Cain opened his eyes to find himself back in his childhood room.

The air smelled the same, like dust, sunlight, and pressed flowers. A small vase sat on the windowsill, petals wilting at the edge. Toys were scattered across the floor; books and ornaments lined the shelves. Everything was as it had been. Untouched. Peaceful.

Outside, night draped the world in stillness. The stars glimmered through the open windows, and the leaves of the old oak tree swayed gently in the wind.
Gold by day, black by night.
For a moment, he could almost believe he was safe.

Then came the sound.

Footsteps.

Distant at first, muffled against the earth. Growing louder.

Then a slam. A sharp, tearing noise that made the walls shudder. His mother’s scream broke the stillness, followed by his father’s voice, rough and frantic. 

Cain froze. His tiny hands clutched the blanket and pulled it over his head, as if the fabric alone could make him disappear. The shouting grew clearer.
Glass shattered.
He thought he heard his name being called. 

Instinct screamed at him to hide. He stumbled from the bed, trembling, bare feet padding across the cold wooden floors. His eyes darted to the bronze toy chest in the corner. It wasn’t big, but it was enough. Thank God he’d never cleaned his room.

He climbed inside, curling himself into a tight ball, and pulled the lid shut.

Darkness.

Only the sound of his own breath.

Then, chaos. 

Footsteps pounded up the hall, closer, heavier. 

The crash of breaking wood, his door. Voices hissed and barked commands. The room shook; the sound of things being thrown, torn, and splintered.

He bit down on his sleeve to stop from crying out.

And then, silence.

He waited.

Minutes passed. Hours, maybe. His limbs went numb. The silence was worse than the noise. Eventually, he found the courage to open the lid. 

The air surrounding him was heavy.

He stepped out, small and shaking, calling for his mother in a voice that barely rose above a whisper. His eyes followed the trail of broken glass into the living room.

Two bodies.

His mother lay face down on the floor, her hair spread like a dark halo, blood pooling beneath her. Her skirt was torn, her body bruised. His father was slumped in a chair; at first, unrecognisable, until Cain saw the familiar ring on his finger. His stomach was open, the insides spilling like ribbons.

Then the smell hit him: iron, rot, and something that burned in his throat.

The world folded in on itself.

Darkness again.

Cain jolted awake, gasping, drenched in sweat. His heart hammered against his ribs, throat raw from a cry he hadn’t made. For a long moment, he stared at the window. He thought he’d see the old oak tree. But there was nothing, just the veil of night and the whisper of the city below.

He pressed a trembling hand to his chest. The silence was almost kind.

In the faint reflection of the glass, his face looked younger, like that same boy still waiting for his parents to wake up. 

In dreams, the past found him.

Even awake, he never truly left that room.

Morning arrived reluctantly at the Praecia Veil.

The air was thick with the ghosts of the previous night, perfume clinging to the velvet drapes, the faint musk of sweat and candle wax steeped into the walls. Cain lay beneath the red canopy of his bed, staring up at the folds of fabric as they caught the dim light. The world outside murmured faintly, as if unwilling to wake him.

After wiping the sleep from his eyes, he exhaled slowly, limbs unfolding beneath the sheets before he pushed himself upright. The morning air clung cool against his skin. The room was still, save for the low creak of the floorboards as he rose. 

He dressed without hurry. 

Linen shirt, dark trousers.

His fingers gathered the black fall of his hair, tying it back with quiet precision. For a moment, he lingered before the mirror, studying the faint shadows beneath his eyes. 

Then, with a final glance, he turned and left the room. 

Downstairs, the kitchen hummed with the quiet rhythm of morning. The scent of fresh bread mingled with warm porridge and the faint, sharp sting of citrus. 

Cooks flitted between the counters like clockwork, their movements swift and practiced. It was a symphony of clattering pots and murmured instructions.

Beyond the kitchen, the dining hall unfolded in opulence, as if it were a vision pulled from some half-forgotten fairy tale of nobility. The walls were dressed in a deep crimson that caught the light like wine, the gold filigree and portraits gleaming beneath the morning sun.

The floor, dark mahogany and polished to a mirror sheen, reflected each flicker in motion. In the corner, a fireplace crackled steadily, its warmth pressing back the chill as though guarding against something unseen. Above it all hung a crystal chandelier, scattering the pale light across the room in fractured brilliance, like a thousand captured dawns suspended in the air. 

Madam Lucinda Erith sat at the head of the table, like a queen in exile, her gown a shade too fine for breakfast, her eyes sharp enough to cut through silk. 

“Ah! Cain,” she cooed as he entered. “Look at you, radiant as always. Come, sit beside me.”

Cain obeyed with a gentle nod, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to please her. A bowl of porridge and a slice of toast waited before him. 

Lucinda’s plate was a small feast: soft eggs, crisp bacon, a cluster of grapes glistening with dew, and half a pomegranate dusted with fine sugar. Yet her attention lingered not on the food, but on the crystal glass of orange juice before her, turning it slowly in her hand as though it were far more interesting than anything meant to sustain her.

“You prefer bitter things, don’t you?” she said, watching as Cain poured himself a cup of black coffee.

“They’re honest,” he replied, blowing gently across the surface before taking a sip. The warmth seeped into his chest, grounding him.

Across the table, Claudia sat with two other courtesans, half-whispering gossip between spoonfuls of oatmeal. When Madam wasn’t looking, Claudia flicked Cain a knowing look, a half-smile, half-grimace that said she’d rather chew glass than flatter Lucinda before breakfast. Cain’s eyes softened briefly in reply before returning to his coffee.

Lucinda, oblivious or indifferent, continued. “You’re twenty-two now, aren’t you? My, how time flies. I still remember when you were just a frightened little thing. Look at what you’ve become. My care has done wonders for you!”

Cain’s face remained serene, but something sardonic stirred beneath the surface.

Her care, he thought. The kind that bruises with one hand and soothes with the other.

He smiled anyway, soft and obedient. “You’ve done more than I could ever thank you for.”

Lucinda preened at the praise, her rings glinting in the morning light as she reached out to pat his cheek. “You were always my favourite,” she said warmly. “Always so gentle, so well-mannered. Not like the others.” Her tone dripped affection, but there was something sharp beneath it. 

“Please remember to take care of yourself, sweet thing,” she continued, her voice sweet as sugared tea. “I can’t have you unwell. It’s not just for my own selfish reasons, of course…” Her thumb brushed the corner of his jaw, almost tender. “My heart truly breaks seeing you suffer.”

Cain tilted his head just enough for her to see the gratitude she wanted reflected in her eyes. “I wouldn’t dare do anything to break your heart, Madam. Rest assured.”

Her smile deepened, satisfied. “Good boy.” She leaned back, graceful as a cat sated after a meal. “When you’re feeling better, make some time to come see me again. I miss our little talks, Cain. My door is always open, and the tea will always be warm.”

He gave a small, deferential nod. “I’ll look forward to it.”

Lucinda beamed, reaching for her glass again, her eyes never leaving him.

After half a slice of toast and a few spoonfuls of porridge, Cain rose, careful not to scrape the chair against the polished floor. “Thank you, Madam,” he murmured, bowing his head before gliding towards the door.

“Eat properly next time,” she called after him. Her voice was lilting, affectionate. It was command disguised as concern.

Cain didn’t answer.

Once the door closed behind him, the air changed. It was cooler, lighter, freer. The sound of her voice faded to nothing, and he allowed the smile to dissolve from his lips. It had never reached his eyes anyway.

“Cain!”

Her voice caught him before he reached the stairs. Claudia slipped out from behind the others, skirts whispering against the marble, her perfume trailing close behind. She fell into step beside him, her tone hushed but burning with rage. 

“She’s a fucking bitch,” she hissed. “Did you hear her? Talking about raising you, about caring for you, as if she ever did anything motherly that didn’t end with a bruise or a threat.”

Cain didn’t look at her. “Let her have her story,” he murmured. “It makes her feel human.”

Claudia scoffed, bitterness cutting through her whisper. “Human? She’d have to dig through layers of filth to find anything in there that even resembles humanity.”

“Which,” Cain said dryly, “is probably why she keeps me close. I’m her good deed. Her ticket to heaven, should she ever manage to crawl that far.”

Claudia stopped mid-step, her voice trembling between anger and sorrow. “Good deed? When my parents sold me, I walked into this place and found you half-starved and hiding in the library. You were bruised, shaking, too weak to turn a damn page. And she dares to call that love?”

He paused, fingers tightening around the banister until his knuckles whitened. “You shouldn’t have had to see that.”

“I didn’t just see it,” she said, softer now. “I brought you food. I stayed with you while you cried. You used to tell me you’d leave this place one day.”

Cain turned his head, offering her a faint smile. “And you told me you believed me.”

They stood in silence for a moment before he stepped into his room. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

On the windowsill sat a small pot of lilies: white, speckled faintly with red at the edges of their petals. Cain poured a little water into the soil, being careful not to spill any. The flowers leaned toward the light, their perfume delicate yet heavy. Fragile things, too easily bruised. He traced a fingertip along one of the petals and murmured under his breath, “Still alive, for now.”

The Oak Tree: In the bible, the oak is a symbol of endurance, strength, and divine witness. Many covenants and revelations took place beneath oaks: Abraham built an altar by the oaks of Mamre (Genesis 13:18), and Deborah the prophetess was buried beneath one (Genesis 35:8). The oak also bears the weight of sorrow; in Isaiah 1:29-30, it becomes a symbol of shame and desolation.

The Lily: Lilies are often used in Scripture to symbolise purity, grace, and the fleeting beauty in life. In Matthew 6:28-29, Christ speaks of the lilies of the field: effortless in their beauty, cared for by God without toil or worry. The lily embodies innocence untainted by sin, a reminder of what the world could be without corruption.