The wind howled through the alleys of Takoba, carrying cold rain that cut like knives.
Each drop struck the stones with a sharp rhythm—like the heartbeat of sorrow.
Aaron Hotveil walked alone.
His clothes, once fine, were now rags clinging to his skin.
His dark hair was heavy with rain.
But it was his sky-blue eyes that made him different—eyes no one else in the Hotveil family had.
Maybe that should have been the first clue.
For eighteen years, Aaron lived in the grand estate of the Hotveils.
Stone walls. Silent mirrors. Endless corridors where whispers followed him.
Yet he never belonged.
The servants whispered.
His siblings stared from afar.
And his father… his father only looked at him with silence.
Until that day.
> "You are not of our blood. Leave this house. Never return."
No emotion. No hesitation. Just finality.
Aaron stood frozen in the study, his chest hollow.
Eighteen years vanished with one sentence.
"Eighteen years… and now I'm nothing?"
The words burned inside him, but no sound escaped.
He wanted to scream. To demand answers.
Instead, he swallowed the pain.
He was never meant to stay.
So he left.
No explanations. No goodbyes.
Only a torn coat, bare feet, and a small canvas bag holding his one treasure—
A worn leather sketchbook.
The storm swallowed him whole.
---
Three days passed.
No food. No bed. Only rain and stone.
Takoba was merciless. No one stopped. No one cared.
On the fourth morning, barely standing, Aaron noticed a parchment fluttering outside a bakery.
> Help Wanted – Live-in Servant. Steady Pay. Full Board.
Residence of Lord Frankfurt Pierce. Gizana District.
Gizana.
A place of noble mansions, marble fountains, and smiles sharper than knives.
But what did Aaron have left to lose?
---
Two days later, after sketching a portrait for a merchant in exchange for a ride, Aaron reached the Pierce estate.
Black iron gates towered over him, twisting like thorns.
The gardens beyond were too perfect—flowers flawless, grass impossibly green.
The gates opened on their own.
A man stepped out.
Uniform gray. Pale skin. Silver eyes like blades.
"You here for the job?"
Aaron nodded. "Yes, sir."
"I'm Kain. Follow me."
---
The garden was silent, almost suffocating.
Roses cut into chess pieces lined the path. Their perfume was strong—too strong.
Inside, portraits of stern ancestors watched from shadowed walls.
Every step echoed like a warning.
At last, Kain stopped before tall, polished black doors.
"Speak only when spoken to," he said.
"Lord Pierce dislikes chatter."
The doors opened.
---
The chamber glowed with cold grandeur.
Golden chandeliers. Crimson curtains. Silence heavy as stone.
At its center sat Lord Frankfurt Pierce.
Tall. Thin. Dressed in deep blue robes embroidered with silver runes that shifted when no one looked directly.
His eyes burned—amber flames that seemed to peel away masks.
"Come closer."
Aaron's heart hammered. He stepped forward.
"Name?"
"Aaron Hotveil, sir."
A pause. Then a smile—slow, sharp, unsettling.
"Strange. I thought you'd look… different."
He circled Aaron like a collector studying a rare artifact.
"You will serve as my personal attendant. Your room is in the west wing, next to the library. You will learn the rules."
Aaron lowered his head. "Thank you, sir—"
But Pierce's voice cut him like ice:
> "Remember this. No one leaves this estate… easily."