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Chapter I – The Salvastar
The Salvastar estate stood on the northern hills like a citadel carved from the bones of the land itself. Its towers of gray slate pierced the sky, often swallowed by rolling clouds that carried the scent of rain. The walls, weathered but unbroken, spoke of centuries of endurance. Gardens and orchards softened its edges, but nothing could mask the gravity of its presence. To approach the estate was to feel history pressing down with every step, as if the very earth remembered the Salvastar name.
Inside, the house breathed discipline. Corridors stretched long and shadowed, lined with portraits whose painted eyes followed passersby like silent judges. The air carried the polish of oak and the faint ghost of old smoke that never seemed to leave the stones. Servants moved quickly, their footsteps softened, their voices hushed. Everything the way the clocks ticked in perfect rhythm, the way the doors opened and shut with measured care reflected the man who ruled within.
Augustus Salvastar.
Master of the estate, head of the family, Augustus was a man who carried authority as naturally as others carried breath. Broad shouldered, his once-black hair now streaked with silver, he looked like one of the portraits come to life. His eyes were dark and cutting, his gaze one that measured worth in silence long before he spoke. He did not waste words; when he did speak, his voice was low and deliberate, as though every syllable carried weight enough to command obedience.
He was not a cruel man, but he was not a gentle one either. To live under his roof was to live by his standards, his order. He believed in legacy, in discipline, in shaping those around him into instruments worthy of the Salvastar name.
Astria, his wife, was the counterpoint to his iron will. Where he was stone, she was light. Graceful, warm-eyed, with laughter like a soft bell that could ease even the hardest tension, Astria was the quiet force that kept the Salvastar home from becoming a fortress in spirit as well as in stone. She spoke gently to the servants, remembered small details about their lives. She noticed moods at the table and smoothed them before Augustus's sharpness could cut deeper.
Their son, Declan, stood between them, carrying pieces of both. He was tall, broad across the shoulders, his features carved in the strong lines of his father but softened by his mother's warmth. Yet his restlessness set him apart. At twenty-two, Declan often lingered by windows that overlooked the hills, his gaze pulled far beyond the estate walls. In him lived the tension of inheritance pride in his bloodline, but hunger for a freedom the Salvastar name rarely allowed.
Aries, too, lived within those walls, though she carried no Salvastar blood. She was the daughter of Augustus's late adopted brother, brought into the estate after tragedy left her an orphan. Nineteen now, Aries had spent two years under the Salvastar roof, long enough to know both its comforts and its coldness. She was family, yet not heir beloved by Astria, tolerated by Augustus, and observed by others with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.
Her presence was a contradiction
belonging, yet not.
Aries carried herself with quiet dignity, but in her solitude one could sense the fragility beneath. Her dark hair framed a pale face with eyes too knowing for her age. She walked the gardens in the mornings, where wild roses climbed the stone walls, their scent clinging to her skin. There, she felt most herself, away from the eyes that measured her worth.
Still, the Salvastar estate was not a place one could easily escape, not even in the gardens. The house itself seemed to watch.
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Declan's days began with training in the courtyard. The clang of steel against steel echoed between the high walls as he sparred with the captain of the guard. Augustus often observed from the stone balcony above, arms folded, face unreadable.
"Again," Augustus commanded when Declan's blade faltered.
Declan's chest heaved, sweat stinging his eyes. He reset his stance, jaw clenched tight. Every strike, every parry, felt less like practice and more like a test — one he feared he would never pass.
"You hesitate," Augustus said, voice carrying across the stones. "Hesitation breaks men before swords do."
Declan bit back a retort. He had learned long ago that answering his father's criticism with words only deepened the wound. Instead, he threw himself into the next sequence, his blade ringing harder, sharper, until the captain yielded.
Still, when Augustus turned and left without a word of praise, the victory tasted hollow.
Aries had watched from the garden wall. She had not meant to linger, but the rhythm of steel had drawn her. She saw the strain in Declan's movements, the frustration in the tightness of his shoulders. When Augustus departed, she noticed the way Declan's eyes flicked up, as though searching for approval that never came.
Her hands tightened around the folds of her dress. She knew that hunger well the need to be seen, to be enough.
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Evenings in the Salvastar estate belonged to ritual.
The long oak table gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers. Silver cutlery caught the light. The family gathered in their places: Augustus at the head, Astria beside him, Declan to his right, and Aries across, just beyond.
The air at dinner was always precise. Augustus asked questions with the same weight he carried into council chambers.
"What progress today?" His gaze fixed on Declan as he cut cleanly into pheasant.
Declan swallowed, shoulders squared. "The captain says my form improves."
"Form is surface," Augustus replied. "Discipline is the core. Form without discipline is weakness."
"Yes, Father."
Aries lowered her eyes to her plate, listening. She knew the rhythm: Augustus spoke, Declan endured, Astria softened.
And so it was that Astria turned to her with a smile. "And you, Aries? Did you spend the morning in the gardens again?"
"Yes," Aries said, voice quiet but steady. "The roses are beginning to bloom."
"Good," Astria said warmly. "The garden flourishes when cared for."
Aries smiled faintly, grateful for the attention, though she felt Augustus's silence heavy beside her words.
Declan's gaze flicked to her then a brief, unguarded glance. It lasted only a heartbeat, but it set something inside her chest racing. She looked down quickly, pretending to adjust her knife.
The rest of the meal passed in measured conversation. Yet beneath the clink of silver and the rustle of linen, another dialogue thrummed in silence — glances exchanged, breaths held, the unspoken weight of feelings neither dared name.
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That night, the house fell into its nightly hush. Candles were snuffed, corridors dimmed, the great clocks ticking like distant drums. Declan wandered the western corridor, his thoughts restless, his body still carrying the ache of training. He stopped by a tall window, moonlight silvering the edge of his jaw.
Aries emerged from the library, a book in her hands. She nearly collided with him at the corner.
"Sorry," she whispered, clutching the leather-bound volume closer.
Declan's mouth curved faintly. "You don't need to apologize. Not here."
Her breath caught. Not here. For her, those words meant more than he could know.
Before she could answer, footsteps echoed down the hall — servants, perhaps, or Augustus himself. The moment fractured. Declan straightened, nodding as though nothing had passed between them, and Aries slipped away, her heart hammering against her ribs.
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The Salvastar estate had seen generations rise and fall, its halls echoing with triumphs and tragedies. Now, beneath its watchful stone, something fragile and forbidden had begun to stir. Not in words, not yet. Only in silences too loud, glances too long.
The house, ancient and unyielding, seemed to hold its breath.
As though it knew a storm was coming.
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