The London sky burned crimson on the western horizon, as though the sun itself had caught fire from the city’s festering hatred. Fog hung low over the streets, thick and sluggish like a beast reluctant to move, curling around rooftops and chimney stacks like smoke from some unseen pyre. It clung to the alleys and seeped into lungs, leaving behind the bitter taste of coal and rot.

Through this breathless gloom, the Milverton estate stood untouched by time.

The tall manor loomed behind iron gates, its gothic architecture sharp against the smoldering sky. The walls were clean but joyless, as if mourning something silently. Vines twisted along its stone façade, crawling like the hands of forgotten memories. The windows were all shuttered, yet it felt as though eyes watched from within.

A carriage halted before the estate.

The horses snorted, uneasy.

Hugo Ravensword stepped down quickly, his polished boots crunching over gravel. His black coat, lined with silver thread, flapped in the wind that cut through the fog. His face was drawn, brows furrowed, lips thin with suppressed questions. His eyes scanned the manor’s silhouette with a kind of disbelief—like a man staring at a painting that shouldn’t exist.

He stood there for a moment, unmoving.

Then he walked forward, each step heavier than the last.

He raised a gloved hand and knocked—twice—on the grand front door.

The sound echoed, metallic and low, as though it had disturbed something ancient within the walls.

The door creaked open.

A maid stood behind it, pale and poised. Her uniform was immaculate, her expression unreadable.

“Good evening, Lord Ravensword,” she said with a bow. “The young master is expecting you.”

Hugo blinked, startled.

He stepped inside, his voice nearly a whisper. “He’s… really alive?”

The foyer was dim. The chandelier above remained unlit, the sconces on the wall glowing faintly with oil lamps. The silence inside was thicker than the fog outside—no music, no distant footsteps, only the soft click of Hugo’s shoes against the marble.

The maid led him down the corridor. Old portraits lined the walls—members of the Milverton lineage, their painted eyes solemn and watchful. Dust veiled the corners, but the air was meticulously clean. It was not the dust of neglect—but of restraint. Like a museum left untouched out of reverence, or fear.

In the parlor, someone stood facing the tall window, framed by the dimming sky.

Hugo stopped in the doorway.

The figure was unmistakable. Jet-black hair, combed back cleanly. Tall. Straight-backed. A silhouette of someone no longer a boy—but not quite human, either.

“...Charles?” Hugo said softly, as if a louder word might tear the moment apart.

The man turned.

Hugo felt his chest tighten.

Those eyes—once bright with curiosity, mischief, and warmth—were now glassy and deep. Dark. Still. Like water that had frozen over and trapped something underneath. Yet, there was a faint smile, barely there, like the ghost of a memory.

“It’s been a long time, Hugo,” Charles said.

His voice was low, smooth, like it had been sharpened by years of silence.

Hugo took a step forward.

He wanted to rush to him. To grab him by the shoulders. To shake the truth out of him.

But he stopped short.

“You’re alive…” he breathed. “My God, you’re really alive. I—how? How did you survive all that? Where did you go? Why didn’t you come to find me? I—I looked for you, for years—!”

Charles turned slowly and walked to the velvet sofa, lowering himself onto it with a kind of eerie grace. He picked up a porcelain cup of tea. It was cold. He didn’t drink it. Just held it in his fingers as if testing the weight of memory.

“Even if I told you,” Charles murmured, “you wouldn’t understand.”

“Don’t do this,” Hugo snapped, stepping into the room. “Don’t hide behind riddles. I saw your family buried. I saw the blood. I thought you were gone. You were just a child!”

Charles didn’t flinch.

His tone remained flat. “Perhaps I did die that day, Hugo. Or at least… the version of me that you knew.”

He looked up. His gaze was unwavering.

“Someone brought this body back. Not with heaven’s mercy—but with a demon’s kiss.”

The air stilled.

Hugo’s breath caught.

“What the hell are you saying…?” he whispered, stepping back as if the words had weight.

Then—

A sound. Delicate footsteps. Rhythmic.

Vespera entered the room, her presence like the slipping of a blade into a sheath. She wore a black gown with silver lace at the cuffs, her pale hands carrying a tray of food. Every movement was elegant. Controlled.

“Lord Hugo,” she said kindly, placing the tray on the table. “Before you ask any more questions… perhaps you should brace yourself.”

Hugo blinked at her, confused. “You… You were the one who answered the door…”

Vespera tilted her head slightly. Her lips curved into a smile—not warm, but… knowing.

Then smoke began to rise from her collarbones. Black, shifting smoke, as though reality were peeling away.

Hugo’s eyes widened.

“W-What… what is this?!”

The smoke coiled, snaked, and reshaped.

Where once stood a pale maid—now stood a man. A man with Hugo’s own face. The same hair, the same sharp jawline, even the nervous half-smile he always wore.

It was him.

It was him.

Perfectly mirrored.

Hugo staggered back, his heart thundering.

Charles rose.

He didn’t flinch at the sight of the doppelgänger. He merely looked at it… with quiet familiarity.

“I’m not the Charles you once knew, Hugo,” he said.

His voice was quieter now. Almost mournful.

“I didn’t come back for peace. I came back… for vengeance.”

The copy of Hugo stood motionless, its smile uncanny. Vespera, now returned to her own form, stepped aside like an actress finished with her scene.

“Vengeance…?” Hugo said, his throat dry. “Charles, your return alone would shake the court… but what are you really planning?”

Charles turned toward the window.

The sky had darkened. The last ember of sunlight was gone.

“I’ll burn out the roots of this rotten nobility,” he said, as his reflection watched him from the glass. “I’ll tear off every mask… and show the world what hides beneath the velvet.”

His eyes flared faintly red in the reflection.

The shadows behind him deepened.

Hugo stood, frozen.

Part of him wanted to run.

Part of him wanted to scream at Charles for becoming this cold, this monstrous thing.

But another part of him—perhaps the deepest part—understood.

He remembered the corpses. The Milvertons hung and mutilated. The whispers of corruption he had buried to protect the crown. The children vanished in the night. The nobles who laughed behind silken curtains.

And he remembered a boy—

A boy with ink-stained fingers and a crooked smile who used to draw birds in the garden.

That boy was gone.

But perhaps his fire had never died.

“...A creature that used to be my friend,” Hugo said quietly.

Charles turned.

And something in his face flickered.

Not grief. Not shame.

Recognition.

Then Hugo stepped forward.

His jaw tightened.

“But if it’s for the truth… if it’s for the ones they slaughtered…” he said, voice low and sure, “then I’ll stand by your side, Charlie.”

His hand clenched into a fist.

“I’ll help you. Not as a knight. Not as a noble.”

His eyes shimmered.

“But as your friend. The one who never forgot you.”

Charles stared at him in silence.

Then—slowly—his lips parted in the faintest smile.

It didn’t reach his eyes.

But for once… it didn’t need to.

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