The Kael mansion stood on Blackthorn's cliffs. Its stone walls defied the coastal winds. Arched windows glinted like eyes, watching the town below. Gargoyles snarled from the eaves, daring the sea to challenge them.
Inside, chandeliers cast golden light. Polished mahogany gleamed, but the warmth was a lie. The mansion was a tomb for Elias Kael. The third son, he was buried alive by his family's indifference.
Elias was sixteen, a shadow in the opulence. His slight frame and dark hair blended into the corridors. Gray eyes hid behind bangs. He was unseen, even in his own home.
The Kaels were a dynasty of five siblings. Gideon, the eldest, was the heir, commanding every room. Caspian, the second son, was the favorite, his charm lighting the halls. Celeste and Marina, the daughters, shone in their mother's favor.
Elias was the afterthought. The spare, as his father called him. He stood in the dining hall doorway, clutching Wuthering Heights. Its pages were worn from countless readings.
The table was set for six. Lord Reginald, Lady Beatrice, and the four favored siblings. Elias's place was empty. No plate, no glass, no trace of him.
Beatrice adjusted a napkin, her silk gown whispering. Reginald pored over a ledger, muttering about ships. Gideon reviewed a contract, his voice steady. Caspian sketched, his laughter bright.
Celeste sipped tea, scanning a letter. Marina hummed, arranging flowers. Elias shifted, the floor creaking. He hoped someone would notice his book, see him.
He cleared his throat. "Mother," he said, voice soft. Beatrice's hand paused, but her gaze stayed fixed. No one looked up.
"Mother, I'm here," he tried, louder. His voice cracked with desperation. The words vanished, swallowed by the room's hum. Beatrice smoothed her gown, unmoved.
Gideon's voice didn't falter. Caspian's pencil scratched on. Celeste glanced up, eyes sliding past him. Marina's humming resumed, soft and careless.
Elias's chest tightened. The ache was sharp, familiar. He backed away, the book heavy. The door closed softly behind him.
The fight with Caspian had changed everything. A month ago, at the family's gala, Elias had served drinks. He was awkward in a borrowed suit. His role was to stay out of sight.
He'd tripped on a rug. A glass of red wine spilled across Caspian's painting. The seascape, a trophy in the ballroom, bled red. The room froze, every eye on Elias.
"You clumsy fool," Caspian hissed. His voice carried to every guest. "You don't belong here." His charm turned to venom.
Elias stammered an apology. His face burned with shame. Caspian turned to Beatrice. "Why do we keep him around?"
Beatrice's eyes narrowed. Her lips tightened, a look Elias knew too well. Her disdain for him, always there, grew tenfold. Her silence was a sentence.
The next morning, his place at breakfast was gone. No one commented. His words went unanswered, his presence ignored. Beatrice's hatred was a wall, unyielding.
Reginald called him "the spare" in private. Elias overheard it through a cracked door. Gideon, once kind, looked through him. Celeste and Marina followed their mother's lead.
The servants mirrored the family. They stopped seeing Elias. He was invisible, not by choice but by design. A punishment for existing.
Elias fought it at first. He lingered in doorways, hoping for a glance. He left notes on Beatrice's desk. I'm still here. Please.
The notes were crumpled in wastebins. He shouted once, at dinner, voice raw. The room stilled, but no one answered. Beatrice's gaze flicked to him, cold, then away.
He stopped trying. He moved silently, a ghost in his own home. He ate scraps in the kitchen after hours. Slept in his small east wing room, overlooking the cliffs.
The mansion was vast enough to hide in. But it was more than a refuge. It was alive. Elias felt it, a pulse in the walls.
He noticed it weeks ago. Gas lamps flickered in the west wing, though freshly lit. Cold spots bloomed in the library, his breath fogging. Footsteps echoed at night, stopping outside his door.
He started mapping them. A tattered notebook held his sketches. X's for flickering lamps, circles for cold spots. Jagged lines for noises that shouldn't exist.
The attic haunted him most. The family never went there. It was a labyrinth of dust and relics. Elias had explored it once, driven by a pull he couldn't name.
He'd found a journal. It belonged to Clara Kael, a great-aunt who'd died long ago. Her words were frantic: The mansion sees. It knows my name.
The attic door had slammed shut as he read. No wind stirred the air. He hadn't gone back. The journal was under his mattress, heavy with secrets.
Elias climbed the east wing stairs. The mansion creaked, a low hum like a pulse. He locked his door, useless against the house. The lamp flickered, his shadow stretching too long.
"Who's there?" he whispered. The air grew colder, his breath fogging. The mansion didn't answer. But it was listening.
Elias opened his notebook. He added an X for the lamp. The Kaels' empire—ships, docks, wealth—was a machine he'd studied. He knew its flaws, its greed.
They thought they'd erased him. But Elias was a Kael. He'd build a trading empire to dwarf theirs. The mansion's secrets would be his weapon.
He sat by the window. The sea churned below the cliffs. Beatrice's hatred had buried him. But he'd rise, and they'd regret forgetting him.