The silent palace.

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The carriage rattled to a slow halt.

Avirl Sinclair stepped out, his boots pressing into the damp stone of the palace courtyard. The air was thick with the scent of impending rain, mingled with the delicate perfume of roses—a fragrance that permeated every corner of the Belmont estate.

Before him loomed the palace in all its austere grandeur. Towering white marble walls, intricately carved spires, and massive arched windows rose into a twilight sky. The rose garden that bordered the building was a spectacle in itself: meticulously pruned bushes intermingled with wild clusters of roses, their deep crimson petals striking against the pale stone. Yet, for all its beauty, the garden exuded a strange, muted vibrancy—as if nature itself had been hushed in reverence or dread.

Avirl's mind churned with quiet questions. Why does this place feel so empty?

He adjusted the neat crease of his uniform and surveyed the silent garden, its vibrant blooms hinting at secrets of beauty and sorrow. The wind whispered through the leaves, carrying murmurs that Avirl could not quite decipher, as though the garden held hidden memories best left unspoken.

A single servant, an older man with a face etched by time, stood at the entrance. His eyes—dark and steady—revealed neither admiration nor judgment, but something closer to quiet pity.

"Avirl Sinclair?"

"Yes."

For a moment, the servant's gaze lingered on him in a way that made Avirl's heart tighten with unspoken foreboding.

"Follow me."

Without further word, the servant led him through enormous double doors that opened with a soft, mournful groan.

Inside, silence reigned.

The corridors stretched endlessly, their polished marble floors reflecting the wavering light of countless candles. Every surface was immaculate, every detail maintained with meticulous care. And yet, despite the opulence, the atmosphere was hollow. There were no voices or lively whispers—only the measured echo of each step.

Avirl had served noble families before and had witnessed lively estates brimming with sound and life. But here, every corner of the mansion exuded a somber stillness, as if the palace was a monument to a long-forgotten era.

They passed a pair of maids whose movements were precise and emotionless. Their faces were blank, their eyes lowered. Though they offered no greeting, for a fleeting moment, Avirl sensed in their brief, sidelong glances a shared awareness of the mansion's dark undercurrent. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the impression faded into silence.

Finally, the older servant halted before a pair of imposing double doors.

"The prince is inside. He has been expecting you."

Expecting him.

The words echoed in Avirl's mind, heavy with mystery. He placed his hand on the cool handle and pushed the doors open.

---

The Chamber of the Prince

The scent of roses greeted him—a subtle, lingering perfume that seemed to seep into the very walls.

Inside, the chamber was bathed in a soft cascade of candlelight. Every item was arranged in impeccable order; the furniture shone with meticulous care, and the heavy curtains were drawn just enough to let in the last traces of daylight, casting soft, golden streaks across the floor.

And yet, beneath that flawless veneer, an undercurrent of sorrow and loneliness pulsed.

In the far corner, by an arched window, sat Lucius Belmont.

For a moment, Avirl's breath caught.

Lucius was a vision of ethereal perfection. Draped in a pristine white robe that pooled at his feet like liquid silk, he resembled a figure from a timeless painting—a living sculpture carved in delicate detail. His blonde hair cascaded softly over his shoulders, each strand catching the candlelight and shimmering like spun gold.

But it was his eyes that captivated Avirl the most: the lightest shade of ocean blue, so pale they almost appeared translucent. In the muted glow, they held an otherworldly quality—distant, as if reflecting the vast emptiness of a frozen sea. His skin, pale as fresh-fallen snow, was flawless and cool, every detail suggesting a fragile beauty that could shatter with the slightest touch.

Avirl's mind raced with silent questions. He looks like a porcelain doll—too perfect, too delicate to be real. How can such beauty exist in a world so unforgiving?

Yet, beneath the exquisite surface, Avirl sensed something deeply unsettling—a quiet sorrow that seemed to emanate from Lucius, as if his perfection were but a mask concealing an endless loneliness.

Lucius remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the darkening view beyond the window, where the rose garden merged with the night. For a long heartbeat, Avirl wondered if the prince had noticed his arrival at all.

Finally, Avirl broke the silence with a steady voice:

"Your Highness."

At that, Lucius's fingers twitched imperceptibly against the fabric of his sleeve—the first subtle sign of movement.

"I am Avirl Sinclair. From today onward, I will serve you."

Still, there was no reply. The silence deepened until, in a voice barely audible, Lucius uttered:

"Will you?"

It was not a question filled with genuine inquiry, but rather a quiet test, as if the prince sought to measure the resolve hidden within Avirl's words.

Without a hint of hesitation, Avirl responded, "I will."

Another pause enveloped them before Lucius's soft voice spoke again:

"Then stay."

Lucius's pale fingers resumed their slow, deliberate tracing along the armrest—a delicate, controlled movement that suggested an effort to contain something powerful. Avirl watched, mesmerized by the precision of each gesture and by the unnerving stillness of the man before him.

Every detail of Lucius's appearance was etched in Avirl's mind: the flawless white robe, the shimmering blonde hair, the ocean-blue eyes that held a depth of sorrow, and that skin, as pale and pristine as untouched snow. It was beauty in its purest, most haunting form—so exquisitely crafted, yet shrouded in an aura of despair.

Unable to quell the tension, Avirl ventured further, his voice soft but imbued with determination:

"Would you like me to prepare anything for you, Your Highness?"

For a few long seconds, the room remained still, and then Lucius murmured, almost as if the sound were being swallowed by the oppressive quiet:

"No."

Avirl nodded slowly. "Then, I will take my leave."

He turned toward the door, his hand reaching for the handle. But just as his fingers touched the cool metal, a measured, deliberate voice called softly:

"Avirl Sinclair."

A shiver ran through him. The sound of his name, spoken so slowly, carried an unspoken weight. Avirl turned, meeting Lucius's gaze for the first time up close.

"Yes, Your Highness?" he inquired, voice steady despite the tumult of questions stirring within him.

Lucius remained seated by the window, his posture immovable, his gaze still fixed on the dark horizon. Yet, even in that silence, the subtle motion of his fingers—tracing patterns along the armrest—hinted at emotions hidden beneath the surface. The silent exchange was heavy with unspoken meaning.

For what seemed like an eternity, neither spoke. Avirl's thoughts roiled: What does he expect from me? What secret does he guard behind those icy eyes?

After several long, agonizing moments, Lucius turned his head slightly. The soft curve of his lips, barely parting as if to offer a word, sent a ripple of anticipation through Avirl's chest. But no words emerged. The moment stretched, fragile and charged, before Lucius turned back to the window as if to erase the encounter entirely.

With a heavy heart, Avirl exhaled and grasped the door handle once more. He stepped out into the corridor, the door closing softly behind him.

The hallway was even colder than before. Every step echoed against the marble, each sound a reminder of the heavy silence that enveloped the palace. Avirl's mind was filled with questions that had no answers—a labyrinth of doubts and mysteries that he could not escape.

He wandered the corridor for a long while, his thoughts swirling like the eddies in a deep, dark river. What is it about the prince that renders him so untouchable?

Why does every detail of his appearance, every measured gesture, whisper of a sorrow too profound for words?

Every so often, he paused to glance at a mirror or a polished surface, catching fleeting reflections of himself alongside the ghostly portraits that adorned the walls. The eyes of the long-departed seemed to look through him, as though silently acknowledging the heavy burden of secrets that the palace kept hidden.

At length, Avirl found himself in a secluded part of the mansion—a quiet corridor that opened onto a small terrace overlooking the rose garden. The garden, now bathed in the silver glow of moonlight, appeared both vibrant and melancholic. The roses, their petals deep red against the pale night, swayed gently in the cool breeze, as if murmuring ancient laments.

He paused on the terrace, allowing the serenity of the scene to wash over him. Yet even in the beauty of the moonlit roses, he sensed an undercurrent of grief—a reminder that even the loveliest blossoms were doomed to wither away.

His thoughts drifted back to Lucius—the ethereal figure in the candlelit chamber. What is it about him that calls out to me so powerfully? Avirl wondered silently.

Perhaps it was the contrast of his fragile perfection with the oppressive silence of this place.

Or maybe it was the sorrow that lingered in his ocean-blue eyes—a sorrow that seemed to mirror the desolation of the palace itself.

After what felt like an eternity, Avirl reluctantly left the terrace and made his way back to his modest quarters. The palace had begun to settle into a deep, pervasive quiet, each room and corridor echoing with the weight of unspoken memories.

That night, as Avirl sat by a single flickering candle in his sparse room, he recorded every detail in his notebook. He wrote of the cold grandeur of the halls, the melancholic beauty of the rose garden, and most vividly, the image of Lucius—a boy whose presence was as striking as it was sorrowful.

He is like a delicate work of art, carved from the purest white marble yet stained with a deep, unyielding melancholy, he wrote.

There is a fragility to him—a perfection that borders on the unreal. But behind those flawless features and those ice-blue eyes lies a sorrow that no one dares name.

As the candle burned low, Avirl's mind was filled with questions that would not be answered that night. He wondered if, in time, he might uncover the truth behind the prince's enigmatic silence, if he might ever glimpse the pain hidden behind that ethereal beauty. But for now, all he had were the whispers of the palace and the lingering, haunting image of a boy who seemed as fragile as porcelain.

At dawn, the first weak rays of light filtered through the narrow window of his room, and Avirl awoke with a lingering sense of unease. The memories of the previous day—the silent encounters, the hushed conversations with the unseen inhabitants of the palace, and the endless, questioning gaze of Lucius—remained etched in his mind.

He dressed quickly, steeling himself for another day in a mansion that held as many secrets as it did splendor. As he stepped into the corridor, he couldn't help but glance repeatedly toward the door to the prince's chamber, each time wondering if today might bring a fragment of truth, or at least a soft word from the man whose mystery had already become his own.

Every step he took echoed with the silent vow that he would unravel the enigma of Lucius Belmont—a task that now seemed as inevitable as it was perilous. In that hallowed place of unyielding beauty and whispered sorrows, Avirl knew that he was no longer just a servant. He was a witness to a story written in silence—a story of perfection and pain, of fragility and the endless mystery that lay behind those ocean-blue eyes.

And so, as he embarked on yet another day in the cold, haunted corridors of Belmont Palace, Avirl carried with him both dread and determination. The mansion, with its pristine beauty and ghostly quiet, had claimed him in ways he was only beginning to understand. Each moment, each whispered secret and every unspoken question, bound him ever closer to a fate that was as mesmerizing as it was foreboding.

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