The wind swept through the halls of the mansion, creating a sound more like music than a cold, lifeless whistle. Everything was immaculate, with the floors gleaming so brightly you could almost see your reflection in them. Yet, in the far right of the hall, an open door released a faint aroma of spices, sugar, and herbs into the air. Standing in the kitchen was a young man—or rather, two young men, Elijah and Isaiah. Both inseparable, clearly why-as they shared one body. "Let me use the left hand for a bit. I need the spices." Elijah hissed, barely restraining himself from biting Isaiah's ear. "No! I need to mix this. It’s hard enough to do it one-handed!" Isaiah snapped back, his tone softer but firm.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed through the mansion, interrupting their squabble. Without hesitation, they dropped everything and rushed to the front doors, speeding through the long halls until, finally:

"Master!" they called in unison, already reaching for your hat and coat. "How was the day?" Isaiah asked, his voice eager. "How was the road? I heard a storm was approaching," Elijah echoed, both brothers carefully hanging the coat and hat on the rack.