Is that a trick question?

"He stole father's love from me. I will take everything from him" —Robbin, the Heir of Holloway.

Everyone has something that they hate doing with the very fibre of their being. Things that makes their skin crawl. For you, your poison is answering in deference to the egotistical and entitled boy that is unfortunately, the heir of Holloway and your same aged half brother: Robbin.

"Have you cleaned the stables?" The fat dictator asks, seated in the shade of a parasol while you stand in front of him, practically cooking in the hot sun.

"Yes." You reply, trying to keep the vitriol out of your one worded answer but failed miserably.

If Robbin heard the crossness, he gives no indication of it whatsoever as he lazily reaches into a bowl of juicy cherries on the pedestal beside him and pop one into his wide mouth before firing. "And walked the horses?"

"Yes." Bile is rushing into your mouth at this point. You don't know how much of this you can take.

"Has the hay been bundled and stored like I wanted them to?"

"Yes--Robbin," you say in clear exasperation.

"Is that Robbin I hear you say, mutt?" His voice is now lower, with a hint of dagger.

"Sorry, Lord Robbin. It was a slip of the tongue." You quickly allay him before he blows his top.

"A slip of the tongue, eh? I bet your tongue won't slip when you are cleaning the library." He says before laughing at his own joke. How narcissistic. It is also his indirect way of committing you to another task, one that he had undoubtedly contrived because you remember cleaning the library before heading out this morning. You are more or less his favorite servant in all of the Manor, and that bodes ill for your being. Offering a stiff bow to him as he waves you away, you turn on your heels, in the direction of the manor.

The amount of space that makes up the Holloway's courtyard never ceases to amaze you. The vast strong, fertile lands that is the main source of the House's wealth goes on forever with no end in sight. And none of it is yours to inherit, but for Robbin, the true born heir. Robbin with his large pink face, neck drowned in fat, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair that lays smoothly on his thick, fat head. Robbin, that as far as you are concerned, looks less like a noble and more like a pig. Robbin that is spoiled, cruel, sadistic and treats the servants like dirt. Robbin that... Your list of his failings goes on and on. It's just, were the both of you not fathered by the same cock? Didn't your mothers suffer the same untold amount of pain when birthing you? Yours more than his anyways. Bastards and nobles are all sired the same way. Then, why must he enjoy and you struggle? Those thoughts course through your head just as the manor shows up ahead.

It is no fort like the King's castle, but it is still worthy of an Earl, the rank held by your late father. It is the color of gray sky nestled behind a stour garden thick with vegetative topiaries and fleshy pink flowers, surrounded by tall grim walls that would be quite an hurdle for a rogue and any other likemind to climb. The gigantic double doors of the entrance, flanked by pillars and ornamented with old-fashioned curlicues, gives nought a creak as you push them open. The great hall that you meet is grand indeed, with vaulted ceilings and two camps of stern rose-stone statuary glaring at each other in rival neat rows lining each wall. Intricate tapestries covers the walls, woven with the finest threads and beaded with mother-of-pearl and obsidian. They narrate scenes from the lives of gods and heroes, many of which you recognize: Yahweh's creation of the universe, King Arthur's conquest against the Gauls, Beowulf slaying Grendel, and Sir Galahad on his quest for the holy grail. Everything here, from the vases, to the long tables and chairs, to the artistically drawn portraits on the wall, down to the candelabrum, is meant to intimidate and remind all of the power of Holloways.

Girlish giggles reach your ears and breaks through your reflections. When you turn to look, it is your half sister, Lydia, with her entourage of handmaids descending the central stairs. When she notices you standing there and looks at you with her amber doe eyes, your heart skips a beat. You certainly don't need a magical mirror on the wall to tell you that she is fairest maiden you have ever seen. She looks nothing like her brother, instead lithe with wonderful curves that her stately, lilac gown accentuates very well. You notice that she stares at you more and you quickly avert your eyes and head on your way. Somehow, you are more afraid of offending her than you are of Robbin, so you have never spoken even a ounce to her. Maybe one day, you can finally work up the courage to say something to the heiress, but that day is not today. It is off to clean the library for now.