Sylvain Flamesworth, no more than five years old, sat nestled in his mother's arms. Her warmth surrounded him like a shield, a comforting haven from the cold marble of the estate. The soft glow of candlelight flickered across their faces, casting a gentle shadow."I want this moment to stay forever," Sylvain murmured, his small voice barely audible. He tilted his head back to look up at her, his wide, innocent eyes filled with longing.His mother chuckled softly, a melody of warmth in her voice. She brushed a hand gently over his messy brown hair, her touch light as a whisper. "Every song has a final note, Sylvain," she said softly. "And every book... every book has a final page."Before Sylvain could process her words, her skin began to darken—first a faint gray, then deeper until it blackened as if touched by fire. Her body trembled, and with a final shudder, she crumbled into ash before his terrified gaze."M-mother!" Sylvain's scream tore through the silence. His small hands reached out, trembling, as he tried to hold onto something that wasn't there. The dream was sharp, too vivid, too real.Suddenly, he awoke—his heart pounding violently, sweat clinging to his forehead. The familiar darkness of his bedroom surrounded him, the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains. His breath hitched as his gaze darted to the figure lying silently at the foot of his bed—River, his black cat, curled up in a ball, her eyes softly closed.Sylvain inhaled sharply, trying to shake the memory from his mind. The dream—her—still haunted him. It was always the same: the warmth, the sound of her voice... and then the terrifying descent into nothingness. He sat up slowly, gripping the edge of his bed, staring out the large window at the night beyond. For a moment, his thoughts drifted to his mother—a soft smile on her face, holding him close, the warmth of her embrace. She had been everything gentle and nurturing, the kind of presence that made the world feel safe, even in its harshest moments. She was purity and warmth—always humming softly to herself while tending to their small corner of the house, always kind, always patient. Sylvain could still hear her voice in his mind—a lullaby she used to sing to him when he was restless—soft and melodic, like the strings of a violin. Her presence had been his only sanctuary, the only place he could find peace.But that warmth had faded long ago, swallowed by sickness and neglect. The memory of her death was seared into his mind—the way her skin had turned black, cracking like brittle glass before turning to ashes, leaving him screaming and trembling in the cold, unable to stop the nightmare.And then, as if a shadow had fallen across his thoughts, his mind shifted—his father's face replacing hers. Faust Flamesworth. Cold, calculating, and utterly impenetrable. A man who seemed to exist on a different plane from everyone else—a figure carved from stone, his gaze sharper than any blade. The weight of his presence hung in the air like an unseen storm, every movement deliberate, every word calculated to cut deep. His orange eyes—piercing, suffocating—seemed to follow Sylvain wherever he went, watching, judging, always observing with a dispassionate intensity that made his skin crawl.There was no warmth in Faust. No affection, no comfort—just cold expectation, like the relentless tick of a clock that would never stop. He was a force of nature, as unyielding as the laws of the universe. A man who believed he was above morality itself, his mind consumed with the belief that only through sacrifice could humanity be saved. It was a twisted god complex, one that made others shrink in his presence—fearful, trembling, and desperate to meet his impossible standards.Sylvain's breath caught in his throat at the thought of him. A cold chill crept down his spine, making him shiver. He could still hear his father's voice in his mind, cutting and precise, like steel grinding against bone. A voice devoid of emotion, just cold logic wrapped in promises that were anything but safe.But it wasn't just fear that Faust instilled in him—there was something else, something far deeper. It was observation. Precision. A way of thinking that was always one step ahead, constantly analyzing and dissecting, even in moments when it seemed like nothing needed to be said. Sylvain had inherited his father's sharp intellect, the ability to see the smallest details and anticipate the next move, like a predator sizing up its prey. But while Faust's observations were cold and ruthless, Sylvain's were tinged with something else—something softer, more empathetic, more curious. He couldn't turn off his emotions the way his father did, and in that, he found himself different.From his mother, he had learned to seek out what was gentle, to hold onto kindness—even when the world seemed to offer him nothing but pain. That purity—the hope in every moment, the belief that things could still be made right—had stayed with him long after she was gone. It was why, in the midst of this cold, calculating world, Sylvain still believed in small things: a kind word, a fleeting touch, the thought that maybe, just maybe, there was still something to fight for.Sylvain had spent the better part of the morning lost in thought, the remnants of his dream still lingering like a shadow. River, his black cat, trailed behind him as he made his way through the sprawling halls of the Flamesworth estate. The estate was quiet as usual, the kind of silence that seemed to press against his ears.Turning a corner, he nearly collided with one of the servants—her hurried movements stopping just short of him. She stumbled back, clutching the tray she carried, and for a moment, their eyes met."I-I'm sorry, sir," the servant stammered, lowering her gaze. Her voice was steady, but there was a flicker of something else in her demeanor.Sylvain tilted his head slightly, observing her. She was a new face, not one he recognized. Her auburn hair was tied back neatly, and her uniform was spotless. Yet, her stance wasn't quite that of a typical servant—her movements were too deliberate, her eyes too sharp, scanning him in a way that felt oddly calculated."It's fine," he replied, brushing past her.Raven stood frozen for a moment, gripping the tray tightly as she watched him walk away. There was something unsettling about him—not in the usual arrogant or cruel way she expected from an elite, but in his quiet detachment. His gaze had lingered on her just a moment too long, sharp and observant, as if he'd noticed something no one else ever would.Her chest tightened, and she quickly looked away, scolding herself. Get it together. He's just another elite. Yet, there was a fleeting thought she couldn't quite suppress: he didn't seem like the others.She turned to hurry down the hall, but her foot caught the edge of the carpet, and she stumbled—right into River. The cat hissed and leapt up, claws catching the edge of a painting hanging on the wall. The canvas tore with an audible rip, and Raven froze, horror spreading across her face."I—I didn't mean to—" she began, stepping back as Sylvain turned sharply.He crouched, scooping River into his arms as he inspected the torn painting. The cat meowed indignantly, but Sylvain barely noticed. His focus shifted to the exposed wall behind the painting."Wait!" Raven called, but her voice faltered. She knew she needed to leave before she attracted more attention. Clutching the tray, she bowed her head. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll send someone to clean this." She rushed away before Sylvain could respond, her face burning—not with attraction, but with frustration at herself.Why am I so off today? she thought bitterly, hurrying down the hall. He's just another damned elite. But a tiny part of her mind lingered on the encounter, unsettled. He hadn't seemed cruel. That bothered her more than she cared to admit.Sylvain watched her retreating figure, frowning. What was wrong with her? His gaze returned to the torn painting, and his brow furrowed. The wall beneath it wasn't smooth like it should have been. Instead, the surface was cracked and crumbling, and in the center was a small, jagged hole.Setting River down, he leaned in closer, brushing away the loose plaster. Beyond the hole, there was something—a faint glimmer of light. He squinted, his breath hitching.A room.Sylvain drew back quickly, his pulse quickening. The estate had been meticulously documented for generations, and he had memorized nearly every corner of its layout. But this? This room shouldn't exist.He stepped back, his mind racing. He knew better than to meddle in classified secrets, especially ones hidden within the Flamesworth estate. Whatever was behind that wall, it wasn't meant for him to find.Carefully, he adjusted the painting, masking the damage as best as he could. His fingers lingered on the torn edges of the canvas, and an uneasy feeling settled in his chest. With one last glance at the concealed hole, he turned and walked away, the faint sound of River's paws trailing behind him.Meanwhile, Raven leaned against the wall of an empty hallway, her breaths uneven. She had made it out of sight, but her mind still reeled from the encounter.He's different. The thought came unbidden, and she frowned, scolding herself. No. He's an elite. They're all the same—selfish, blind to the suffering around them. But the memory of his quiet, detached expression lingered. He didn't look like someone who fit that mold.Raven shook her head fiercely. Focus on the mission, she reminded herself. But something about him stayed with her, no matter how much she tried to shake it off.Sylvain hurried to the training ground right after leaving his pet in the room.The training grounds stretched across the northern edge of the Flamesworth estate, a sprawling expanse of carefully maintained sand and stone. Rows of trainees stood at attention, the golden sunlight catching the edges of their polished practice weapons. At the far end of the grounds, a tall, imposing figure watched over the session—Adolf Welter, the head instructor. His sharp, cold eyes scanned the line like a hawk searching for weakness.The air was thick with tension, each trainee acutely aware of the unspoken expectation to perform. Sylvain stood among them, his shoulders relaxed but his gaze wary. The whispers from earlier still echoed in his mind, faint murmurs about his reputation as the weak link.The first match began with a clash of wooden blades as Jack—a broad-shouldered boy with a barrel chest—lunged at his opponent. Jack's movements were crude but effective, relying on brute strength to push through his rival's defences. His strikes were heavy, battering down any attempts at finesse.Adolf's expression remained neutral until the duel ended with Jack's opponent on his back, groaning from the impact of the final blow. Adolf gave Jack a curt nod, his acknowledgement as close to approval as the trainees would get. Jack puffed out his chest, proud but panting."Strength will carry you far," Adolf said coolly, "but only if it's tempered by discipline."Next came Maria—a wiry girl with sharp, calculating eyes. Her opponent barely had time to raise his weapon before she was on him, her strikes fast and unrelenting. Each movement was a study in precision, but there was no restraint in her approach. Every blow seemed aimed to harm, her face twisted in a fierce snarl.The duel ended abruptly when Adolf stepped forward and raised a hand. "Enough," he said sharply, his tone carrying the weight of authority. "You've made your point."Maria lowered her weapon, a smirk playing on her lips. She relished the murmurs of admiration and fear from the other trainees. Adolf's gaze narrowed as he added, "Control your aggression, Maria. Efficiency wins wars, not savagery."She tilted her head, unconcerned. Everyone already knew she was the best.When Sylvain's name was called, a ripple of whispers moved through the line. He ignored them, stepping into the ring with the same detached calm he always wore. His opponent, a tall and cocky trainee, grinned as if the match were already won.Sylvain observed him quietly, noting the overconfidence in his posture and the slight shift in his weight before every movement. The match began, and Sylvain's opponent lunged. Sylvain sidestepped with ease, his movements deliberate and efficient. He countered with sharp strikes, exploiting openings with precision.The other trainees, less experienced, watched with confusion, unsure of what they were seeing. Their earlier smugness quickly faded into surprise, but they couldn't fully grasp the subtle mastery in Sylvain's movements.Adolf's eyes, however, narrowed as he observed from the sidelines. His gaze sharpened, taking in every detail with practiced precision. Sylvain's anticipation seemed almost unnatural—he predicted every attack before it came, his counters landing just before his opponent fully committed to a strike.But even with such skill, Sylvain's body betrayed him. His muscles faltered during a particularly demanding counter, and his opponent seized the moment, landing a heavy blow that knocked him to the ground.The duel was over.Sylvain rose to his feet, brushing the dust from his clothes. He kept his expression neutral, refusing to show any frustration.Adolf's voice cut through the silence. "Your mind works faster than your body, boy. If your strength matched your precision, you'd be dangerous. A shame your weakness outweighs your potential."The words stung more than Sylvain expected. He nodded stiffly, keeping his gaze steady as he returned to the line.From the shadows of a nearby archway, Raven watched the duel. Her eyes lingered on Sylvain, her mind racing. His precision was remarkable, unlike anything she'd expected from the pampered elites she despised. Yet, there was no fire in him, no drive to excel. He moved like someone who didn't care about winning, only about surviving.What's your angle, Flamesworth? she thought, her fingers tightening around the tray she carried.Her mission demanded absolute focus, but she couldn't shake her intrigue. Sylvain Flamesworth was unlike any elite she'd encountered—an anomaly she couldn't afford to ignore.Later that night ,the arched window in Sylvain's quarters stretched high, framed by thick velvet curtains that hung heavy and still. Moonlight seeped through the fabric, spilling soft, silvery beams onto the floor, creating a quiet pool of light. The mansion around him seemed to settle into an uneasy silence, broken only by the faint rustle of the wind against the glass.Sylvain sat there without a concern for today's training , he only thought about that secret room, his back against the cool stone, his posture slouched but his eyes sharp. River, his sleek black cat, nestled comfortably in his lap, purring contentedly as Sylvain idly ran his fingers through her sleek fur. The motion was a soothing rhythm, a faint anchor to the restless thoughts spiralling in his mind."You saw it too, didn't you, River?" Sylvain whispered, half to himself. His voice was low, almost conspiratorial. "That hidden place... What could it be? A treasure? Some cursed artifact ?"River meowed softly, as though in response, and Sylvain gave a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "I know. I shouldn't care. It's probably nothing... but what if it's everything?"His gaze lingered on the wall where the painting had once hung. The space now felt hollow, empty—almost inviting. He knew it was foolish to dwell on it, but the pull was undeniable. What lay beyond that concealed space? A secret no one else had stumbled upon? A hidden world, a world he could claim for himself?He let his thoughts drift, his mind painting vivid images—golden treasures stashed away, enough to buy his freedom. To escape. To live a life far from this place—far from the constant expectations, the ceaseless training, the suffocating weight of his family's gaze. Somewhere by the sea, maybe, or deep in a quiet forest where no one would find him. Just him and River. No one to demand anything from him, no one to manipulate his every move.The fantasy lured him, tugging at a part of himself he hadn't dared to dream about before—peace, solitude, freedom. His tone softened, dreamy and faraway. "Imagine, River... A quiet life, just you and me. No more fighting, no more schemes. Just us."The thought caught him off guard, making his chest ache in ways he couldn't quite explain. Yet as quickly as it bloomed, he pushed it aside.As time passed, the pull toward the empty wall became stronger. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "It's probably nothing," he murmured, as though trying to convince himself. But even as the words left his mouth, his heart wasn't convinced. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was more—something waiting to be uncovered.He looked at River, seeking reassurance, hoping she would purr softly in agreement. But she only blinked at him with those wide, quiet eyes, offering no clarity. "What if it's not?" he muttered, half to her, half to himself.Minutes stretched into an uneasy silence. The weight of his curiosity gnawed at him, growing heavier by the second. His gaze flicked back to the wall, where the painting had once been—where something felt off, something waiting to be found.Finally, Sylvain exhaled deeply, making a decision. He gently placed River on the windowsill and stood, stretching slightly as his mind began to focus. "Alright, fine. Tonight, we'll find out. If I can just figure out a way in..."His fingers tightened into a fist at his side, his resolve growing. He stepped closer to the wall, staring at the hollow space behind where the painting had been. The shadows seemed to shift, almost mocking him, as if they knew something he didn't.Out in the night, the moon hung high, casting a soft glow across the landscape. Sylvain's reflection shimmered in the glass, a mixture of determination and apprehension written across his face. He stared out into the darkness, thinking—just for a moment—of what lay beyond the secrets waiting in the shadows."No turning back now," he whispered to himself, low and steady, as if making a vow to the night.