The Lyuteakh family mansion might appear dark and desolate at first glance. However, upon closer inspection, it revealed itself as a true masterpiece of architecture.

  Yet despite its grandeur, the house exuded an overwhelming stillness, as though it held its breath, waiting—like a monument to something long lost, its silence steeped in the weight of unspoken tragedy.

  This air of solemnity was carefully cultivated. The estate’s efficiency depended on its highly trained, near-invisible staff, who operated with military precision. Hidden service quarters and narrow, unadorned corridors ensured that the household ran seamlessly. Servants moved through these unseen arteries like shadows, leaving the mansion’s noble inhabitants in undisturbed solitude.

  The mansion itself was more than a home; it was a bastion of order. The magnificent gardens, filled with rare and exotic plants, were kept in strict formation, their symmetrical arrangements reflecting the rigid discipline of those who maintained them. Even the Protectorium soldiers stationed within the estate were as immaculately kept as their uniforms, their presence a quiet but unmistakable reminder that this house was not merely a residence but a strategic stronghold.

  Despite the precision, the long-serving staff often reminisced about the past. There was a time when these halls had echoed with the sound of grand celebrations—lavish balls where hundreds of aristocrats, adorned in glittering finery, once danced beneath the great chandeliers. But that time had long since passed. Something had happened, something unspoken, leaving the estate hollow. The tragedy was known by all yet spoken of by none.

  The elder housekeeper, during her briefings for new hires, would always emphasize one point: the young master was to be treated with special care. He was not to be disturbed unless absolutely necessary.

  Nissa, one of the newer maids, had only glimpsed the younger Lyuteakh a few times. From afar, he had seemed beautiful yet melancholic, like a marble effigy atop an ancestral tomb. His presence carried an eerie detachment, as though he existed in some distant place beyond the reach of the household’s routine.

  Nissa, however, found herself fascinated. She had heard the whispers about his unnerving presence, the fear he supposedly instilled in those around him, yet she could not understand why. He was striking in the way an artist’s rendering of a noble youth might be—exquisite and untouchable. But being afraid of him? Nissa, unlike the others, had noticed something small, something oddly human about young Master.

  Perhaps if he didn’t always wear mourning attire, people would not be so afraid of him? she mused.

  When the discreet chime of the young master’s quarters rang in the servants’ room, Nissa sprang up, smoothing her apron as if racing against an unseen competitor. The other maids let her go, some shaking their heads in quiet sympathy. They momentarily paused, exchanging glances of muted amusement. They had all been through this before. Sooner or later, every newcomer learned.

  The chamber that awaited her mirrored its occupant—impeccably arranged yet cold, as though it had been drained of life. Heavy curtains framed the towering windows, their dark fabric absorbing the daylight that tried to seep in. A plush carpet muffled her steps as she crossed the expanse toward the grand bed, its carved wooden frame adorned with intricate designs. The canopy above, draped in heavy brocade, cast long shadows over the pristine white sheets.

  Despite the room’s size, it was devoid of unnecessary decoration. There were no vases of flowers, no fruit bowls, no idle trinkets that might lend warmth to the space. It was as though the very idea of comfort had been carefully extracted, leaving only the barest impression of luxury. The only sign of personal interest was the bookshelf beside the bed—filled not with the ornamental volumes found in the house’s formal library, but well-worn books whose titles had been rubbed to near illegibility. It seemed as though the room’s owner deliberately sought to remove any trace of individuality, smoothing out all rough edges with its sterile order.

  Nissa did not immediately notice him. The young master lay atop the bed, still fully clothed, his legs dangling over the edge as if he had collapsed from sheer exhaustion. His face, free of its usual composed mask, was unguarded in sleep. For the first time, he looked neither untouchable nor cold—only weary. Nissa found herself staring at him, mesmerized. Quietly, she approached, leaning over him. It was hard to look away—when else would she have the chance to admire the young master so closely?

  His cheeks were slightly hollow, shadows lingered under his eyes, and his pale lips, slightly parted in a way that seemed childlike and vulnerable, had almost completely lost their color. Is it normal for a man to have such long lashes? she wondered.

  She hesitated. What was she to do? No one had prepared her for this scenario. There were no instructions on what to do if the master fell asleep before being attended to. None of the etiquette rules drilled into her during training covered situations like this. Nothing along the lines of: “If the master falls asleep fully clothed while waiting in his chambers, you may freely observe him until he wakes and orders you to stop.”

  Gathering her courage, Nissa reached for his shoulder to wake him. But Morveyn, as though sensing her approach, suddenly bolted upright, gasping sharply as if she had jabbed him in the ribs.

  The abrupt motion sent their heads colliding with a dull thud, and Nissa tumbled to the floor, landing hard on her tailbone. The thick carpet cushioned the blow somewhat, sparing her further injury.

  Nissa yelped and tumbled backward onto the carpet. For a few seconds, both of them sat there, clutching their heads and hissing in pain. She was ready to faint from the shock, fear twisting in her stomach as she braced for him to shout at her, to berate her, to throw her out in disgrace for such a foolish mistake.

  “What the hell…” Morveyn groaned, peering at her from under his hand. Then his shoulders began to shake, his face contorting as he tried—and failed—to suppress laughter.

  She stared, stunned, as the cold, distant young master laughed, a real, unrestrained sound. The eerie beauty of his face softened with amusement, making him look startlingly human.

  “So that’s what they mean by ‘head-on collision,’” he finally managed to say between gasps, burying his face in his hands.

  The sound of his laughter startled her more than the impact itself. He looks so much like Lady Eolin when he smiles...

  Nissa scrambled to her feet, mortified. “I—I’m so sorry, my lord!”

  Morveyn exhaled, the last traces of laughter fading. “Next time, just call my name before you get too close, hmm?”

  She nodded furiously, her cheeks burning. He studied her for a moment before stretching his gloved hand toward her. She hesitated only briefly before helping him up, though she suspected he didn’t actually need her assistance.

  “I assume you don’t have a dagger on you?” he mused, rolling his shoulders. “I require help undressing, and I’d rather not suffer another injury tonight.”

  Still flushed, Nissa hurriedly set to work carefully unfastening the knots at his wrists, her fingers fumbling slightly over the intricate fastenings.

  The stiff buttons of his coat required careful maneuvering, and her fingers fumbled slightly as she unfastened them. She did not dare look at his face, but when she did, she found his cool gray eyes watching her intently. Her clumsy, calloused fingers trembled, and it was clear he noticed. Strangely, there wasn’t even a mark on his forehead from their collision, while she could feel a swelling lump forming above her brow.

  Morveyn noticed, of course. He noticed everything.

  "Relax," he said, his voice low, almost absent. "I don’t bite."

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  She gave him a small, awkward smile, hoping he was still amused by their earlier mishap. But his own smile was gone, replaced by a contemplative expression as he gazed at her. Feeling awkward, she dropped to her knees and focused on removing his tightly fitted boots. Morveyn watched her thoughtfully from above. If only there was even a flicker of interest in those beautiful eyes, Nissa thought. I’d fall hopelessly in love with him on the spot. She felt clumsy and unpolished beside him—too rough, too ordinary to even dream of… anything. The earlier collision had briefly melted the invisible wall of decorum between them, or so she had thought.

  Finally managing to pull his boots off, she rose and stepped back, bowing slightly as etiquette required. It was up to the master to dismiss her if he no longer required her assistance. But he didn’t rush to send her away.

  With a tired sigh, he turned toward the carved screen separating the bathroom from the bedroom, beginning to unfasten the pearl buttons of his snug shirt. The collar fell open, revealing a slender throat and pale collarbones, the fine blue veins barely visible beneath his translucent skin.

  Nissa knew etiquette dictated she should wait respectfully with her gaze averted. Yet she couldn’t help but watch him out of the corner of her eye, unable to stop herself. His shoulders were broad but not overly muscular—nothing like those of Protectorium soldiers or laborers who wielded heavy tools all day. His entire figure was lean and graceful, possessing just enough muscle to be aesthetically pleasing. He was more like an elegant cat—flexible and lithe, yet radiating restrained strength and grace.

  Beneath his shirt, another unexpected detail of his wardrobe was revealed. She had noticed his unnaturally slim waist before, but she had never considered the possibility that it was aided by such a garment. A corset—black, of course—fit snugly against his torso, expertly crafted and reinforced with delicate brocade. It was beautiful in its own way, and yet… why would a man wear something like this?

  Morveyn said nothing as she began to untie the laces, but she felt his gaze on her—watching, assessing. Her hands shook for an entirely different reason now. The last clasp came undone, the fabric loosening under her touch. And then she saw it.

  She sucked in a breath.

  A scar, grotesque in its symmetry, sprawled across his abdomen like an unnatural brand. The pattern was too deliberate, too precise to be a simple wound. It coiled around his ribs, a twisted, almost calculated design etched into his flesh. At its center, where his navel should have been, protrusions of unnatural hardness pulsed beneath his skin, as though something foreign had taken root inside him. His entire torso looked disturbingly wrong—his skin too thin, revealing not just the fine network of veins and capillaries beneath, but something deeper. Something alien.

  Nissa barely had time to register her own reaction before she felt his gaze sharpen. Instinct kicked in, and she forced herself to still, suppressing the instinctive flinch that had already betrayed her for a fraction of a second.

  But it was enough.

  Morveyn had been expecting it. He had seen it before. That brief, flickering moment of revulsion. It never dulled, never ceased to sting.

  She had spent the last several minutes hovering between fascination and naive admiration, and now, in the span of a single heartbeat, it was gone—replaced by horror she barely concealed. The shift was almost laughable. For a moment, something inside him twisted. It was not a new wound, nor a particularly deep one, but it irritated him all the same.

  Morveyn Lyuteakh had seen his share of repulsive aristocrats—bloated and deformed by years of indulgent, hedonistic lives. Many of them dressed in outrageously expensive clothes, hiding bodies that were far from appealing. Yet none of them had ever caused a servant to recoil in such visible horror.

  Morveyn's gaze hardened, the brief flicker of vulnerability vanishing as swiftly as it had appeared. Her reaction was nothing new—just another reminder of what he had become. Still, a part of him refused to let that moment pass unanswered. If she had glimpsed the raw edges beneath his skin, then it was only fair she felt the weight of exposure as well. In this game, neither of them would walk away untouched. Desire to make her cry surged within him—to ensure she regret ever daring to lift her eyes to his.

  His voice, when it came, was cold. Measured. "You’re trembling."

  Nissa jolted, her fingers curling into the loose fabric of his discarded corset. "I—"

  "Scrub my back and wash my hair." The command was casual, but there was an edge to it. "If you’re going to be afraid, at least be useful."

  She swallowed hard and nodded, her movements stiff as she obeyed. She was shaking so badly now that he wondered if she would even manage the task without dropping the soap.

  Freed from the corset, he could breathe more easily, but the dull pain returned almost immediately—a familiar, yet still infuriating ache As the hot water steamed around him, Morveyn leaned back in the bath, closing his eyes, exhaling slowly. The tension in his shoulders did not ease, nor did the dull ache radiating from his ribs.

  He had known what her reaction would be, and yet he had shown her anyway. Perhaps out of exhaustion. Perhaps because some small, wretched part of him had wanted to see if, just this once, someone would not recoil.

  "A predictable outcome."

  He counted every accidental touch, every nervous movement as she worked. Habit. He let her continue only until she was visibly struggling to stay on her feet.

  Her slightly tanned, pretty face had turned an unflattering shade of green. Her gaze was no longer fixed on the floor but blurred, unfocused.

  She’d feel unwell for a few hours. Good.

  He wasn’t sure if he had done it to teach her a lesson, or simply because her suffering was a distraction from his own. He wasn’t sure if it even mattered.

  By the time he finally dismissed her, Nissa was on the verge of collapse. She stumbled out of the room, nearly tripping over herself in her rush to leave.

  Alone once more, Morveyn sank deeper into the water, watching the candlelight flicker across the surface. He traced a finger over the ridges of his stomach, following the familiar lines of the scar, feeling the unnatural hardness beneath his skin.

  His reflection in the water stared back at him, the same as always.

  "Poor thing," he thought, mockingly. A delicate soul—shaking from nothing more than the sight of it.. Bitch.

  Let her cry. Let them all cry. They would never understand what it meant to wear this skin—to endure what lay beneath.

  Nissa left the master’s quarters on unsteady legs and collapsed to the floor after only a few steps. Her head spun, nausea churned in her stomach, and cold sweat ran down her back.

  A faint ringing echoed in her ears alongside the sound of her labored breathing. She couldn’t fully comprehend what had caused her condition—the dramatic shift in the room’s atmosphere, the repulsive mark on his otherwise perfect body, or... Or the cold disappointment she had glimpsed in the young master’s eyes.

  Gentle hands lifted her by the shoulders, guiding her back to the kitchen. She came to her senses with a cup of hot tea in her hands. The previously indulgent glances of the other servants had turned to expressions of understanding and sympathy.

  She did not need to explain.

  For the first time since arriving at Hawk’s Nest, Nissa cried.

  When Dain returned after completing his errand, a familiar weight settled in his chest—heavy, insistent. He had done everything exactly as instructed: delivered the response to the invitation, arranged for an unmarked rental vehicle to wait by the back entrance. No mistakes. No deviations.

  And yet, unease gnawed at him.

  Ever since his master had struck up that strange friendship with the Baronet, these late-night disappearances had become routine. Every time, he would vanish without a word, only to return hours later reeking of cloying incense. And sometimes—too often—he came back looking like hell itself had spit him out.

  Dain could always tell when it had been one of those nights. His coat, damp and smelling of alley rot, draped stiff over his shoulders. His boots, caked in filth, leaving faint, smudged prints across the marble. Once, his shirt had come back slashed at the collar, a smear of red marking the fabric. Another time, his gloves were gone, his fingers raw, the skin beneath his nails darkened as if he’d been clawing at something.

  And yet, never a bruise. Never a wound. Never any proof, save for the mess he dragged in with him.

  Dain had never asked.

  And he never would.

  But he kept count.

  And now, on the eve of his tribunal, when he should be resting, should be gathering his strength for what could decide his future—he was planning to run off again.

  To that place. To that man. To whatever it was they did behind those locked doors.

  Dain exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face.

  "He never knows when to stop until it’s too late."

  Slipping into the kitchen, he moved soundlessly through the dim halls, the silence of the estate swallowing his footsteps. His plan was simple: grab a couple of fresh rolls—one for himself, one for Morveyn. There was no way in hell the idiot had eaten properly today. Again.

  But just as he reached for the basket, muffled voices caught his attention.

  Sobbing.

  Near the hearth, a small cluster of maids whispered in hushed tones, huddled around a girl wrapped in a thick wool blanket. She was shaking, her breath coming in short, broken gasps, fingers curled tightly into the fabric as if she could hold herself together by sheer force of will. Tear tracks glistened on her pale cheeks.

  Dain exhaled sharply, unimpressed.

  Another one.

  He didn’t need to ask. He already knew.

  She must have seen it. The scar.

  His lip curled in irritation. Every damn time. Some girl would catch a glimpse, and suddenly it was the end of the world. A few gasps, some trembling hands, a tearful retreat to the safety of the servants’ quarters, where the others would gather around, murmuring words of comfort as if she’d barely escaped death itself.

  All this over a scar?

  Pathetic.

  Hopefully, Morveyn wasn’t wasting his time worrying about the whole ordeal.

  Shaking his head, Dain plucked two of the still-warm pastries from under the linen cloth, slipping one into his pocket before turning back toward his master’s quarters.

  Most likely, the stubborn fool was still soaking in the damn bath. He never knew when to get out on his own.

  Dain scowled, rolling the other roll between his fingers.

  You push yourself too hard, my lord.

  By Golden Sleepers holes, Looks like I’ll have to drag you out again.