The morning sunlight spilled across the Elios estate like molten gold, cascading through tall arched windows and spilling onto polished marble floors. The rays caught the gilded railings along the balconies, making them glitter like threads of spun gold. In the tallest spires, firebirds perched, their feathers flickering and burning softly, the glow reflected in the polished windows. They sang a melody that was both haunting and enchanting, weaving through the air and touching the magically enchanted gardens below. Each bloom bent slightly toward the sun as if acknowledging the song, opening with a grace that made even the most practised gardener pause in wonder.
Every corner of the estate breathed magic. Faint runes were traced along the walls, their edges pulsing with soft blue light, invisible to most but ever-present. Enchanted trinkets—delicate birds carved from moonstone, silver bells that rang with no wind, and mirrors that reflected only the truth—hummed in nooks, tracking every movement, glance, and whisper. This was not merely a house—it was a living fortress of observation, protection, and subtle power, steeped in tradition so deep it seemed the stones themselves held memory.
Solan Elios sat on the edge of his bed, the embroidered coverlet twisted beneath his clenched fists. His body was stiff, pulse racing as if he had just run the length of the estate's endless corridors. Sweat clung to his temples, cold and uncomfortable, while the air around him seemed too thick to breathe. He struggled to disentangle himself from the remnants of a dream—or was it memory?—that pressed against his mind like smoke seeping through a locked door.
Faces, voices, laughter, and tears crowded together, vivid, unrelenting. He saw her clearly: Thalia, her laughter bright and warm as sunlight, her determination unwavering, the subtle tremor in her hands whenever danger or heartbreak threatened.
Every joy, every loss, every bond she had forged felt more real than the gilded chamber he now inhabited. The sensation of her presence clung to him, stronger than the silk sheets or the scent of lavender that lingered in the room. He remembered the warmth of friendship, the sting of betrayal, and the ache of longing for a world that no longer seemed accessible. Was he haunted by her memory, or by who he himself had been?
And yet… everything here—the mirrors, the carved furniture, the polished floors, the magical trinkets—felt hollow. This life cannot be mine. Or perhaps it is real, but it is not me. He felt like a ghost forced to play a role, a character trapped in a story scripted by another's hand.
A chill ran through him. I am the villain.
The thought burned. In Thalia's book, The Sealed Secret, he had been cast as the figure everyone feared, the one whose actions caused suffering and chaos. Now, in this gilded reality—or illusion—he carried that burden. Everything he did would be judged, scrutinized, twisted. Everyone would see him as the villain if he were not careful.
He pressed a hand to his chest, forcing his heartbeat to slow.
A shadow fell across the sunlight, unmoving, as if it sought to shield Solan from the world's glare—or perhaps to mark him as an intruder in his own home. Beyond the window, Alian crossed the balcony with a calculated grace, his long blue hair shimmering like a banner, each step radiating control and cold disdain. For an instant, Solan felt a fleeting sense of protection, but it withered quickly, replaced by that familiar pinch of fear tightening in his chest. Alian, his elder brother, was the embodiment of the perfect noble: composed, commanding, untouchable. Solan's place in the family was always precarious—a role measured and scrutinized from every angle. Every polished floor, every gilded railing, every winding garden path was a stage, and Solan had been thrust onto it without ever being asked.
The head butler appeared, sharp as a shadow, arms crossed, eyes calculating. "Observing again, Master Solan? Curiosity is a dangerous habit. Remember your place. Not everything in this house exists for your attention."
Solan didn't need to turn to sense the butler's gaze—he could feel its chill pressing between his shoulder blades, hear the judgment in every syllable. Silence stretched, punctuated only by the rising chorus of birds outside and the soft shuffle of servants moving purposefully through the now-open doorway.
Not existing for Solan's attention. He scoffed inwardly—was he truly so dangerous that even a glance at his brother was forbidden, lest his supposed curse taint the family's golden heir? Was this how all Elios nobles were treated, or was this particular coldness reserved only for him and his younger sister, Lunaria?
The answer was as clear as the morning light: only those deemed unworthy bore such disregard. They were neither respected nor loved by their father or by Alian, and the servants, free from fear of reprisal, let their contempt show in a hundred subtle ways.
This was the world Solan had grown up in: a palace of beauty and magic, yet for him, a place of careful calculation, small humiliations, and the constant ache of being other.
Solan straightened, voice calm, measured. "I… I am aware. And present."
His words floated in the charged air, brittle as spun glass.
The head butler's reply was immediate, his tone slicing through the room.
"Aware, yes," he said, every syllable as sharp as a blade. "But do not confuse awareness with power. The family watches closely. Not all who serve this estate serve your interests. Remember that."
The warning was thinly veiled, a reminder that every gesture, every word, was seen and judged.
Each word reinforced the delicate balance Solan had to navigate every moment. Of course, they watched. Of course they did. Everything here was a test, a trap, a lesson. I must be careful. Always careful. The weight of scrutiny pressed down on him, an invisible shroud he could never quite shrug off.
A flicker at the edge of the sunlight caught his eye.
At first, he thought it was a reflection from one of the gilded mirrors, but the movement was too fluid, too deliberate. It twisted and coalesced into a form, a ripple in the air that seemed to drink up the light. Pointed ears, hair flowing like molten gold, and eyes glowing with an ancient, calm light. The figure hovered effortlessly a few feet above the polished floor, otherworldly and impossible.
Solan froze, breath caught in his throat, as the magic in the room seemed to thrum in time with his heartbeat.
He scanned the room quickly, mind racing. The head butler remained at the doorway, a silent sentinel. Footmen polished silver trays with uncanny precision, moving in practised, synchronized steps, and the tea-serving lady glided gracefully across the room, balancing a steaming tray of lavender-scented tea.
Not a single servant seemed to notice the shimmering being. It was as if he alone was caught between worlds. They cannot see it. His pulse quickened. What is it? Magic? Or something… worse?
The questions spiralled, hungry and insistent, but he kept his composure, masking his alarm behind a practised neutrality.
Then, a voice brushed against his mind—not aloud, but undeniably present. Its touch was gentle, yet its presence was impossible to ignore, like the sudden hush before a storm.
Do not be afraid. I am here because of you. Your path begins. When the time comes, we may move forward together.
Solan's instincts screamed caution. Blessing? Path? Forward? Who are you? Why can no one else see you? Uncertainty twisted in his gut. He had been taught that magic in the Elios estate was ever-present, but this was something different—something singular. He let his eyes roam the room, watching the head butler, the tea lady, footmen, and even the faint wards that hummed beneath the floor. He kept his thoughts shielded, mind wrapped in secrecy as tightly as the wards that protected the estate.
No one can know—not Raven, not anyone. Not yet. The being tilted its head curiously, golden eyes unblinking, studying him with a patience that felt both endless and unsettling.
In that gaze, Solan sensed intelligence, power, and something else—expectation.
You do not frighten me, he projected into its mind, the words formed from will rather than voice.
I do not know what you are. And I will not trust you.
The act of mental communication was draining, but he would not show weakness, not to this presence, not to anyone.
The reply was smooth, deliberate, almost soothing.
Then observe. Learn. I will wait. I am bound to you, Master. When the time comes, you may name me, and our journey may begin.
The presence's words resonated with a strange gravity, deliberate and intelligent, as if it had waited centuries for this moment.
Suspicion lingered, heavy and immovable. This being was powerful, maybe dangerous, but also strange and persistent. Solan analyzed every ripple of magic, every subtle motion. If this is a test, I will pass it. If it is a trap, I will survive it. And if it is… something else… I will learn it.
There would be no room for mistakes, not in a house where one misstep could mean ruin.
The tea lady moved past, placing her tray delicately on a side table, bowing slightly. Her lavender-scented hair brushed lightly against her cheek, a small detail that caught Solan's attention. A faint tremble betrayed her composure, likely due to the head butler's scrutiny. Solan's gaze caught it—every detail mattered.
Observation, planning, and patience were his only tools. In this house, knowledge was often the only form of power available to him.
Raven emerged from the shadows, amber eyes flicking to the head butler and back to Solan. Silent, patient, protective. He was the one constant in a world of watching eyes and hidden dangers.
Solan did not speak of the dream, the memories, or the unseen presence. Not yet. The time would come when silence would no longer suffice, but for now, secrecy was his armour.
A voice—soft, almost teasing—echoed in his mind:
You have been written as a villain. Do you accept that role?
I do not accept anything yet, Solan projected firmly.
His resolve solidifies. I will survive. I will understand. I will decide my own actions.
He would not be a puppet, not for the estate, not for anyone—not even for fate itself:
Patience, Master. You are more than the story, more than the role assigned. But the past has not forgotten you.
Memories of Thalia pressed harder now—the laughter, the tears, the bonds with Iris, the regrets. The life he now lived felt like a lie, a mask over truths he could scarcely touch. The ache of loss mingled with the sharp edge of purpose.
Solan clung to memories as both warning and motivation. His gaze swept the estate again. Wards hummed faintly, corridors stretched into shadowed corners, and hidden alcoves waited in silence. The polished floors reflected the firebirds' flickering flames overhead, their fiery wings painting the marble with ghostly colour. Every step of the servants, every glance from the butler, every movement from Raven, was a piece of a puzzle.
Knowledge was power. Observation was survival. A sudden sound—a soft, metallic clink—drew his attention. A footman had dropped a silver tray, but the sound was swallowed by a protective ward before reaching the butler.
Small details, unnoticed by anyone but Solan, layered the estate like a web, each thread vibrating with hidden meaning.
The elf-like presence shifted, golden hair flowing as it hovered.
You must learn patience, observation, and control, it whispered into his mind.
Everything here is a stage. Everything you see has meaning. I am bound to you, and your survival depends on understanding this world before revealing yourself.
Solan allowed himself a slow breath. Memories of Thalia whispered in his mind, powerful, unshakable. This life felt unreal, but he had to navigate it carefully. I am the villain in the story—but I will be more. I will survive. And one day… I will control the story .
Even as he closed his eyes, letting sunlight wash over his face, the elf-like being lingered, patient and watchful, bound in ways he did not yet understand.
Solan Elios—haunted by a life not his own, suspicious of the golden presence no one else could see, guided by Raven's quiet loyalty, and weighed by the knowledge of the villain he was written to be—took the first careful step into a story he once believed he could not command.
But in this moment, as the day's light grew stronger and the estate's magic pulsed quietly beneath his feet, a new resolve began to take root within him. Solan would not simply endure—he would learn. He would gather secrets, decipher loyalties, and test the boundaries of his supposed villainy. For every eye that watched, he would observe in turn. For every judgment passed, he would measure those who judged.
Yet confusion still tangled his thoughts. Determination was distant and wavering, outshone by uncertainty and the strange sense of being swept up in a story he could not fully grasp. Somewhere, deep within, the faintest spark of hope flickered: that one day, he might understand the rules of this world—might even make sense of his own role, whether villain, hero, or something neither had ever imagined.