Michael's thin, nearly emaciated body trembled as his consciousness began to stir. For a brief moment, everything lagged—his mind slow to catch up—before he suddenly bolted upright, eyes darting around the room in search of threats. His heart pounded wildly in his chest.
An unfamiliar room greeted him. A flickering lantern cast dancing shadows along the walls, revealing bookcases filled with old books, aging wooden furniture, and a few odd cobwebs clinging to the ceiling's corners.
Where am I?
The thought rose instinctively.
He looked down to find a musty but warm blanket draped over his lower half. A glance at his dirt-caked clothes—still the same ones he'd worn for weeks—confirmed he hadn't been changed.
A pang of guilt pricked him. Whoever had to clean this bed and these sheets... he didn't envy them. But guilt aside, he needed answers.
The last thing I remember was collapsing in front of the gates… Did the mages bring me here?
The door creaked open.
"Oh good, you're awake," came a soft voice.
Michael flinched at the sudden sound. A young woman entered the room, the lantern light illuminating her features. She wore a simple black dress and couldn't have been older than her early twenties. Her fair skin and warm smile washed over him like a balm.
"W-Where am I?" he asked, his voice hoarse and unnatural, as though it had forgotten how to speak.
"You're in one of Lord Winterborne's guest rooms," she said gently, stepping closer, "granted, it hasn't been cleaned in a while."
Michael shrank back slightly, his body reacting before his mind could stop it.
The woman halted, her expression softening even further. "Oh, you poor thing," she murmured. "It must've been rough out there in the wilderness. But you're safe now."
Something in her voice—genuine warmth, without pity or judgment—eased the tension in his shoulders. It didn't feel like she had an angle or was putting on a show. For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, Michael let down his guard just a little.
"I… still don't understand," he said quietly. "Why would the lord take me in?"
In truth, he hadn't thought that far ahead. Coming to Whitevalley Town had been a desperate gamble. He'd prepared himself to sleep on the streets, to scavenge or do odd jobs until he could earn enough to apply to one of the cheaper magic academies. Becoming a mage—learning to defend himself—that had been the short-term goal.
But waking up in a noble's estate? That hadn't been part of the plan.
Instead of answering, the woman stepped closer and gently took his hand. Her grip was warm and firm, the skin slightly roughened—not what he expected from a woman with her looks, but it was comforting all the same.
"I'm Shirley," she said, smiling as she perched on the edge of the bed. "One of Lord Winterborne's maids. What's your name, sweetpea?"
Michael hesitated. He looked into her eyes, searching for a flicker of judgment, the same disdain he'd grown used to seeing in the maids back home. But there was none. Just sincerity.
"…Michael," he said softly. His cheeks flushed with heat as embarrassment crept in. "My name's Michael."
Shirley's smile widened as she gently patted the back of his hand.
"What a wonderful name," she said warmly. "Do you have a family name as well?"
Though the question felt slightly probing, Michael didn't take offense.
"Ellis…" he replied softly.
It wasn't a name he'd chosen lightly. Michael had cast aside the Aurelius name—one that brought nothing but bitterness. Apart from his mother, who had married into the family, he felt no attachment to it. The Aurelius legacy represented pain, betrayal, and the chains of a house that had never truly welcomed him.
He had considered taking his mother's maiden name instead, but feared it might lead to questions—perhaps even investigations from distant relatives. So he settled on something new. "Ellis," a quiet tribute to Alice, the woman who had meant the world to him. It was close enough in sound that it would always remind him of her.
"Ellis? I'm not sure I've heard of that family before," Shirley murmured, tilting her head in thought.
Michael nodded, offering nothing more.
"Well, I suppose that leads me to my next question," she said gently. "Where are your parents?"
"They're dead," Michael answered plainly.
He wasn't lying. His mother was gone, and whatever had happened to his father didn't matter. Whether the man still drew breath or not was irrelevant. As far as Michael was concerned, he'd been abandoned long ago.
"Oh, sweetie…" Shirley leaned forward and pulled him into a hug, wrapping her arms around his frail body. Her hand rubbed soothingly along his back, offering the kind of comfort he hadn't felt in what seemed like a lifetime.
Michael stiffened at first, but didn't pull away. Part of him wasn't sure he even could—his body still felt like it was made of wet paper—but another part… didn't want to.
After a few minutes, she pulled back and held him at arm's length, studying him.
"Let's get you cleaned up and put some food in that belly of yours. You're skin and bones!" she exclaimed, giving him a once-over.
"Ah—your dress…" Michael murmured, glancing down at the once-clean fabric now stained with dirt from hugging him.
But Shirley just waved it off.
"It'll wash out easy enough," she said breezily, rising to her feet. "Now come along. Once you've bathed, the Lord has invited you to dine with him and his family."
Before Michael could protest, Shirley took his hand and, with surprising ease, lifted him from the bed. Then, as though he weighed no more than a bundle of blankets, she cradled him in her arms.
"My word… you're so light," she whispered, a trace of sadness slipping into her voice.
But Michael didn't hear her.
"…Thank you," he mumbled, biting his lip to keep his emotions in check.
This—this simple kindness—was the first he'd known since his mother died, and it threatened to undo him completely.
"You have such good manners," Shirley said with a soft laugh. "Now let's get you cleaned up. I'll bet you're a handsome boy under all that grime."