POV: Sylas | Next Morning — On the Road to House Virelles
Sylas 12 year old
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The road to House Virelles was silent.
Cold wind skimmed over barren trees, lifting fine dust from the cracked cobblestone path. The sky was pale grey, the kind that didn't promise storm or sun — just an empty stretch of hours waiting to be endured.
Sylas sat in the back of the old Eriden carriage. No crest on the side. No driver to speak to him. Just the creaking wheels and the sway of motion as he left behind the only home he'd ever known.
Not that it had felt like one.
His fingers traced the edge of the wooden box in his lap. Inside it lay the chipped crest of House Eriden — a coiled serpent around a broken gear. The symbol of a name that no longer carried weight… and a family that had never carried him.
He hadn't said goodbye.
No one had come to see him off.
Just as Thareon promised: "You won't be missed."
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Sylas leaned back and closed his eyes. But rest didn't come.
Only memories.
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> "You weren't born to be loved. You were born to serve a purpose."
His father's voice still echoed in his mind. Cold. Precise. Final.
A statement, not an insult.
That made it worse.
Thareon didn't hate him. Hate was emotional. Hate took effort.
No — his father simply didn't care. Not about Sylas as a person. Only as a piece on a board. A quiet utility. A cost paid in silence.
Sylas wasn't sure what hurt more — the cruelty, or the indifference.
He remembered standing there, in that cold study, hearing words that should have shattered him.
And yet… he hadn't flinched.
Why?
Because he had already known.
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There had never been warmth in House Eriden.
No arms around his shoulders. No stories at the fire. No idle praise for a well-drawn sketch or a solved arithmetic problem.
His meals were served in silence. Tutors rotated without asking what he liked. The guards looked through him. The maids whispered when they thought he wasn't listening.
> "The quiet one." "Poor boy." "He never speaks unless spoken to."
And Father? He only spoke when there was a rule to enforce or a name to protect.
So when Thareon had said:
> "You were named after something I lost, not something I hoped for."
Sylas hadn't been surprised.
Only… tired.
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The carriage jolted over a broken patch of road. Sylas blinked back into the present.
He sat up straighter and pulled his coat tighter. His breath fogged in the air, but the cold didn't bother him.
What stayed with him now was the quiet seed of something else — something his father hadn't noticed.
Will.
Sylas didn't speak often. But he remembered everything.
He remembered how the steward once scolded a maid for giving him extra bread — and how that same maid had left a folded paper crane on his pillow the next night.
He remembered how he had taught himself to read schematics from old engineering books no one else touched.
He remembered how he could dismantle a pocket watch and rebuild it before the tutor returned — and how no one had ever asked him how he learned.
He remembered kindness, even when it was small.
He remembered cruelty, even when it was quiet.
And more than anything…
He remembered being alone.
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> "You belong to no one."
That sentence had settled into his bones. But instead of breaking him, it had begun to shape him.
Because if he truly belonged to no one…
Then maybe he could belong to himself.
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He looked out the carriage window. The forest was thinning now. In the distance, a tall, elegant manor emerged, framed by high stone walls and silver-etched gates.
House Virelles.
The place where his father expected him to disappear into a role.
A servant. A butler. A shadow for the noble girl called Seraphina.
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> "She'll be surrounded by heirs trained to lie, duel, and manipulate," Thareon had said.
"She'll greet them with tea and try to befriend them."
It had sounded like an insult then. But to Sylas… it didn't feel like one.
Someone who still smiled?
Someone who still believed in warmth?
Someone who apologized for stepping on a leaf?
What kind of girl was that?
He didn't know.
But he wanted to find out.
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The carriage slowed.
Sylas looked down at his hands. The Eriden crest still rested in his palm. He opened the wooden box, placed the crest inside, and closed it carefully.
> Not worn.
Not claimed.
Just… remembered.
A symbol of what he had survived.
But not of what he was becoming.
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The footman opened the door.
Cold air rushed in, but Sylas didn't shiver.
He stepped down onto the stone path and looked up at the estate.
For the first time in his life, he was leaving not because he was running from something…
…but because he wanted to discover what else he could become.
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End of Chapter