Flamebound: Rise of the Cursed Prince

The wind howled through the narrow alleys of Takoba like a wounded beast, its cries carrying the weight of a boy's broken world. Rain spilled from the heavens in thin sheets, tapping over cobblestones with the rhythm of sorrow.

Aaron Hotveil walked alone.

His steps were slow, heavy. His once-fine clothes clung to him in soaked tatters, and his face—too young for such despair—wore an expression caught between numbness and disbelief. Sky-blue eyes, strange and luminous, shimmered beneath the downpour. No one in his family shared that color. No one ever had.

It should've been a clue.

For eighteen years, Aaron had lived within the walls of the Hotveil estate. Slept in its stone rooms. Smiled at its cold mirrors. Endured its silence. But he had never truly been part of it. The whispered gossip of servants, the sidelong glances from his siblings, the hard quietness of his father—all had built toward this one, irreversible moment:

> "You are not of our blood. Leave this house. Never return."

The words had been clean. Sharp. Irrevocable.

Aaron had frozen as they echoed, the warmth of the chamber vanishing like a candle snuffed. His father stood like a statue of frost—unmoved, unloving. In his gaze there was no conflict. No guilt. Just cold finality.

Aaron's breath caught.

"Eighteen years… and now I'm nothing?"

He wanted to scream. Demand answers. Beg, maybe. But his voice collapsed inside him. All those glances, those silences—they made sense now. He wasn't just ignored. He was never meant to belong.

And so he left.

No reasons. No explanations. No goodbyes.

Barefoot and soaked, Aaron walked into the storm with only a frayed coat and a canvas bag. Inside it rested a single object: a worn leather sketchbook—the only thing in the world that had ever felt like it truly belonged to him.

Takoba's streets became his world.

Three days passed.

Three nights without sleep. Stone for a bed, hunger his only companion. He moved like a shadow through the city, hollow-eyed and unseen. No one offered help. No one asked his name. By the fourth morning, his limbs trembled with exhaustion, but his eyes still searched the world for a spark of hope.

And then he saw it.

A faded parchment, nailed to a wooden board beside a crumbling bakery. It fluttered in the wind like a dying leaf, begging to be read.

> "Help Wanted – Live-in Servant. Steady pay. Full board.

Location: Gizana District. Residence of Lord Frankfurt Pierce."

Gizana.

He had only heard stories—of white-marble homes and silver fountains, of nobles whose smiles hid daggers. But what did he have to lose?

Two days later, after bartering his way onto a merchant's cart, Aaron stood before the Pierce estate.

It rose from the hills like a myth—black iron gates, tall as trees, guarded an estate too perfect to be real. The grass was too green. The hedges too symmetrical. Every rose bloomed without flaw, as if sculpted from silk.

Before Aaron could knock, the gates creaked open.

A man stepped out, clad in an ash-gray uniform. Pale skin. Sharp cheekbones. His eyes were unreadable.

"You're here for the position?" he asked.

Aaron nodded. "Yes, sir."

"I'm Kain. Follow me."

They walked through a garden so silent it swallowed sound. The path was lined with rosebushes trimmed like chess pieces, their fragrance too strong, too artificial. Inside, the mansion was dim and echoing—portraits of stern-faced strangers lined the walls, their painted eyes watching.

Finally, Kain stopped before a double door, carved from obsidian wood and polished like glass.

"Speak only when spoken to," he said. "Lord Pierce dislikes chatter."

The doors opened with a whisper.

The room was vast and cold. Chandeliers dripped golden light onto velvet drapes. At its center sat Frankfurt Pierce.

He was elegance sharpened into a blade—tall, bone-thin, with skin like ivory and eyes of molten amber. His navy robe shimmered faintly with runes that shifted when no one was looking.

He did not rise. His gaze pinned Aaron in place.

"Approach."

Aaron stepped forward and bowed slightly.

"Name?"

"Aaron Hotveil, sir."

A long silence followed.

Then, a slow, knowing smile touched Lord Pierce's lips.

"How strange," he murmured. "I thought you'd look… different." He rose, circling Aaron like a collector studying a rare relic. "Very well. You'll serve as my personal attendant. Your quarters are on the second floor. West wing. Next to the library. You'll learn the rules in time."

Aaron tried to speak—"Thank you, sir—"

But Frankfurt's voice turned cold.

"Understand this. No one leaves this estate easily."