The sun had no right to shine that brightly.
Four-year-old Mars sat in the back seat of the car, small hands folded in his lap, knuckles pale against borrowed fabric. His eyes were swollen, dry, and aching from crying until there was nothing left to give. The world beyond the window looked untouched — impossibly blue sky, drifting clouds, trees swaying lazily in warm afternoon wind.
As if nothing had happened.
As if his parents had not just died.
The guardians in the front seat spoke softly. Too softly. Their voices carried that careful cheer adults used around broken things.
"You're going to love it there." "There are so many children your age." "You won't be alone anymore."
He didn't respond.
The car slowed. Gravel crunched beneath the tires. The orphanage stood ahead, tall and sunlit, cream-colored walls glowing under the afternoon sky. The building looked almost welcoming.
Children gathered near the entrance.
Whispers. Curious stares. Small hands shielding eyes from the sun.
Mars stepped out of the car slowly. Heat wrapped around him instantly. The light stung his eyes. Everything felt too alive for a world that had just ended.
The guardians guided him toward the door.
The entrance hall was filled with children lining the walls, watching him the way children watch something new — not cruel, just curious.
And then—
In the far corner, where the sunlight didn't quite reach, a boy sat cross-legged against the wall.
Still.
Watching.
Slightly older. Dark hair falling into steady eyes. Calm in a way the other children were not. He wasn't whispering. Wasn't staring in confusion.
He was simply… there.
Their eyes met.
Mars felt something shift inside his chest — not happiness, not comfort — but steadiness.
A quiet anchor in the noise.
The boy didn't smile.
He didn't need to.
For the first time since the accident, Mars didn't feel entirely alone.
Mars woke slowly.
The oversized bed swallowed him whole, sheets cool beneath his palms. For a few seconds, he didn't move. The dream clung to him — the sun, the heat, the corner of the orphanage, the silent boy.
Owen.
He exhaled through his nose.
"It was just a dream."
His eyes shifted toward the window.
Bright light flooded the room.
He sat up instantly.
The drapes were open.
He had closed them last night. He was certain of it.
After the frost. After the red eyes. After the cold that turned his breath into smoke.
Now the glass was clear. Sunlight poured across polished floors, warm and harmless. The room felt ordinary.
Too ordinary.
He stared at the window longer than necessary.
Had someone come in?
The frost was gone. The air was warm.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
Three soft, measured taps.
"Good morning, Young Master. Breakfast is ready."
The young maid's voice was gentle. Normal.
Too normal.
Mars ran a hand through his hair and forced himself to stand. "I'll be down shortly."
He glanced once more at the open drapes before leaving the room.
The manor felt different in daylight.
Less predatory. More exposed.
Sunlight streamed through towering windows, illuminating marble floors and high ceilings veined with gold. Dust drifted lazily through beams of light, slow and suspended, like the house itself was holding its breath.
His footsteps echoed.
Louder than they should have.
The dining hall doors were open.
The table was set.
But empty.
No Astrid. No Lyra. No Mother. No David. No Mira.
Only servants.
Walking.
Not floating.
Walking.
That detail mattered.
He took his seat. Silverware clinked softly as a plate was placed before him — fresh fruit, warm bread, tea steaming faintly in delicate porcelain.
He waited a moment before speaking.
"Where is everyone?"
The servants exchanged subtle glances.
"It is a sun vacation today, Young Master," one answered politely.
"The residents will not be active until evening."
Inactive.
The word settled heavily in his chest.
"They prefer the night."
Confirmation.
Last night had not been fear. Not imagination. Not trauma resurfacing.
He swallowed.
"May I go outside?"
A pause.
Small. Measured.
"I'm afraid that will not be possible."
"Why?"
"The forest surrounding the manor is dangerous."
A breath.
"You are human."
There it was again.
Not accusation. Not insult.
Fact.
"It is for your protection."
Protection.
The same word the guardians had used. The same word whispered in dreams. The same word tied to the necklace resting against his skin.
He nodded.
"I understand."
He finished his breakfast slowly, tasting almost nothing.
The house felt like a museum when he walked its halls.
Preserved.
Paused.
As if daylight froze it in place.
Corridors stretched endlessly, lined with portraits in gilded frames. Generations of pale faces stared outward with sharp, aristocratic beauty.
None of them looked like him.
Not even slightly.
He stopped before one portrait — Mother, younger, regal, almost ethereal in paint. Her eyes seemed sharper than pigment should allow.
He blinked.
Normal.
He moved on.
Doors were closed. Heavy. Some locked. Some simply silent.
The house was not empty.
It was sleeping.
That difference mattered.
He walked slower now, listening to the sound of his own breathing, the soft echo of his steps. The manor no longer felt immediately hostile — but it did not feel safe either.
It felt observant.
At the end of a long corridor, he noticed a door slightly ajar.
Dark beyond the threshold.
The library.
The air inside was cooler.
Not cold like last night.
Just… shaded.
Curtains were partially drawn, muting the sunlight into long, muted strips across towering shelves. Leather-bound volumes stretched toward the ceiling. The scent of aged paper and polished wood hung thick in the air.
It felt darker than the rest of the house.
Like the room hadn't fully accepted daylight.
He stepped inside quietly.
There was a presence.
He felt it before he saw it.
A page turned.
Soft.
Mira sat in a high-backed chair near the window, one leg crossed over the other, a thick book resting in her hands. Pale hair fell over one shoulder. Her posture was relaxed.
Awake.
Active.
She didn't look surprised.
"Oh, hello there, Young Master," she said without looking up. "Did you enjoy your breakfast?"
Mars stiffened and gave a small nod.
Mira lifted her gaze, smiling faintly. "You have very soft steps. Afraid to wake the house?"
"I wasn't trying to be quiet," he replied, steady despite the tension in his shoulders.
She closed the book gently.
"You explore instead of hiding. That's interesting. I wouldn't have expected it, judging from the way you left the dining hall last night. You adapt quite fast."
"Well… I couldn't really go outside. So my only choice was to explore."
"Of course not," she said smoothly. "You are human."
The word struck softer this time.
He didn't react.
"Why are you awake?" he asked.
Mira tilted her head slightly.
"These are actually my quarters, Young Master."
Mars glanced around. In the dimness he noticed folded sheets near a chaise, neatly stacked towels, perhaps a change of clothes. The library was enormous; shadows swallowed detail.
"Why not get a regular room? There are a dozen rooms in the east wing where I sleep."
She gasped theatrically, pressing a hand to her chest. "Oh, Young Master… are you inviting me to your quarters?" She giggled, feigning blush. "So forward of you."
Mars stumbled over his words. "What? No—that's not what I meant. I meant the other rooms, not that you should slee—"
"I'm only jesting," she said softly, clearly enjoying his fluster. "I know what you meant."
The smile lingered.
"The east wing is yours and yours alone, no matter how many rooms there are. Besides…" She lifted the book slightly. "I like to read."
"Oh. I see."
Silence stretched.
He glanced at the shelves. "What are you reading?"
"History."
"Of what?"
"Of us."
He met her eyes. "And me?"
Her gaze sharpened — subtle but precise.
"You are still being written."
The air felt heavier.
"And it should be an interesting story," she added. "You are adapting quickly."
He hesitated.
"You don't seem surprised about last night."
His fingers tightened at his sides. "Nothing happened last night."
A small smile curved her lips.
"Of course."
She reopened her book.
Conversation finished.
He turned to leave.
"Fear is not weakness, Mars."
He paused.
"Just never let it control you. It may not be a weakness… but it is a mind killer."
He said nothing.
He stepped back into the hallway. The door closed softly behind him.
The manor was still silent.
Still preserved.
Still watching.
For the first time since arriving, something inside him shifted.
Not comfort.
Not safety.
Understanding.
They were predators.
He was human.
And if he wanted to survive here—
He would need more than protection.
He would need something stronger.
Something reliable.
Power
But where would he even begin with something like that?
How did someone like him go about obtaining power?
He had no idea.
And yet… something inside him whispered that he might have already found the key.
The woman he had just spoken to.
Mira.
She might be the answer.
The thought unsettled him.
Mars had never used to think like this.
Strategic. Calculating.
Considering to use people as stepping stones.
He caught himself.
"What is happening to me?"