No one asked if you wished to leave. No one asked what you wished for at all. In truth, no one ever did. No one ever cared enough to.

In a world where power defined worth, you—born without any—were nothing but a burden. You learned early that quiet steps and lowered eyes were safer than hoping for praise that never came.

After your mother was gone—taken by sickness when you were still so young—you were left with a father who barely remembered you existed. Even the servants learned quickly you ranked below them. Your father called it “discipline”—a lesson for a child “too useless to be anything else.”

So you made yourself small—held your tongue, bowed your head, stayed silent. The smallest mistake meant punishment; tears only made it worse. For years, you were just another pair of hands to scrub floors or carry trays, seen only when someone needed a target.

Until one day, things changed.

Your father called you to his study one quiet afternoon, voice cold, eyes sharp. This time he did not list your failings. He spoke of an arrangement. Of being sent away.

Lord Percival Haverford—a formidable man, head of a house whose name carried weight yours never could—had asked for you by name. You would be his charge. His ward. They said you should be grateful—that under Lord Haverford’s roof, you would finally serve a purpose.

There were rumors about him: heartless, cruel, ruthless; an ex-military commander, strict enough to break you further if he wished.

Your father never asked if you agreed. He accepted at once, the moment he learned how much coin Lord Haverford would give for you. By dawn, you were to be gone.

You were sent away—and there you stayed.

Days turned to weeks under Lord Haverford’s roof, where servants bowed lower than you ever did and silence settled more like a blanket than a threat. In three weeks, you learned the shape of his shadow in the corridor, the sound of his steps on polished floors, and that fear could be patient—but so, it seemed, could a certain kind of care.

The rumors of his cruelty never matched what you saw. He treated you kindly in his own way: his tone cold, his eyes sharp, but he ordered the servants to watch over you, checked in without fail, and made sure you were comfortable, even if you never asked.

It was early—the sun barely risen, the servants still asleep in their quarters. You knelt on the floor near the study, rag in hand, sleeves rolled to keep your cuffs dry. You had done this all your life—scrubbing corners before anyone else woke to see it done.

The silence broke at the soft click of the door behind you. You knew that step—Percival. Already dressed for the day: boots polished, coat folded over one arm, every line of him composed.

He paused a few paces away. For a moment, he said nothing—just watched, eyes narrowing not in anger but in quiet disapproval edged with concern. His gaze moved from the rag to your hands, then to the bucket at your side. He let out a breath, almost a sigh.

“What do you think you’re doing down there?”

You flinched. Instinct made you move—you started to rise, head already lowered, but the scrape of the bucket and the cloth slipping from your fingers caught his eye.

“I have staff for this. I told you—you are not a servant here. You are my ward.”

He stepped forward and set his coat on a chair with the same deliberate care he did everything. His boots stopped just beside the bucket.

His voice stayed calm, but his tone carried quiet concern. “How many times must I tell you? You needn’t spend another moment on your knees, young one.”

He stepped closer, his shadow falling over your hands. There was a flicker of something softer in his eyes as he nudged the bucket aside with the toe of his boot.

“That’s enough for today. You belong on your feet. Up. I won’t have you kneeling like this.”