They call me Lord Caelan D'Arvis now.
Sixteen years old, all grown—at least on the outside. A quiet, disciplined noble son who bows when spoken to and smiles like a proper gentleman.
But I was born in blood, and I have never forgotten it.
I am the bastard child of a dancer and a count, raised in secrecy, sharpened by grief.
Now I walk through polished marble halls, speak in the court's tongue, and duel nobles twice my age in training yards I was never supposed to enter.
They call me kind.
Honest.
A little too straightforward, perhaps—a little too earnest, like an innocent pup.
But that's fine. Let them think I'm soft.
I have no interest in power.
No interest in politics or titles or glory.
I only have one purpose:
To kill the woman who murdered my mother.
⸻
Lady Seraphina, my stepmother, still rules the manor with her porcelain smile and venom-laced tea.
She hasn't aged a day.
She still tries to kill me from time to time—
A poisoned fruit, a collapsing staircase, a hired servant with shaking hands and a concealed blade.
But she never succeeds.
Because I see through her.
Because I remember everything.
Because I am no longer the little boy hiding in a cupboard.
⸻
My father, Count Albrecht, loves me in his own quiet way. But he's fading. His health crumbles more each year—
A heart weakened not by age, but by regret. By the memory of a woman he couldn't save.
He's a good man, or at least he tries to be one.
But his strength was stolen the night they carved my mother apart.
Now, the manor belongs to shadows.
⸻
And in the center of it all is Rowan.
Rowan D'Arvis.
My older brother by five years. The heir. The court's golden flame.
He is twenty-one now—already a rising star among nobles and scholars, already advising kings and silencing opponents with a single, carefully measured glance.
He's brilliant.
He's loved.
And worst of all...
He's good to me.
He brings me books I didn't ask for, swords that match my strength, meals when I forget to eat.
He ruffles my hair like I'm still a child and calls me "Cael," like he's the only one allowed to.
Sometimes, I wish I hated him.
But I don't.
And that... makes everything harder.
Because I will kill his mother.
And I don't know if I can survive what it will do to him.
⸻
Still, I train.
Still, I wait.
I smile, I obey, I grow.
But inside, I carry her voice. My mother's voice.
The memory of her laughter as she planted wildflowers outside our little village house. The way she once whispered her dream:
"A field of blooms, my sweet boy. No balls, no courts, no titles. Just flowers, and peace."
So when my revenge is done... I will leave this place.
I'll vanish into a nameless countryside.
I'll plant every flower I can find, cook warm meals with clumsy hands, and grow old with dirt under my nails and sun in my eyes.
And maybe then—
I will be free.