In the heart of the city of Dervin stood the imposing Mansion of Janes—a towering monument of white stone, wrapped in wealth, power, and legacy. For generations, the Janes family had ruled from within its stately walls, gripping the reins of every major institution in the region: economics, politics, media, banking, and social order. The Mansion was not just a home; it was a symbol of dominion.
At the helm was Michael Janes, the patriarch—a man of few words but many commands. His presence alone was enough to quiet a room. He wore his authority like the long black coats that swayed around him, clasped not by buttons but by the gleam of thick silver chains that draped across his chest.
For the last twelve years, his leadership had been both feared and admired. Under his ironhanded governance, trade with neighboring royal families flourished, ushering in an era of prosperity that trickled—however selectively—down to the citizens of Dervin.
But that legacy now crackled in fire and smoke.
The Mansion, once a paragon of elegance, now writhed in flames. The ten great silver pillars that had lined the front entrance—each wrapped at the base in golden tiles—stood like scorched bones against the blackening sky. Its once-gleaming blue glass windows, which had shimmered like ocean pearls in the daylight, were now shattered, spitting out smoke and flame. The vast corridors once echoing with soft footsteps and whispered secrets had turned into tunnels of chaos, barely visible through the rising ash.
Helicopters thudded above. Sirens howled through the choking air. Ambulances stood waiting. Fire brigades swarmed the grounds. Cameras flashed. The estate that once controlled Dervin now lay sprawled under the eyes of the very people it ruled.
"Hurry up! Search for all members of the Janes family!" bellowed one of the firefighters, his voice muffled by the blaze and the roar of water hoses.
"Sir! We've found Michael Janes—his wife Dina Samandra—and their eldest son, Jason Janes!" another called out, breathless and strained.
"Got it!" the commander responded sharply. "Now search for Keith Janes, the middle one—and the youngest son, Watson Janes! Move!"
Before they could resume their desperate search, a scream cut through the chaos.
Near the hedges, where the rose bushes once bloomed in perfect symmetry, lay the charred and bloodied body of young Watson Janes—motionless, lifeless. The fire had marked him, but death had claimed him first.
Two years earlier…
In a sun-dappled corner of the Mansion's rear garden, beneath the rustling branches of a willow tree, sat a boy with ocean-blue eyes and soft brown, straight hair, falling loosely over his brow. Only nine years old, Keith Janes looked like he belonged in a portrait—delicate, almost ethereal in his beauty. A violin rested gently under his chin, the bow gliding with practiced grace across the strings. The melody he played was neither rehearsed nor performed—it poured from his heart like water from a spring, sweet and raw.
Around him sat a circle of children, their eyes wide with wonder. They clapped and cheered in rhythm, some swaying, some laughing aloud. These children were not like him—they wore simple clothes, some patched and faded, their hands calloused, their faces smudged with dirt from chores. They were the sons and daughters of the staff: maids, cooks, stableboys, and gardeners—the Needies.
But Keith never seemed to notice the lines drawn by society.
To him, they were simply children. Friends. Equals.
Where others in his family carried their Noble status like a sword, Keith bore his with quiet indifference. He shared his toys with the servant children, helped them bandage scraped knees, offered them sweets when he could sneak them past the Mansion's strict kitchen staff. In a world divided by rank and ruthlessness, his compassion was an oddity—perhaps even a flaw. Yet to the Needies, it was something else entirely.
Hope.
Word had begun to spread among the staff. Whispers in the hallways, knowing glances between tired mothers. That boy, Keith… he's not like the rest of them. They watched him closely, seeing something pure in him, something that gave them the courage to let their children sit beside him, laugh beside him—if only for stolen moments.
But peace in this gathering never lingered long.
A hush fell over as a shadow fell across the lawn.
Jason Janes.
He came stomping across the grass like a storm in human form—broad-shouldered, eyes grey, sharp and merciless, a scowl stitched permanently across his face, his hair brown. He was fourteen, tall for his age, with the air of a young general who'd already tasted war. Where Keith carried warmth, Jason breathed frost.
At the mere sight of him, the children of the staff scattered like startled birds. Some dove behind hedges, others darted through the side gates or slipped behind the garden's stone fountain. Not one of them dared to meet his gaze. They had learned the hard way what Jason Janes thought of Needies and what he did to those who disobeyed the line.
Keith lowered his bow.
His blue eyes, wide a moment ago with innocent delight, now dimmed with quiet dread.
The garden, so recently alive with music and laughter, fell into silence once more.
So, here you are again… mingling with the lowlives?" Jason's voice cut through the silence like a blade, laced with sarcasm and disdain. He took another step forward, his polished boots crunching against the gravel path as his sharp gaze locked onto Keith.
Keith rose to his feet, the violin trembling slightly in his hands. His blue eyes flared with defiance.
"They're not lowlives," he snapped. "They're my friends—my comrades. Don't you dare speak about them like that!"
Jason let out a cold chuckle, his arms folding across his chest. "Friends?" he echoed mockingly. "You really are hopeless, Keith. Do you think this... childish fantasy of unity will save them?"
He leaned in closer, lowering his voice, but not its venom.
"Soon enough, they'll vanish from your life like dust in the wind—like they were never even real."
Keith froze, his breath caught in his throat. He stared at his brother, stunned. The words stung not just because they were cruel—but because they were true. Time and time again, those he cared for disappeared—silently, without warning. As if some unseen force had cursed every bond he tried to create.
Jason smirked at the silence, sensing the wound had landed.
"Enjoy it while it lasts," he said with a wide, wicked grin, giving a lazy wave of his hand. "Your little fairy tale won't last forever."
And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Keith alone once more—surrounded by silence, by shadows, and by the bitter echo of a truth he could never seem to escape.
Dinner was served in the grand hall of the Janes Mansion, a room carved from silence and power. Three tall doors stood watch like sentinels on each side of the room, draped in heavy red velvet curtains stitched with golden bands that shimmered under the glow of a crystal chandelier suspended above the long mahogany table. The only sound that broke the thick, regal air was the polite clinking of silverware—forks tapping china, spoons stirring glasses—as the family helped themselves to fried rice, grilled chicken, and golden chips arranged in meticulous symmetry.
Amid the quiet mechanical motions, Keith suddenly paused. He set his spoon down gently, straightened in his chair, and raised his eyes to the head of the table. His voice, though soft, carried an edge of cautious suspicion.
"Where has Mr. Richard gone?"
The question fell like a stone in a still pond.
Michael Janes did not look up from his plate. "I suspended him," he said flatly. "You'll have another tutor soon."
Keith blinked. "What?" His tone sharpened, rising above the gentle clatter of dinnerware. "Why did you suspend him?! He was teaching me perfectly! Dad!"
His fists clenched against the edge of the table. His voice, rarely raised, now trembled with restrained anger.
Dina, ever the poised matriarch, reached across the table with a soft smile. "Don't worry, honey. Your father made the right decision for you. Calm down."
But Keith was already rising from his seat, the chair screeching faintly as he shoved it back. His footsteps struck the marble floor with weight and fury as he stormed out of the hall.
A moment of silence followed in his wake.
"Why is he overreacting?" Michael asked, casting a look toward Dina, as if expecting some maternal rationale to soothe the oddity of their middle Noble son.
Before she could answer, Jason cut in smoothly, dabbing his lips with a napkin before speaking.
"It's nothing, Father," he said, his tone far too composed. "He's just shaken by how often people he admires disappear. You know how he is—always getting attached to the Needies."
He arched his brows knowingly, like someone delivering a diagnosis rather than a complaint.
At the far end of the table, Watson, the youngest of the family, only four years at that time, had quietly stopped eating. His small hand hovered above his plate, chips growing cold beside untouched chicken. He stared at the door Keith had left through, his wide eyes filled with indecision. Something flickered inside him—a childlike admiration, a brother's quiet loyalty. But he remained seated, caught between fear and courage.
Michael leaned back, his jaw tight, his nostrils flaring with frustration.
"I don't understand that boy," he muttered, his voice sharp with rising anger. "Why is he so different from us? Doesn't he see it? The Needies aren't our equals—they're the prey in our sacred rituals! We are the Nobles, chosen by God! They are the cursed! There's a divine order in this world—why won't he accept it?!"
Dina placed a gentle hand over his clenched fist, her voice calm, deliberate. "He's just... sensitive, Michael. Let him grow. He'll learn, with time. Patience."
But upstairs, in a dim corner of his bedroom lit only by the trembling glow of a bedside lamp, Keith was anything but calm.
His sobs were ragged, loud, unrestrained—his chest heaving with the ache of loss too deep for words. It wasn't the first time. He had cried like this before, too many times to count. It seemed like a pattern written into his life: anyone he admired, anyone who brought light into his dark world, vanished without warning—snatched from existence like they were never meant to be there.
But this time, his sorrow was different.
It wasn't just about loneliness. It was about Richard—his tutor, his mentor, his friend. A man who didn't just teach him physics, but listened to his questions, laughed at his clever remarks, and treated him like something more than a Noble child living in a gilded cage.
Keith's hands trembled as he opened his physics textbook. He ran his fingers across the pages, as if searching for Richard's voice in the notes and equations. But then something strange caught his eye.
A folded piece of paper, thin and slightly yellowed, tucked between the chapters on thermodynamics. His heart jumped. Slowly, he unfolded it.
The handwriting was unmistakable. It was Mr. Richard's.
"If you find me suddenly disappeared from your life, then I have been murdered—
—and the murderer resides within this Mansion."
The room went still. The sound of his breath was the only thing left.
The tears stopped.
And something colder, heavier, settled into his chest—not grief this time, but clarity. A purpose. A terrifying, undeniable truth.
Keith Janes, at just nine years old, had seen the world for what it truly was.
And now... he would never see it the same again.