The world came to me in fragments—the rough timbre of a voice, the sting of a palm striking my cheek, the dull throb of exhaustion weighing down my limbs.
"Get up, boy. It's already morning."
Before my mind could fully grasp the words, something cold and unforgiving splashed against my face. A shock of icy wetness snapped my eyes open, my breath hitching as the chill seeped into my skin. The murky darkness of my surroundings greeted me instead of the warm glow of morning. The only light in the cell came from a small, jagged hole near the ceiling, a feeble thing that barely pierced the gloom.
Before me stood a man—tall, broad-shouldered, his frame casting an imposing shadow against the damp stone walls. His face was carved from something unyielding, his expression devoid of warmth. But it was his eyes that unsettled me most. Cold, empty, and indifferent.
"Now that you've finished washing up, why not get back to work?"
I blinked, the chill of the water still clinging to my lashes. Slowly, I turned my gaze downward, catching my own reflection in the shallow puddle at my feet—hollowed cheeks, pale skin smudged with dirt, eyes that did not belong to a child.
"What? Still not awake?"
A sharp pain bloomed in my gut as the man's boot drove into my stomach. The force of it sent me sprawling onto the damp stone floor, my body curling in on itself instinctively.
"Ouch!"
A strangled breath escaped me as I fought the wave of nausea that followed.
I glared up at him through strands of wet hair, my breaths shallow but steady. Even as pain laced my ribs, even as my body trembled under the strain of hunger and exhaustion, I refused to look away.
"How dare a slave glare at me?"
A hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back with a vicious tug. Pain shot across my scalp, sharp and immediate, but I did not cry out. I clenched my jaw, biting down the sound that threatened to escape.
"Boy, don't test my patience. I'm not in the mood for insolence today."
His fingers dug into my scalp, pulling harder, forcing my neck into an unnatural angle.
"And if you push me any further, I might just forget to hold back. I'd hate to damage something my master paid a hefty sum for."
Arthur had always been a side character destined to fade into the background. Nowhere in the story was it ever mentioned that he had been kidnapped, sold into slavery, or worse, left to wither away from hunger and exhaustion.
The steady sound of rain reached my ears, a quiet pattering that softened the oppressive silence of the cell. The dim light that filtered through the hole above flickered as storm clouds rolled in, shrouding the basement in an even deeper darkness.
Then, a voice broke through the stillness.
"Sir Samuel, master is asking for you."
The grip on my hair loosened. Samuel—so that was his name—clicked his tongue in annoyance, then turned his attention to the newcomer.
"Why now of all times?"
"A guest is expected to arrive shortly," came the calm reply.
A slow smirk spread across my lips before I could stop it.
I knew exactly what was about to happen.
"Huh? Have you lost your damn mind, you little brat?"
A brat. A bastard.
That's what he always calls me—spitting the words like venom. If only he knew the blood that ran through my veins, the noble lineage etched into my very bones.
Samuel's eyes darkened as he seized my jaw, his fingers pressing into my skin with bruising force.
"Tsk, answer when I ask a question."
His grip tightened as if daring me to defy him. But before he could escalate further, the guard at the door shifted uneasily.
"Sir Samuel, the master is waiting."
Samuel exhaled sharply, releasing me with a rough shove.
"Tch. You got lucky today."
With that, he turned and strode toward the exit, leaving me alone in the damp cell.
Not long after, the heavy creak of the basement door signaled new arrivals. The sound of footsteps—steady, deliberate—echoed against the stone walls. A rhythmic tap followed, measured and commanding, the unmistakable sound of a cane meeting the ground.
I knew who it was before he even came into view.
A figure stepped into the dim light, his presence casting an oppressive weight over the space.
Earl Frederick Ashbourne—My father.
Even in the darkness, I could see the unmistakable resemblance. The same jet-black hair, the same sharp, unyielding features, the same gaze that held no warmth. He stood as if the world itself bent to his will.
"Richard," he spoke, his voice low, firm.
A man stepped forward—perhaps a former soldier. His gaze softened upon meeting mine, but every motion he made was sharp, deliberate, honed by discipline.
"Young master, are you hurt anywhere?"
His tone held genuine concern as he knelt before me, producing a handkerchief and wiping the blood from my lips. His hands were rough, calloused, but careful.
"Young master...?" he prompted again.
I did not answer.
Richard's brows furrowed as he surveyed me, noting the bruises forming beneath my dirtied shirt. A shadow of something dark passed over his face, but he said nothing.
The Baron—my captor—attempted to speak.
"L-Lord Ashbour—"
A gunshot rang out.
The sound was deafening, shattering the stale air like thunder. The Baron collapsed, blood pooling beneath him, his body stilling in an instant.
I flinched. My breath hitched as my fingers curled into the tattered fabric of my shirt.
Frederick turned away, his expression unchanged.
"Now that we have him, let's leave."
"Yes, master."
With practiced efficiency, Richard shed his cloak and draped it over my shoulders. It was far too large, the fabric pooling around me, swallowing my frame. His fingers gently adjusted the hood, pulling it low to obscure my face.
"Young master, please bear with me for a moment."
Without hesitation, he lifted me into his arms.
"You may rest now. When you wake up, you will be home."
His voice was steady, unwavering. His embrace—though strong and firm—was warm.
As we moved through the blood-streaked corridors, the scent of death clung to the air. Samuel's lifeless body lay among the others, his cold eyes staring at nothing.
Richard shifted slightly, attempting to shield my gaze with the cloak, but the metallic tang of blood still filled my lungs.
We reached the carriage, and even as we settled inside, Richard did not release me. His arms remained steady, his hand running down my back in slow, soothing motions.
For the first time in months, warmth enveloped me, and exhaustion began to pull me under.
The last thing I remembered was the rhythmic sound of rain against the carriage roof, a soft, persistent lullaby that carried me into darkness.
***
The soft, golden light of the morning seeped through the heavy curtains, casting long, languid streaks across the room. It crept over the dark wooden floor, kissed the edges of the ornate furniture, and finally reached me, drawing me from the depths of slumber with its persistent warmth.
I stirred, my breathing slow and measured, as the remnants of sleep clung stubbornly to my senses. The world around me felt distant, muffled, as though I still straddled the thin boundary between dream and wakefulness. My fingers twitched against the smooth silk sheets, and I blinked several times, my vision adjusting to the shifting interplay of light and shadow.
With a quiet sigh, I stretched my arms above my head, rolling my shoulders to dispel the last vestiges of sleep. But before I could fully savor the tranquility of the morning, a sharp, deliberate knock shattered the silence.
Knock. Knock.
"Master, are you awake?"
A voice—cool, professional, and measured.
I exhaled slowly before answering, my voice thick with the weight of slumber.
"Yes. Come in, Julia."
The door creaked open, and she stepped inside.
Julia moved with a precision that was almost unnerving, her every action calculated to the finest detail. Her posture was flawless, her steps measured, her uniform immaculate—without a single wrinkle or sign of haste. Even the way she lowered her head slightly, a gesture of deference, felt deliberate. She was, in every way, the model of a perfect servant.
And yet, I knew better than to be deceived.
"Good morning, master. Did you sleep well?"
I studied her as she spoke, her expression unreadable, her tone lacking even the faintest inflection of warmth.
"Yes." I answered smoothly.
Julia.
She was not simply a maid.
A mere servant would not have been assigned to me by my grandfather. Not in this household. Her every movement, every carefully crafted expression, spoke of training—training that far exceeded the duties of a mere attendant.
I had little doubt she was here to watch me.
Perhaps a spy, tasked with reporting every word and action back to my grandfather. Perhaps something worse. The Ashbourne family had never been one for sentimentality, and loyalty was a fragile thing in the face of power.
Because of this, I was careful.
Every word I spoke was measured, every expression controlled. I had lived a lifetime before this one—I knew the weight of secrets, the consequences of a misplaced word. I could not afford to let my guard slip, not even for a moment.
"Shall I prepare your bath, or would you prefer to freshen up at the basin?"
The question was spoken with polite detachment, as though my choice held no consequence.
"I believe I shall bathe," I said, rising from the bed.
Julia inclined her head. "As you wish, master."
She turned gracefully, her movements smooth as clockwork, and made her way toward the adjoining bathroom.
Just before she reached the door, I spoke again, my tone casual—deliberately so.
"Julia."
She froze mid-step, her silhouette framed by the dim light filtering through the bathroom door. Her head tilted slightly, just enough to acknowledge me, but she did not fully turn.
"Yes, master?" she asked, her voice as calm and precise as ever, soft yet edged with quiet efficiency.
I reached toward the drawer beside my bed, the wood gliding open with a muted scrape. My fingers closed around a cold, flat object—the token. Brass, circular, etched with a sigil only a few in the city would recognize. I held it out to her, letting it rest in my open palm like an unspoken order.
"Take this to the Lock & Key Mercantile," I said calmly, my voice clipped and deliberate. "And give it to the man behind the counter. Say nothing—just hand it over. He'll know what to do. He'll give you a briefcase. Bring it back to me… untouched."
Julia stepped forward soundlessly, the muted rustle of her clothing the only sign of movement. She accepted the token with the same meticulous grace she applied to every action, as if even a breath out of place would disrupt the balance of the world.
"I understood, master," she said, and then without another word, turned on her heel.
The door eased shut behind her. A moment later, I heard the soft hiss of water flowing from the tap, echoing in the silence like the prelude to something deeper.
And in that hush, I let my gaze linger on the now-closed door, the air tinged faintly with steam and unsaid things.
For a moment, I remained seated on the edge of the bed, my fingers running idly through my tousled hair.
The scent of polished wood, aged parchment, and faint traces of cologne clung to the air, mingling with the distant aroma of tea and fresh bread that no doubt drifted from the kitchens below.
I drew a breath, slow and deliberate, before rising to my feet. The floor beneath me was cold—stone chilled overnight—its touch a quiet reminder that comfort had no place here. But that cold steadied me. It grounded me, anchored me in the present.
The day had begun.