I shouldn’t have been born. Even as a child, I understood I was a mistake, the darkest secret of the Voltaire family that threatened to tarnish their esteemed reputation among the rest of the nobles. Hidden deep within the servants’ quarters was where I drew my first breath. Even now I can remember the thick scent of cleaning product and the hushed voices of the maids. Among them, I was born secretly in a makeshift bed, with no doctor or midwife in sight; entering this world, I became a brutal reminder of a night my father wished to forget.

My mother never spoke about my father, nor about how Alaric Voltaire had taken her, how the patriarch of the Voltaire family, the great noble, had forced himself on a lowly maid. A young woman with no power to resist.

My mother was once beautiful. I heard that plenty from the other maids; even after she was gone. Yet it seemed that beauty was nothing more than a curse, attracting the worst attention. If not for her beauty, she wouldn’t have suffered. To everyone else, it was a gift, but for my mother, it became a glass showcase, admiring her value; but only skin-deep.

As soon as I could understand and speak, I knew I wasn’t supposed to be here. Maids would take turns monitoring me in a small room, never letting me out, having to keep me a secret from the rest of the world. Whenever my mother would return from whatever hell she was forced into, she would come back to me with the warmest and happiest smile on earth. As I grew up, I thought my mother should’ve hated me, a constant reminder of the abuse. Yet, she loved me with a depth and purity that I didn’t deserve.

All my childhood memories started and ended with her smile, soft and warm. With her gentle hands, she would cradle me and sing lullabies that never failed to lull me to sleep. She was the kindest person I ever knew; her love unconditional, unwavering, even when I sensed the pain behind her eyes. She probably didn’t want a child, especially not the child of a man who had stolen her dignity. But if she ever resented me for that, she never let it show. To her, I was simply her son, and that was enough.

Before she would leave to do work, early in the morning, she would whisper to me while I still fought to stay awake, to go with her, to stay by my mother’s side. She’d push me back into bed softly, telling me to wait for her in her room and to never show myself outside. I didn’t have any blinding curiosity. My mother’s words were gospel. So I listened.

I tried to be invisible, becoming a ghost within the walls of the estate. She held me as close as she could. I was a burden, it would’ve been easier to abandon me. I didn’t want to let her down. She shielded me from the harsh realities of the world, creating a bubble of love around me I could never quite understand.

However, the inevitable happened. They discovered me. I remember little of that time, just fragments, really. The shock on the faces of the servants, as they realized they were betrayed by one of their own. One maid had told my father of my existence. The feeling of betrayal that my mother felt that day overwhelmed her. And then, just as quickly as the whispers about my existence started, they moved us. They took my mother and me from the servant quarters, out of the shadows and into the light.

My father seemed to take responsibility for his actions, and we were given a suite in the main house with rooms that were too large and too grand for us. The family had acknowledged my existence, rather begrudgingly, out of duty rather than love or care. I was, after all, a Voltaire, even if I was born of violence and silence.

Since then, I have had more interactions with the rest of my family. Alaric Voltaire didn’t care for me. I could see it in the way he barely acknowledged my presence. But he did what he thought was right by the family’s twisted code of honor. Acknowledging me meant placing me within the confines of the Voltaire household, even if my presence there was a constant reminder of his sins.

My mother seemed to take the change with humility, but deep down, I knew she despised the family. The Voltaires had taken everything from her, the few things she had, yet she never showed her hatred in front of me. It was as if she carried the weight of her anger alone, protecting me from it, shielding me from the bitterness that surely festered within her.

Even when she spoke of the other children, my half-siblings, the legitimate heirs of the Voltaire name, she did so with a softness that baffled me. “They may never accept you,” she would tell me, her voice tender as she stroked my hair. “But always be kind, Warren. Be kind because that’s what I expect from you, my son.”

Stolen story; please report.

Who knew being kind came with a priceless cost?

I never understood why she expected me to be kind towards those who were bound to hate me, scorning my very existence. But my mother’s word was law to me. So I tried. I tried to be the child she wanted me to be, even as I faced the cold indifference of my siblings.

Elektra was the worst. She was the same age as me, yet already hardened by the world in ways I couldn’t comprehend. She looked at me with disdain. How could a child her age already know such hate? She considered me inferior, someone to mock and use for entertainment. Every word she uttered was sharp and cruel. I spent many days crying.

Noah wasn’t much better. His indifference was colder, somehow more painful. He didn’t acknowledge me unless he had to, and when he did, it was with a detached hatred that made me feel like I was less than nothing. He ignored me, as if pretending I didn’t exist would make it so.

But there was Vincent. Sweet, kind Vincent. He was the one who saw me, who treated me as something more than just a mistake. Vincent was slightly younger than Noah, and in him, I found a friend. He would smile at me, gift me toys, and speak to me as if I were his equal. Those moments with Vincent were the brightest parts of my childhood, small pockets of warmth in an otherwise unwelcoming world.

Yet Vincent’s kindness was not enough to cover the cold reality of my existence. I was an outsider in my own family. As I grew up, that became more apparent.

When I hit the age of seven, I began training alongside Elektra, the art of fighting and using weapons. When my mother heard I had gained the opportunity, she was ecstatic. The prospect of her son becoming a hunter filled her with hope. It was around that time that my mother started speaking to me in hushed tones about my half-brother, Noah. She would sit me down in the evenings, her voice gentle yet firm.

“Noah will be the next patriarch of this family, Warren,” she would say, her eyes searching mine as if she wanted to impress the importance of her words on my young mind. “He’s the one who will lead the Voltaires when your father is gone. You must understand that, my son.” I would nod, not fully understanding but knowing that it was important to her that I listened.

“But what does that mean for me?” I asked once, my voice small and uncertain.

“It means that you have a role to play,” she said, her hand resting on my shoulder. “You are his brother, whether or not he acknowledges you. You must help him, support him, in any way you can. That is how you will find your place in this family, Warren. You will follow behind him, and you’ll earn everyone’s respect.”

“But Noah doesn’t like me. He doesn’t even look at me.”

My mother’s expression softened, her hand moving to cup my cheek. “I know, my love. But that doesn’t change what you must do. Be kind to him, even when he isn’t kind to you. Help him, even if he doesn’t see it. One day, he may recognize your worth. And even if he doesn’t, you will have done what’s right.”

Those words shaped something deep inside me. I didn’t fully understand it at the time, but they planted a seed, a desire to prove myself, to find recognition, even from a brother who seemed to hate me. I wanted Noah to see me, to acknowledge me, not just as the bastard son of a maid, but as someone worthy of standing by his side.

The more effort I put in, the hard work in order to be noticed, the more Noah pushed me away, lashing out at me in anger. He would scowl at me when I offered my hand, turn his back when I tried to speak to him. Each rejection was like a thorn in my heart, but I held onto my mother’s words, the promise I had made to her.

I tried to help in small ways, in ways that Noah wouldn’t even notice. I would tidy up after him, make sure his things were in order, and listen in on the lessons he received from our tutors so I could anticipate his needs. It was pathetic. Maybe the way I clung to the hope that one day he would acknowledge me. But it was all I had.

When I was ten, my world shattered. My mother, my anchor, my everything, fell ill. It started as a cough, nothing more than a nuisance, but it quickly became something much worse. The disease took her slowly, cruelly, robbing her of her strength, her vitality, until she was nothing but a shadow of the woman she had been.

I stayed by her side through it all, clinging to her hand, watching as the light faded from her eyes. I was so small, so powerless, and all I could do was watch as the only person who had ever truly loved me slipped away. She tried to smile for me, even at the end, her fingers brushing through my hair as she whispered words of comfort that I was too young to fully understand.

“Be kind, Warren. Don’t let them change you. Promise me… you won’t become… like them.” I promised. I promised her with tears streaming down my face, my heart breaking as I clung to her, knowing that I was about to lose the only person who had ever truly been mine.

And then she was gone. The world felt colder, emptier, and I was left alone in a family that didn’t want me. But I held onto that promise, the last thing she had ever asked of me. I wouldn’t become like them. No matter how much they pushed me away, no matter how much they scorned me, I would be kind. I would be good.

I would be the son she had raised me to be.