The wind blew through the narrow alleys of Takoba, carrying cold rain in sharp, slanting lines.
Each drop hit the stone streets like a soft ticking, marking time for a sorrow long forgotten.
Aaron Hotveil walked alone.
His steps were slow, weighed down by more than just tiredness.
His once-fine clothes were soaked and torn, clinging to his skin like a heavy shroud.
Rain dripped from his dark hair onto a face that looked too young for such quiet sadness.
His strange, sky-blue eyes stood out—an unusual color in a world of gray.
No one else in his family had eyes like his.
It should have meant something.
For eighteen years, Aaron lived inside the cold walls of the Hotveil estate.
He slept in stone rooms, stared at silent mirrors, and wandered endless hallways where voices quickly faded.
But he never belonged.
The servants whispered behind doors. His siblings watched him from a distance. His father rarely looked his way—and never for long.
Then came the words that broke everything.
"You are not of our blood. Leave this house. Do not return."
No anger. No sadness. Just a final command.
Aaron stood frozen in the warmth of the study, as if the air had been sucked out.
His father—always distant—stood like a statue, unreadable and unmoved.
"Eighteen years… and now I'm nothing?"
He wanted to scream. To ask why. To cry.
But nothing came.
He swallowed hard, feeling the cold weight of rejection settle deep inside him.
Everything made sense now—the cold looks, the silence, the way the house never made room for him.
He was never meant to stay.
So he left. No explanations. No goodbyes.
Just a torn coat, bare feet, and a small canvas bag holding one thing: a worn leather sketchbook.
The only thing that ever felt truly his.
The storm swallowed him whole.
---
Three days passed.
No bed. No food. Just cold stone streets and empty faces.
Takoba became a blur of alleys and locked doors. No one stopped. No one cared.
By the fourth morning, his strength was nearly gone. He moved with numb hands and shallow breaths—until something caught his eye.
A faded paper, nailed crookedly next to a bakery door.
Help Wanted – Live-in Servant. Steady pay. Full board.
Location: Gizana District. Residence of Lord Frankfurt Pierce.
Gizana.
He had heard stories—of marble mansions and silver fountains. Nobles with quiet voices and sharp smiles.
But what did he have left to lose?
---
Two days later, after trading a sketch for a ride in a merchant's cart, Aaron stood before the Pierce estate.
It rose on a hill like something out of a storybook.
Tall iron gates twisted like thorns. Perfect gardens stretched beyond, the grass unnaturally green, the flowers too flawless.
Before he could knock, the gate creaked open.
A man in a gray uniform stepped out. Pale-skinned. Sharp features. His silver eyes gave away nothing.
"You here for the job?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'm Kain. Follow me."
---
The garden was eerily silent. Roses trimmed into chess pieces lined the path. Their scent was overpowering, almost fake.
Inside, the mansion was dim. Paintings of unknown ancestors stared from every wall, their eyes cold and judging.
At last, Kain stopped at tall polished doors.
"Speak only when spoken to. Lord Pierce doesn't like chatter."
The doors opened.
The room beyond shimmered with cold luxury—gold chandeliers, crimson curtains, silence that pressed like ice.
At its center sat Lord Frankfurt Pierce.
Tall. Pale. Wrapped in deep blue robes embroidered with shifting silver symbols that seemed to move when you weren't looking.
His amber eyes burned slowly, glowing with something hidden beneath.
He didn't rise.
"Come closer."
Aaron obeyed, his heart pounding louder than his footsteps.
"Name?"
"Aaron Hotveil, sir."
A pause.
Then a faint, unsettling smile touched Lord Pierce's lips.
"Strange. I thought you'd look... different."
He circled Aaron slowly, studying him like a puzzle missing pieces.
"You'll serve as my personal attendant. Your room is on the second floor, west wing, next to the library. You'll learn the rules."
Aaron opened his mouth.
"Thank you, sir—"
But Lord Pierce's voice cut through him sharply.
"Understand this: leaving this estate is not easy."