Morning never truly reached him. Even when the sun rose over House Vane, brushing its cracked towers and faded banners with pale light, none of it touched the basement where Daemon lived. That place remained cold, damp, and forgotten—as if the house itself had buried him alive beneath its pride.
Daemon D. Black opened his eyes.
For a moment, he didn't move. His gaze rested on the low stone ceiling, faint moisture clinging to its surface. The air was cold, pressing lightly against his skin, but he no longer reacted to it.
'…Sixteen.'
The thought surfaced quietly.
'Today is my birthday.'
It lingered for only a second before fading. There was no reason to hold onto it. No one else would.
A faint ache stirred in his chest. A memory—soft, distant, fragile. A woman's hand brushing gently through his hair. A warm voice calling his name. And behind her, a man's presence—silent, steady, overwhelming in a way that never felt threatening.
Then it was gone.
Daemon blinked once, and the emptiness returned, settling back into place like it always did. He sat up, the thin mattress creaking beneath him as his feet touched the cold floor. The room was small—barely a room at all. A bed, a chair, a wooden box. No windows. No light. No sign that he belonged to this house.
He stood without hesitation. For eight years now, his mornings had been the same. Work. Silence. Endurance.
He moved toward the small basin, splashing cold water across his face before straightening. In the dim light, his figure became clearer—tall for his age, standing just shy of six feet. His frame was lean, almost deceptively so, but there was strength beneath it, the kind built through constant labor rather than training. Muscles traced subtly along his arms and shoulders, not bulky, but defined. Faint veins ran along his neck and forearms, more visible against his pale skin.
His hair fell in dark strands—deep black, slightly unkempt, brushing against his forehead and the nape of his neck. And then there were his eyes.
Silver… with a faint bluish tint.
Unusual. Cold at first glance, yet not entirely empty. There was something quiet in them. Something that watched more than it revealed.
If not for the plain, worn clothes he wore, one could mistake him for something far removed from a servant's life.
'…Doesn't matter.'
He turned away.
The kitchen was already alive when he entered. The crackle of fire, the clatter of utensils, and the low murmur of voices filled the space. A few older maids worked with practiced focus, their movements efficient and steady, barely sparing him a glance.
But the younger ones…They noticed as always.
Three girls stood near the preparation table, clearly less experienced, their movements slower, more distracted. Their eyes kept drifting—again and again—toward him.
Not subtly.
Never subtly.
Daemon ignored it, stepping forward and beginning his work without pause. Cutting, arranging, adjusting the fire. His movements were clean, controlled, as if he had long stopped caring about anything beyond finishing the task.
But the staring didn't stop. One of them finally shifted, nudged slightly by the others. She hesitated, fidgeting with the edge of her apron before taking a small step forward.
'G-Good morning… Daemon.'
Her voice was soft, uncertain.
she is Sophie. He recognized her. One of the newer maids' daughters.
Daemon didn't look up immediately. He finished cutting the vegetable in his hand before setting the knife down.
'…Morning.'
Simple. Flat. But not dismissive.
Sophie's face lit up slightly, clearly not expecting even that much. Behind her, the other two girls exchanged quick glances, whispering under their breath, their eyes still fixed on him like he was something they couldn't quite understand.
'He actually replied…'
'Of course he did…'
'Still…'
Their whispers weren't quiet enough.
Daemon ignored them.
The older maids, however, paid no attention to any of it. Their focus remained on their work, movements sharp and efficient. To them, Daemon was neither special nor interesting—just another pair of hands in the kitchen.
Perhaps that was why he preferred their silence.
The dining hall slowly filled, the atmosphere shifting from quiet routine to structured order. This was where House Vane reminded itself what it was—noble, disciplined… above others.
At the head of the table sat the lord of the house.
William vane
Fifty years had carved themselves into his form, but not as weakness—rather, as weight. His hair, once silver, had turned a pale white, falling neatly behind his head, matching the thick, well-kept beard that framed his face. His features were sharp, almost severe, as if sculpted with purpose rather than chance. A long, straight nose, deep-set eyes—icy blue, cold and unwavering—and a presence that pressed down without effort.
He wore his authority the same way he wore his clothes—precisely. A noble's attire, layered and refined, carrying the faint insignia of House Vane.
Cold as Blade.
The words weren't spoken,they didn't need to be.
House Vane belonged to the Ice Clan—known for their silver hair, their piercing blue eyes, and their affinity with ice itself. A lineage that valued control, discipline, and sharp precision above all else.
And Vane embodied it perfectly.
Beside him sat his wife.
Where Vane was cold steel, she was something far more… suffocating.
Her skin carried a deep, rich tone, contrasting sharply with the pale features of the Ice Clan, yet her eyes—those same chilling blue—marked her lineage clearly. Her hair, silver like the rest, was long and carefully maintained, falling over her shoulders with deliberate elegance.
She was beautiful.
Dangerously so.
Her figure was mature, well-shaped, refined—not soft, but commanding. The kind of presence that didn't invite attention, but demanded it. Every movement she made was controlled, calculated… and every glance she gave carried faint irritation, as if the world around her constantly failed to meet her expectations.
Even sitting still, she felt… sharp. Further down the table sat their children—the next generation of House Vane. Each of them bore the clan's signature traits.
Silver hair.
Ice-blue eyes.
Isabella sat with perfect posture, her movements elegant, almost effortless. Among them, she stood out the most.
Beautiful didn't quite describe her. It was something colder.
Refined features, flawless skin, long silver hair cascading down her back, and eyes that looked at the world as if it were already beneath her. There was no warmth in her expression—only calm superiority.
She didn't try to stand out.
She simply did.
Viola, seated beside her, shared similar features but lacked the same sharp edge. She was equally beautiful, her silver hair slightly shorter, her expression more expressive—less controlled. There was still pride in her posture, but it wavered, influenced too easily by the presence beside her.
Her eyes occasionally shifted… not always steady.
And then there was Aron.
Leaning back slightly, posture far less disciplined, though the noble traits remained clear in his appearance. Silver hair, sharp eyes, a well-built frame for his age—but where the others carried control, Aron carried arrogance.
It showed in the way he looked at others.
It showed in the way he smiled.
A royal brat, through and through.
And at the far end of the table—
Daemon.
Dark hair.
Silver-blue eyes that didn't belong.
A presence that didn't fit.
The contrast wasn't subtle.
It never had been.