Meeting (1)

Albert stood silently in the corridor outside Grey's room, the heavy air clinging to him like damp fog. The mansion, grand as ever, was gripped by a hush that felt unnatural—like a stage awaiting a tragedy. He hesitated before raising his hand to knock, fingers trembling slightly. He already knew what awaited the boy behind the door. And that made the moment feel heavier than any he had borne in years.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

"Young master, it's Albert," he said, his voice carefully composed, though a slight tremor betrayed the emotion he was trying to suppress.

"What is it?" came the answer—calm, flat, detached. It was not the voice of a child. It was something else entirely. Something older… colder.

Albert opened the door slowly. The room was dim, but not enough to hide the glint in Grey's golden eyes. The boy sat in the shadows, back straight, hands folded neatly on his lap—his face a picture of unreadable stillness.

Albert's breath caught in his throat. The boy he once saw chasing butterflies in the gardens now seemed like a statue carved from ice.

"Young master," Albert began cautiously, "your father... he wishes to speak with you. He awaits in the dining hall."

"…"

The room fell into a heavy silence. Albert watched Grey closely, expecting a reaction of anger or despair. Instead, Grey's expression remained eerily composed. His thoughts, however, were far from serene. As he recalled the memories of his actions at the academy—memories of a particularly troublesome incident—he allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile.

'Well, it's not entirely the child fault this time,' Grey mused.

He wanted to see how his new father, obsessed with maintaining his impeccable image, would react.

Thinking that.

The corners of his mouth curved into something that could not be called a smile—closer to a faint, knowing smirk.

"…Very well."

Albert stepped back to allow him through. As Grey passed by, the butler could feel a chill brush his skin—not from the air, but from the presence itself. He followed silently, unsure what troubled him more: the looming confrontation… or the calm with which Grey accepted it.

They walked together through the wide halls of the Ravenwood estate, the walls lined with oil portraits and towering columns. Servants glanced up as they passed, quickly bowing their heads, maybe trying to hide their smirk or disdain as some averted their gaze entirely.

Albert's thoughts churned. He had known Grey since he was a baby—had seen him cry, laugh, stumble, grow. He had also seen the slow, quiet erosion of that boy's heart. Neglect is a quiet poison, Albert thought. It corrodes more deeply than any blade.

Still… the rumors of what Grey had done at the academy—what led the master to summon him—were difficult to ignore. Even now, Albert refused to believe the boy was capable of such a thing.

The body misguided, Starved of affection, undoubtedly. But albert cannot believe he do such thing?

No.

There had to be more to it. He hoped—no, prayed—that the master would not punish him too harshly. That whatever remained of the boy wouldn't break entirely.

Grey, meanwhile, walked silently, his expression unchanged. His golden eyes wandered lazily over the halls, the servants, the familiar architecture. Once, he had thought this mansion superior to his former castle—grander, more intricate. But now… he saw through it.

It was not greater. It was merely different.

The floors were of polished stone, yes—but too cold. The chandeliers were ornate—but gaudy. The symmetry of the halls, the proportions of the windows—it was competent, yes. But not masterful.

Still, something intrigued him.

The architect.

Whoever had designed this mansion was no ordinary craftsman. There was precision in the structure, a disciplined elegance in every line and angle. The design itself was brilliant—far beyond what the workers had been capable of executing. Their craftsmanship fell short, unable to fully bring the architect's vision to life. A pity, truly.

Grey made a silent note to find this man. He would need someone like that. Someone capable of building something greater—something that could eclipse even the empire he once ruled.

A castle worthy of his return.

If Albert had known what thoughts truly stirred behind those eyes, he might have choked on his own breath. Perhaps even coughed blood.

But the butler, caught in his own quiet mourning, walked beside Grey in silence.

And Grey? He walked as if he not only the own the mansion but the world...