London, just days after the Whitechapel massacre.
The fog descended so thick it smothered even the gas lamps, their yellow glow flickering weakly like dying breaths.
Someone gripped Charles's hand in the middle of the foul-smelling, muddy street.
"Move quickly, boy," hissed an old man in tattered clothes. "Before they come back."
Charles obeyed, but his steps were sluggish, dragging.
His eyes were empty. His hair, filthy and disheveled. His worn trousers soaked in mud.
Since that night, he hadn't cried.
He had run out of tears.
He didn't know who this man was.
Maybe one of the brothel's old servants who survived. Or just a kind stranger who felt pity.
It didn't matter.
Only one thing did—
His mother was dead.
And he was alone.
---
They stopped before a tall, black iron gate.
A grand mansion loomed ahead, a world apart from where Charles came from—
Tall pillars, stained glass windows, and above the massive wooden doors, the family crest: a winged lion with crossed swords.
Charles stared blankly at it. "What is this place…?"
"This is the Milverton estate," the man whispered. "You'll live here now."
Before Charles could speak, the door opened.
A woman in black stood atop the marble steps, sharp-eyed and stern.
She was just the head maid, yet her presence outmatched that of any soldier.
"Come in," she said coldly.
Charles stepped inside.
Each wet footstep left muddy stains on the polished white stone floor.
The towering walls were lined with ancestral portraits—
Noble faces, their smug smiles frozen in time, staring down from ancient canvases.
At the end of the grand hall, a woman stood.
Her silver hair was neatly pinned, her black dress adorned with white lace, and her eyes as cold as a winter storm.
Lady Lilian Milverton.
The last noble of the Milverton line.
She gazed at Charles for a long time.
He met her eyes—not with fear, but with a lifeless calm.
"So... this is Marianne's child," she murmured.
"...You knew my mother?" Charles asked quietly.
"Of course. She was my sister."
Lady Lilian turned away, gesturing to the servants for tea.
"You never should've walked away from this family, Marianne."
She glanced back. "That's why I brought you here."
Charles lowered his gaze. "I don't need your pity."
"I'm not offering it," Lilian replied sharply.
Then she stepped closer, lowering herself to meet his eyes.
"But you're still a child, Charles.
The world shouldn't be this cruel to you."
For the first time, Charles's face tensed.
His lips trembled ever so slightly.
"They… stabbed my mother… over and over," his voice cracked. "They laughed while doing it."
Lilian froze.
Then, slowly, she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"It hurts, doesn't it, Charles?"
He gave no answer.
---
That night, he was given a room of his own on the upper floor.
A soft bed. Warm blankets.
But he couldn't sleep.
Moonlight streamed through the tall windows.
Charles sat in the corner, hugging his knees.
"Mother…" he whispered.
The night breeze slipped through the cracks in the glass.
The curtains swayed gently.
And then... something shifted.
The air in the room grew heavy.
As if unseen eyes were watching from the shadows.
Charles lifted his head.
A voice came.
Soft. Hissing. But clear.
"You hate them, don't you?"
He turned quickly.
No one was there.
But the voice spoke again—
From behind the wall, or perhaps from within himself.
"If you seek revenge… call upon me."
A sudden chill froze the back of his neck.
His hands trembled.
"Who… who are you?"
"Someone who hears the cries of children the world has abandoned."
---
The next morning, Charles acted as though nothing had happened.
But those eyes… the ones once so full of joy, had turned into frozen seas.
Lilian noticed.
Everyone in that house did.
Three years passed.
Charles grew up in silence.
He studied Latin, noble etiquette, philosophy, even fencing.
He became a brilliant boy—
But also… too calm.
Far too calm.
Until, one stormy night, tragedy struck again.
As rain poured relentlessly over London, the servants fled in panic.
But Charles…
He stood frozen at the main staircase.
Before him—
Lady Lilian and the entire Milverton family lay scattered across the marble floor.
Blood streamed down the steps.
The front door had been smashed open.
The bandits were already fleeing.
One of them turned back and saw the boy.
He stepped forward—
Grabbed him—
And struck his head until everything went dark.
---
When Charles awoke, he was inside an iron cage.
The sun scorched his skin.
Whips cracked. Screams echoed in the air.
"Get up, slave! Don't play dead!"
He had been sold.
As a slave.
And so began his accursed tale...
---