The mansion stirred early that morning. Light poured through the open windows, washing the polished floors in gold. It was the first day of Klen's month of preparation. The start of everything.
"Half your days will be yours," Fole had said that morning. "The rest will belong to your training — not to break you, but to sharpen you."
It sounded simple in words.
In practice, it was anything but.
By midday, Klen was already knee-deep in overlapping duties — staff requests, schedule conflicts, deliveries arriving out of order, and a misplaced ledger that delayed half the kitchen's operations. The calm, composed butler-in-training that he usually was had no room to breathe today. Every moment, someone called his name.
"Sir Klen, the storeroom—!"
"Klen! The garden water system—!"
"The head cook needs the spice shipment signed!"
The chaos swirled around him like a storm. He kept his posture straight, his tone even, but his hands trembled slightly each time he wrote down another instruction or fixed another blunder.
When he finally found a moment of stillness, it was broken by the sound of soft footsteps. Lyra stood nearby, watching him from the archway with a cup of tea in hand.
"You look like someone who's seen a war," she said, stepping closer.
Klen turned toward her, his expression calm but his eyes tired. "Just a busy morning, milady."
"That's one way to put it," she muttered. "You've been running around like the entire mansion's about to fall apart."
He gave a faint smile. "I'm trying not to let that happen."
She handed him the tea. "Then drink this before you do collapse."
He hesitated, then accepted it carefully. The warmth spread through his fingers. "Thank you."
Lyra watched him take a sip before sitting on the edge of the nearest table. "You don't have to do everything alone, you know."
"It's my task," Klen replied simply.
"You'll burn out if you keep this up."
He gave a quiet, dry chuckle. "I'll manage."
Lyra frowned slightly.
"And I always do," he said, tone light but words weary.
She sighed softly, shaking her head. "You're not made of iron, Klen."
"No," he replied, glancing down at his trembling hands. "Just trying to be."
For a long moment, she said nothing — only watched him, her gaze unreadable. Then, with a small sigh, she pushed off the table.
"If you fall over, I'm blaming Fole," she muttered. "Don't overdo it."
"I'll try," Klen said softly, and the words followed her as she walked away.
The day dragged on.
By afternoon, he'd handled three different departments, two servant disputes, and one unexpected guest. His body was running on pure routine at this point. His hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his shoulders felt heavier with every step.
That was when a familiar voice called from behind him.
"Well, look at you," Marna said, leaning against the hallway wall with an amused grin. "If exhaustion were an art, you'd be the masterpiece."
Klen blinked slowly. "Good afternoon, Marna."
"You mean good luck surviving," she shot back, smirking as she walked alongside him. "How many hours has it been since you last sat down?"
He thought for a moment. "…I'm not sure."
"Figures." She handed him a cloth. "You're sweating like a horse."
He wiped his face with a small, grateful nod. "Thank you."
Marna raised a brow. "That's all I get? A polite thank-you? No dramatic faint? No curse on the world for making you work this hard?"
He managed a small laugh — brief, but real. "That would be unprofessional."
"Oh, absolutely," she said dryly. "Can't have the almighty Klen doing something human."
He paused at that, half a smile tugging at his lips. "You sound like Lyra."
"Maybe she's right," Marna said, though her tone softened. "You don't always have to be perfect, you know."
He didn't respond immediately. His hands were shaking slightly now, though he tried to hide it. "If I don't keep up, someone else suffers for it."
Marna's grin faded. "You really believe that?"
He nodded quietly. "It's the truth."
For a second, she watched him — the tension in his jaw, the faint tremor in his hand — and sighed. "You really are hopeless."
She grabbed a jug of water from the nearby counter and poured him a glass. "Drink before I dump it on you."
He took it obediently, and she smirked again. "There. Now if you pass out, at least you'll be hydrated."
"I'll remember that," Klen said, setting the glass aside.
"You better." She poked his shoulder lightly before turning away. "Don't die trying to impress the old man, alright?"
"I'll try," he murmured again, echoing his earlier promise.
The sun had already begun to fall when Klen finally stepped outside. His day's tasks were done, at least for now. The golden light painted the training grounds in soft orange hues.
He sat down in the grass, silent, breathing deeply as the air cooled. His uniform was wrinkled, his sleeves rolled up, and his usually neat hair was messy from the long day.
His thoughts wandered — from Lyra's worried eyes to Marna's teasing grin. They made him smile faintly, despite the fatigue pressing against his skull.
When night came, Klen returned to his room. The mansion was quiet now; even the candles in the hallways had burned low. He changed into his night attire, unbuttoning his uniform with slow, heavy hands, and fell into bed without another thought.
Sleep came quickly.
But it didn't last.
He woke up abruptly sometime later — heart pounding, sweat running cold down his face. The room was dim, his breath uneven. He couldn't remember a dream, but something felt wrong.
He rubbed his eyes, muttering under his breath, "Just tired…"
Still, the unease wouldn't fade. His chest felt heavy.
So he got up, slipped on his shoes, and quietly made his way through the empty corridors. The mansion was silent save for the faint whisper of the night wind.
Outside, the air was crisp and cool. He made his way to the training grounds and sat down on the grass, letting his body relax. He looked up at the night sky — the stars glimmering faintly, the moon hanging pale and distant.
He thought of the day — of how he'd stumbled, struggled, nearly lost his composure. Of how Lyra and Marna had seen through him even when he tried to hide it.
He stood after a moment and picked up a wooden training sword that lay nearby. He took a few swings in the air, slow and deliberate, letting the motion ease the tightness in his body.
And then — he froze.
A sudden chill crept up his spine. The air shifted. The moonlight dimmed slightly, as though something unseen had drawn near.
He turned, slowly.
And saw her.
The Shadow stood behind him — her form more defined now, her shape outlined in a soft, misty glow. Her dark wings curled and moved faintly like smoke, her body half-there, half-not.
His throat went dry. "Who… who are you?" he demanded, his voice low but steady.
She didn't answer directly. Her head tilted, and her voice came — broken, trembling, and heavy with emotion.
"Why... leave me... You... my only one..."
Klen froze. For the first time, he saw tears forming in her eyes — shimmering like silver in the moonlight.
But as they fell to the ground… they turned into blood.
He stared at them, disbelief flickering in his eyes. When he looked up again, she was gone.
Until her voice came from behind him again.
The Shadow embraced him from behind — soft, cold, and unreal. He flinched, moving away quickly. She reached out after him, her hands stretched as though yearning to hold him once more.
Her broken voice quivered.
"Not... I see... I'll try..."
And with that, her figure dissolved into thin air — fading like mist under morning sun.
Klen stood frozen for a moment, his breathing uneven. His legs gave out beneath him, and he fell to one knee, trembling uncontrollably. Cold sweat ran down his face, his chest heaving.
Then — darkness claimed him.
When Klen opened his eyes again, he was in his bed.
The morning light peeked through the curtains. The faint sounds of servants moving about drifted through the hall.
He sat up slowly, blinking in confusion. No one had carried him here. No one had entered his room.
His hand tightened on the blanket. The memory of her voice still echoed faintly in his mind.
He stared at the floor, whispering under his breath.
"What… was that…?"
There was no answer. Only silence — heavy and endless.
But deep inside, something stirred.
A whisper of darkness, quiet and patient.
The first day of his trial was over.
And something far older had awakened with it.