The wind howled through the narrow alleys of Takoba, as if mourning the injustice that had just unfolded.
With heavy steps and rain pattering against the cobblestones, Aaron Hotveil walked alone—his clothes torn, his face a blend of youthful beauty and quiet despair. His sky-blue eyes, a color no one in his family shared, and his dark blue hair marked him as an outsider long before the truth ever surfaced.
He had spent all eighteen years of his life in the household of the Hotveils, yet had never truly felt he belonged. The whispers of servants, the glares of his siblings, the cold avoidance of his father—all grew heavier with each passing year. And on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, the truth finally came crashing down:
> "You are not of our blood. Leave this house. Never return."
No reasons. No explanations. No goodbyes.
He walked out barefoot, clutching a tattered coat and a small canvas bag containing nothing but a worn sketchbook—his only comfort in a world that now seemed intent on breaking him. With no food, no money, and nowhere to turn, the streets of Takoba became his only home.
Three days passed.
Three days of sleepless nights, of cold stone beds, and of empty stomachs. He wandered the alleys like a shadow, ignored by all. By the fourth day, his body was weak, but his spirit—though cracked—still clung to the faintest thread of hope.
That's when he saw it.
Pasted to a wooden board outside a rundown bakery, fluttering slightly in the wind, was a yellowed piece of parchment:
> "Help Wanted – Live-in Servant. Steady pay. Full board.
Location: Gizana District. Residence of Lord Frankfurt Pierce."
Gizana. He'd heard of it—an elite enclave far removed from the grime of Takoba. The people there were said to live in marble homes, their wealth matched only by their secrets.
Aaron stared at the paper for a long moment, then tore it free. "What do I have to lose?"
---
Two days later, after begging his way onto a merchant cart bound for Gizana, Aaron stood before the gates of the Pierce estate. The term "mansion" didn't do it justice—it was more like a fortress draped in elegance. Jet-black gates towered above him, and the gardens were unnaturally pristine, almost sterile.
Before he could knock or speak, the gates creaked open by themselves.
A tall man stepped out, dressed in an ash-gray uniform. His skin was pale, his face unreadable. "You're here for the servant position?"
Aaron nodded. "Yes, sir."
"I'm Kain. This way."
They walked through the eerily silent garden, along a long corridor of rose bushes trimmed to mathematical precision. The air felt oddly filtered, too clean to be natural. Inside the estate, they passed through a dimly lit hallway filled with dark oil paintings of unknown faces, all seemingly watching him.
Finally, they stopped before a double door carved from obsidian-colored wood.
"Speak only when spoken to," Kain warned. "Lord Pierce dislikes chatter."
The door creaked open.
Inside sat Frankfurt Pierce.
He was elegant in an unsettling way—tall, thin, clad in a navy-blue robe that shimmered faintly under the chandelier light. His amber-gold eyes gleamed with quiet calculation as they fixed on Aaron.
"Approach," he said, voice calm, with an undertone of absolute control.
Aaron stepped forward, bowing slightly.
"Your name?"
"Aaron Hotveil, sir."
Silence.
Then, a small, knowing smile curved Frankfurt's lips. It wasn't warm.
"How strange... I thought you'd look different." He stood and walked around Aaron slowly, examining him like a relic. "Very well. You'll be my personal attendant. Your quarters are on the second floor, adjacent to the western library. There are rules. You'll learn them."
Aaron blinked. "Thank you, sir—"
Frankfurt turned sharply, his tone darker now.
"But remember… No one leaves this estate easily."
---