My name is Caelan D'Arvis—the illegitimate son of a noble and a dancer.
My existence was never meant to see the light.
My father, Count Albrecht D'Arvis, a man draped in power and pride, ruled over the eastern provinces with a silver tongue and a cold blade. He had a wife, of course—a political marriage to the infamous Lady Seraphina, a woman known for her porcelain beauty and a mind like poisoned glass.
But he fell in love—not with a lady, but with a lowborn dancer from the slums of Merrow's End.
My mother, Lyra, was light itself. Skin like warm bronze, eyes like storm-lit skies, and a laugh that made the filth of the slums feel like gold dust. She was twenty when the Count first saw her dance barefoot on cracked cobblestones.
It was obsession.
It was forbidden.
It was love—and it became a death sentence.
They hid us in a distant village tucked between woods and shadow.
He visited when he could. He gave us a small home, a maid named Mira, and promises.
He said he would protect us.
He said we were his real family.
But men like my father don't understand the hunger of women like Seraphina.
At age five, I learned that truth.
⸻
It was winter when they came—four men, reeking of wine and blood. They broke down the door with laughter like jackals.
They didn't want gold.
They wanted to erase her.
They raped my mother in front of the fireplace where she used to hum lullabies.
They beat her until her face no longer looked human.
And when she couldn't scream anymore, they stabbed her—twenty-seven times.
I didn't run to her.
I couldn't.
Mira, our maid, stuffed me into the kitchen cupboard and held the door shut with her own body.
She whispered, "Don't cry, Caelan. Don't let them hear you. They'll kill you too."
So I watched through a crack.
I watched my world end through a sliver of wood.
⸻
When they left, Mira dragged me out. Her hands were shaking. Her dress was wet with blood that wasn't hers.
I saw what was left of my mother.
Her body broken, her eyes open, staring at nothing.
Her mouth still parted like she was calling my name.
I didn't cry.
I simply... shattered.
⸻
My father found us the next morning.
He screamed. He wept.
But without proof, without witnesses, he could do nothing.
He buried her in secret.
And he brought me into D'Arvis Manor.
Into the same halls where Lady Seraphina ruled.
She greeted me with a soft voice and eyes too sharp.
"Poor little bastard," she said, brushing her gloved hand over my head. "You must be so lonely."
Her smile made my skin crawl.
Her perfume reminded me of blood masked by roses.
I bowed.
I said thank you.
And I swore one day, I'd make her scream like my mother did.
⸻
My half-brother, Rowan D'Arvis, was ten when I entered the manor.
Black-haired, purple-eyed, with a gentle voice and a face like a saint.
He was everything a noble heir should be.
He smiled at me.
He offered me books. Gifts. Friendship.
But I don't trust beautiful things.
Maybe he's kind.
Maybe he's just a liar who learned from the best.
Either way—I will smile back.
Because I'm just a quiet boy with big eyes.
Because I'm just the bastard son no one sees coming.
But one day...
I will slit Lady Seraphina's throat with the same silver hairpin she wore to mock my mom.