day. When we’re no longer useful.”

  Grimjoy leaned forward, elbows on the table, head in his hands.

  “Then we’ll be next. On the table. Or in a jar. Or worse.”

  The fire popped. The candles guttered.

  Grimwald’s voice was barely audible.

  “I miss Mother.”

  Grimjoy looked at him, eyes bloodshot.

  “So do I. And that’s the worst part.”

  They sat in silence after that, two killers drunk on wine and guilt, while somewhere in the castle, Dudda Catherine worked by candlelight, Laura’s head floating in its jar beside him, watching with clouded eyes as he sketched the next horror.

  The Catherine brothers passed out where they sat, heads on the table, armor scattered around them like broken promises.

  Outside, the wind carried the faint, distant sound of Paris still screaming.