The Ashbournes were more than a name—they were a legacy. One of the founding families of the city, their influence spann generations, their power woven into every corner of commerce, politics, and society. The estate on the hill was not merely a home; it was a symbol of stability, wealth, and authority. To the world, the Ashbournes were untouchable.
To Draven Ashbourne, sixteen years old, it was simply home—a place fill with laughter, warmth, and the comforting presence of his parents and younger sister. He barely notic the weight of the legacy he carri.
Morning sunlight spill through the tall windows, illuminating polish floors and the portraits of ancestors whose lives seem like distant stories. Draven ran down the grand hall, sneakers squeaking, a football tuck under his arm. Behind him, Nora, thirteen, chas him, giggling as she tripp over her own feet, her laughter echoing like music.
"Draven! Slow down!" she shout, reaching out but missing the ball by inches.
"Catch me if you can!" he call back, grinning.
Isabella Ashbourne, their mother, appear from the kitchen carrying a tray of bread and coffee, humming a gentle tune.
"Breakfast is ready! Everyone to the table before it gets cold," she said, her eyes twinkling at the children's antics.
Alistair Ashbourne, their father, look up from the study, voice calm and commanding.
"Draven, Nora—don't let breakfast get cold," he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
The house was alive with movement: maids bustling to set the table, the cooks preparing eggs and pastries, gardeners trimming the hges outside, and guards station along the gates. Gideon, the head butler, watch the children with careful eyes, a silent protector who had serv the family for decades.
Life was simple. Life was happy. Draven tossed the ball to Nora, catching her hands as she lunged for it, both of them laughing uncontrollably. In those moments, the vast power of the Ashbournes felt distant and irrelevant.
He dreamed of adventure, of friends, of small thrills. He trusted easily, laughed freely, and never imagined the world outside could harbor malice. Life, to him, was perfectly ordinary.
....
Yet even in the bright mornings, small shadows lingered. A neighbor's gaze lingered too long at the gates, and a few of the servants whispered in hush tones. Bills and contracts occasionally showed minor discrepancies. Gideon noticed it too, his brow furrowing slightly, but Draven was oblivious, swept up in ordinary joys.
He barely saw the tension, the envy, or the whispers of those who would one day betray them. He only saw family, warmth, and laughter.
...
Then came the morning that would shatter everything.
Smoke rose in black plumes as flames devoured the Ashbourne estate, licking walls that had once held laughter, love, and generations of history. The shouts of terrified servants and guards echoed through the hallways, blending with the crackling roar of burning wood.
Draven froze, heart hammering, as he saw the fire consuming the house. Gideon barked orders, pushing him and Nora toward safety, but it was already too late for the center of the house.
The inferno engulfed the study where Alistair and Isabella Ashbourne had been trapped, their cries for help swallowed by the roar of the flames. Draven screamed their names, his voice breaking, but the fire answered only with heat, smoke, and the smell of ash.
Nora clung to him, small and shivering, as the world he knew disintegrated before his eyes. The ledger of the family's legacy, the portraits of ancestors, the treasures passed down for generations—they were gone. And worse, the Ashbourne name, once untouchable, was dragged through the dirt.
Even amidst his grief, Draven's mind worked. He saw the faces of those who had laughed, who had envied, who had plotted. Rage and sorrow intertwined, forging a single, unyielding thought: They will pay.
The fire consumed the last walls of the estate. Ash settled on Draven's shoulders like a cold cloak. The ember of revenge, tiny but unyielding, glowed deep in his chest. That night, the city seemed vast, cruel, and full of enemies—and he vowed to master it.
Even at sixteen, his first moves were already forming. He would wait. He would watch. And one day, everyone who had laughed at his parents' deaths would feel the weight of justice.
A single thought echoed in the darkness, sharper than the crackle of flames: They will pay.
...
Draven sat on the cold stone steps outside the smoldering ruins, his body trembling, heart pounding like a drum. Nora huddled beside him, gripping his arm as though it could anchor her to the world that still existed. Her tears were quiet, but they seemed to echo endlessly in the hollow space left by their parents' absence.
"Draven… what do we do now?" she whispered, voice barely audible.
He looked at her, at the smoke rising where the house had stood, at the place where Alistair and Isabella Ashbourne had fallen. For a long moment, he said nothing, unable to form words. Then, slowly, his gaze hardened, sharp and cold.
"We survive," he said at last, voice low but steady. "And we make them pay."
Nora blinked, not fully understanding, but she nodded anyway. She trusted him, as she always had.
Draven's mind raced through the chaos, the laughter of those who had envied, the faces of the ones responsible. Rage intertwined with clarity, grief sharpened into focus.
The boy who had run through hallways, laughed with his sister, and trusted freely was gone. In his place stood someone new—someone who would watch, calculate, and strike when the time was right.
The embers around them glowed faintly in the darkness, whispering promises of fire and vengeance. Draven clenched his fists, feeling the weight of the Ashbourne legacy settle onto his young shoulders.
They will pay, he repeated silently, letting the thought burn hotter than the flames that had consumed his world.
And somewhere deep within, he understood: nothing would ever be the same again.