The fog descended like a curse, thick and suffocating, swallowing the narrow alleys whole. Gas lamps flickered dimly, their yellow light strangled by the mist until it seemed they were breathing their last. The streets were silent, save for the squelching of boots against the mud and the occasional distant scream that echoed like a ghost through the alleys.

Charles wandered those streets without direction, his small frame barely visible beneath the oversized coat someone had thrown over him earlier that night. His bare feet sank into the filth, each step slower than the last.

The city reeked—of rot, blood, and smoke. It clung to his skin like guilt.

Then—

A hand grabbed his.

Rough. Calloused. Reeking of sweat and old liquor.

"Move quickly, boy," hissed a voice like rusted iron. The man was hunched, cloaked in rags, eyes darting to every shadow.

"Before they come back."

Charles didn’t ask who “they” were.

He simply followed, feet dragging through muck and puddles of dark rainwater. His legs trembled from exhaustion. His hands, still stained red, refused to unclench.

His eyes—

Blank. Hollow.

He hadn’t cried since that night.

Not a single tear left.

As if grief had frozen solid inside his ribs.

He didn’t know who the man was. Perhaps a servant from the brothel who managed to survive. Or perhaps a stranger, moved by some sliver of pity.

But none of that mattered.

Because one truth screamed louder than all else—

His mother was dead.

And he was alone.

---

They stopped before a towering iron gate, its spiked ends resembling a row of jagged teeth. A mansion loomed beyond, shrouded in fog and silence.

Tall white pillars guarded the front, flanking massive oak doors carved with worn symbols. Above the archway, the Milverton crest stared down like a judge from heaven—a winged lion with two swords crossed behind it.

Charles stared up, blinking slowly.

"What is this place…?"

The old man took a step back, as if afraid to get closer. "This is the Milverton estate," he whispered. "You’ll live here now."

Charles didn’t respond. He didn’t nod. Just stood there, soaked in rain and mud, as if carved from the same stone as the steps before him.

Then the door creaked open.

A woman in black appeared on the marble landing. Her hair was tied into a tight bun, and her eyes narrowed like she was already judging everything she saw.

Not a noble. But her presence had weight.

"Come in," she ordered.

No warmth. No smile.

Only command.

Charles stepped forward. His soaked shoes stained the pristine white floors behind him, each footprint like a wound on the polished marble. The hallway inside was silent—eerily so. It stretched long, lined with ancestral portraits framed in gold.

Dozens of eyes followed him from the canvas—

Staring. Watching.

Judging.

They were all dead, yet their gaze still clung to him.

At the far end stood a woman.

Elegant, cold, and unmoving.

Her silver hair shimmered beneath the chandelier’s light. Her dress was black, adorned with white lace like snowfall atop a grave.

Lady Lilian Milverton.

The last of the Milverton line.

She looked down at the boy. Not with pity, nor cruelty—but with something ancient. Something unreadable.

"So… this is Marianne’s child," she murmured.

Charles blinked. His lips parted slightly.

“…You knew my mother?”

"Of course. She was my sister," she said. Her voice was steady. Not mourning. Not grieving.

Just… a statement.

"You never should’ve walked away from this family, Marianne."

She gestured to a servant without looking. "Prepare tea."

Then turned her gaze back to the boy.

"That’s why I brought you here."

Charles’s jaw clenched. His hands balled into fists at his sides.

"I don’t need your pity," he muttered, the words cracking like glass.

"I’m not offering it," Lilian replied, her tone sharper than a blade.

She stepped down from the dais and knelt slightly to his height, her face inches from his.

"But you’re still a child, Charles.

And the world shouldn’t be this cruel to you."

Something inside him trembled.

He looked away. But then it came spilling out—

Broken. Raw.

"They… stabbed her… over and over," his voice cracked. "They laughed while doing it."

The air turned colder.

Lilian’s expression shifted ever so slightly.

Then, with surprising gentleness, she placed her hand on his small shoulder. Her glove was soft. But her touch was firm.

"It hurts, doesn’t it, Charles?"

He didn’t answer.

Because yes—

It hurt so much he could barely breathe.

---

That night, Charles was given a room on the upper floor. It was warmer than anything he’d ever known. A canopy bed. A desk. Shelves of books.

But he didn’t lie on the bed.

He sat in the corner, knees to chest, eyes staring at the floor.

Moonlight poured through the arched window, silver and cold.

"Mother…" he whispered.

His voice barely a breath.

He rocked gently, the silence swallowing him whole.

And then—

The air changed.

A weight settled into the room.

Like invisible chains tightening.

The candles flickered.

The shadows grew.

Charles looked up sharply.

And then—

A voice.

Soft. Whispering.

But not of this world.

"You hate them, don’t you?"

His heart froze.

He turned—

No one.

The shadows clung to the corners of the room, but there was no figure. No presence.

Yet the voice came again.

From nowhere.

From everywhere.

"If you seek revenge… call upon me."

Charles’s breath caught.

"Who… are you?"

The voice exhaled—like wind through a crypt.

"Someone who hears the cries of children the world has abandoned."

And for the first time…

A strange warmth coiled around his heart.

Like a promise.

Or a curse.

---

The next morning, Charles came to breakfast as though nothing had happened.

But his eyes—

They no longer belonged to a child.

Gone was the light.

Gone was the softness.

What remained was stillness.

A sea frozen in mid-winter.

Lilian noticed.

So did the servants.

The house grew quieter whenever he entered the room.

He studied hard. He spoke rarely. And when he smiled, it never reached his eyes.

Three years passed.

He became a prodigy.

In fencing. In rhetoric. In science.

But he never laughed again.

Until—

One night.

The rain returned to London like a vengeful god. Thunder cracked above the mansion. Servants screamed and ran.

But Charles stood at the top of the grand staircase, motionless.

Below—

Bodies.

Lady Lilian. The guards. The house staff.

Blood painted the floor. Rain mixed with crimson as it flowed down the steps.

The front doors hung broken.

And in the doorway—

A man turned.

Saw the boy.

And smiled.

He rushed forward, grabbed Charles by the collar—

And beat him until his vision went black.

---

When Charles awoke, the world had changed.

He was inside an iron cage.

Sun blazed down. His back burned.

The screams of others rang in the air, carried by wind and pain.

A whip cracked.

"GET UP, SLAVE!"

And just like that—

The boy once called Charles August Milverton…

Became something else.