Ronan woke with a start, his body stiff and aching from the cold, hard floor he had chosen to sleep on. The bed, soft and uninviting, had loomed in the room like a foreign entity, too luxurious for him to even consider. He blinked groggily, his eyes adjusting to the dim morning light filtering through the curtains.

A faint wave of unease pulled Ronan from his grogginess. His heart lurched, and he shot upright, instantly alert. His hand instinctively went to where his mother’s bracelet was, checking it as if it might vanish at any moment. It was the same hand holding his sister’s teddy bear.

Standing in the room, near the door, was the butler from yesterday—Reginald, if he remembered correctly—along with three maids, all perfectly still, perfectly quiet, looking straight ahead. They weren’t looming, not in a threatening way, but their presence unsettled him. He could definitely sense some discomfort from two of those maids. And was it jealousy he sensed from the third?

He looked at himself lying in one corner of the room while they all stood there. He hadn’t trusted the bed. Too soft, too foreign. That wasn't how you survived in the slums. You stayed alert, even in your sleep. But now, there was no rotting wood beneath him, no foul smell hanging in the air. The contrast only made him feel more out of place.

“Young master,” Reginald’s voice cut through the thick silence, smooth and polished like the marble floors of the estate. “We have prepared your breakfast.”

Ronan blinked, still trying to make sense of where he was.

Young master.

He swallowed hard, the words grating on his ears. He was certainly not one of these polished, pristine people who glided about like ghosts.

He thought about telling them not to come uninvited into the room but this wasn’t his place. And as much as he loved to be a hater, he couldn’t, for the life of him, get any words out from his mouth.

His eyes followed Reginald’s gesture, landing on a table by the window. The sight that greeted him made his stomach clench. Spread before him was more food than he’d seen in his lifetime. Fresh bread, eggs, slices of fruit that gleamed under the soft sunlight—food that looked so impossibly good it almost didn’t seem real. His mouth watered instantly, his hunger awakening like a beast clawing at his insides.

But then, another feeling hit him—shame. Just a few days ago, the meal he had eaten was scraps, barely enough to sustain him. Now, even if he wasn’t a saint or cared much about people in general, he felt a pang of uneasiness looking at so much food, just for him.

Did he really deserve this?

The maids, still as statues, waited quietly. Ronan’s eyes flicked toward them, catching their calm, emotionless expressions. Their presence felt suffocating. They were there—professional, practiced, ready to serve some boy from the slums, dirty and raw.

Slowly, he stood up, his bare feet brushing the cold floor as he walked toward the table, feeling the maids’ silent eyes on him. His hunger gnawed at him, but as he sat down, he hesitated, his hand hovering over the bread. The scent of fresh food made his stomach growl audibly.

With a sharp intake of breath, Ronan grabbed the bread, tearing into it without thinking. He devoured it, stuffing it into his mouth like a man starved—which, in a sense, he was. His movements were rough, hurried, as if the food might disappear if he didn’t eat it fast enough. The soft, warm bread melted on his tongue, and the eggs were rich and full of flavor, nothing like the stale, half-rotten garbage he’d been used to back in the slums.

For a few moments, he forgot himself, lost in the simple, animalistic act of eating. But when he looked up, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he caught sight of the maids. They were still there, not particularly watching him. And suddenly, the embarrassment hit him. Hard.

He had eaten too quickly, too messily. The contrast between his ravenous appetite and their calm, collected presence made him flush with shame. He slowed down, forcing himself to chew more deliberately, but the damage was done. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of place, of being watched. His hunger still gnawed at him, but he swallowed hard, trying to compose himself.

When he finally finished the meal, he leaned back in his chair, the sensation of fullness making him feel strange, almost guilty. The maids moved in without a word, clearing the plates with practiced grace. Ronan glanced at them, but their expressions gave nothing away.

“Your bath is prepared, Young Master,” one of the maids said softly, her voice like a whisper of wind through the trees.

Ronan blinked, his confusion growing at the mention of a bath.

Even though he had been traveling for days with the Marquis, he was still wearing the same ragged clothes from the slums. He hadn’t changed once, and the layers of dirt clinging to his skin had become a second layer to him, something he barely noticed anymore. He sniffed at himself, not fully aware of his own scent but certain he probably smelled bad—really bad. The fact that no one had mentioned it made him feel both relieved and self-conscious. Even the Marquis, who had been in close quarters with him, hadn’t said a word about it.

Funny how, when survival’s no longer the struggle, you start caring about things that never mattered before.

Ronan glanced briefly at the servants who were waiting nearby, their faces neutral and polite. They didn’t flinch, didn’t wrinkle their noses, didn’t even acknowledge his state of filth. He was grateful for that. At least they had spared him the embarrassment of bringing it up.

The concept felt distant, almost foreign. In the slums by the cliff, clean water was a luxury they rarely had, and bathing wasn’t a daily ritual—it was a necessity only when the grime became unbearable. Proper baths, with warm water and scented oils, were the stuff of fairy tales.

Without a word, he nodded stiffly, standing up and following the maids. His legs felt heavier than they should, like every step toward the bath weighed him down. The maids moved efficiently, leading him through the door to the adjoining bath. Ronan hesitated at the threshold, glancing over his shoulder as the door clicked shut behind him.

The air smelled faintly of lavender and something rich, like citrus. The bath itself, a large marble tub filled with steaming water, was more luxurious than anything Ronan could have imagined. He glanced around the room, taking in the small details—the soft towels folded neatly on a nearby table, the gold-trimmed fixtures, the wide mirror that reflected the pristine space back at him. It looked even more grand than it looked last night.

It all felt wrong, like he didn’t deserve to be here.

He began to strip off his clothes, each movement slow and deliberate, as if he were shedding the last remnants of the life he had known. The tattered, dirty rags fell to the floor in a heap, the only clothes he had left. The last thing he removed was the braided bracelet his mother had made for him, its threads worn and frayed from years of wear. He set it carefully aside, next to the bath, before stepping in.

The water was warm—too warm. It enveloped his foot in a way that felt both soothing and suffocating. He stood for a moment, staring at the cloth and soap laid out for him, hesitating. The thought of scrubbing away the filth, the layers of grime that had clung to him for years, felt like tearing away pieces of himself. The dirt was more than just filth—it was a shield, a reminder of where he came from, a part of his identity.

But with a sharp breath, he grabbed the soap, forcing himself to scrub. The first pass was light, almost reluctant, as if he hoped the dirt would stay. But the more he scrubbed, the more the skin underneath became visible, and something snapped. He scrubbed harder, digging into his skin, his movements frantic. His nails scraped at the grime, tearing at it like it was the last piece of his old life he could cling to. The cloth bit into his flesh, and he didn’t stop, not even when he saw red mixing with the water. But he didn’t care.

He scrubbed until his arms trembled and his breathing came in ragged gasps.

Finally, he stopped, his body aching, his skin burning. The water around him was murky with dirt, the proof of a life that clung to him like a second skin. He climbed into the tub, sinking into the water. The heat felt unbearable at first, stinging the places where his skin had torn, but he sank lower, letting the heat wrap around him.

As the water soothed his raw skin, his eyes grew heavy. The warmth seeped into his bones, pulling him under, and despite himself, he felt his body relaxing, his mind drifting. The world around him blurred, and before he knew it, his eyes closed. For a fleeting moment, it felt good. Too good.

And that’s what bothered him the most.

***

Ronan had barely registered the passage of time when a gentle knock stirred him from his uneasy slumber. His eyes fluttered open, the warmth of the bath still lulling his body into a dazed state, but the voice that followed the knock brought him back to reality.

“Sir?” It was Reginald’s calm voice, soft but insistent.

Ronan jolted upright in the tub, splashing water onto the floor. His heart raced for a moment, panic gripping him before he remembered where he was. He blinked, the remnants of sleep clinging to his mind, disoriented by the sudden transition from the peaceful warmth of the water to the cold reality around him.

“I—” Ronan stammered, catching his breath. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to…”

“There is no need to apologize, Young Master,” Reginald’s tone was even, unfazed by Ronan’s sudden start. “Take your time. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t catch a cold.”

Cold? Catch a cold?

What kind of stupidity was that old man spouting?

He didn’t say that though, when he stepped out. He exhaled, steadying himself. He watched as Reginald stepped forward, extending a thick, pristine towel toward him. Ronan hesitated, then slowly reached out, taking the towel and feeling its softness against his skin. He stood from the tub, the heat from the water evaporating into the cooler air of the room, leaving him feeling raw and exposed.

Reginald handed him a robe, simple yet made from fine fabric, and Ronan slipped into it. The sensation of the luxurious material against his skin was foreign—too smooth, too soft, too perfect. It almost made him feel more vulnerable than before.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, he was greeted by the sight of an array of clothes spread out before him, laid out with precise care. Luxurious fabrics in deep blues, rich silvers, and muted greens, all finely crafted, their embroidery delicate and intricate. The shirts were made from materials so fine that Ronan had never even dreamed they existed—silk, perhaps, or something even softer. The trousers were tailored perfectly, with gold-threaded accents, and there were polished boots lined with leather so smooth they looked like they had never been worn.

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For a moment, Ronan just stood there, staring at the choices laid out for him. They were too perfect. Too clean. He wasn’t used to choosing anything, least of all something as extravagant as this. His fingers hovered over the clothes, unsure where to start.

“Young Master,” Reginald prompted gently. “You may choose whichever you like.”

Ronan swallowed, his throat dry. He reached out and picked a simple tunic and trousers at random, something that seemed less adorned than the others. The fabric felt impossibly soft in his hands, and as he dressed, the maids helped adjust the fit, ensuring that each piece lay perfectly against his extremely thin body. He didn’t protest, but he couldn’t shake the awkwardness of it all. Every movement felt stiff, like he was trying to wear someone else’s skin.

Once fully dressed, Reginald gestured toward a tall, ornate mirror at the far side of the room. Ronan took a hesitant step toward it, his stomach knotting with a strange, uneasy feeling.

When he finally looked into the mirror, the person staring back at him felt like a stranger. The reflection was clean, polished—too clean. His hair, though still damp, was combed back, and the clothes he wore hung perfectly on his frame, tailored to make him look more like a noble than a boy from the slums.

For a moment, he didn’t see himself as the person in the mirror. But then, as he looked closer, he saw it—the faint traces of the slums still clinging to him. The lines of hardship etched into his face, the wary glint in his eyes that hadn’t faded despite the luxury surrounding him. No matter how finely dressed he was, no matter how much they tried to make him look like he belonged, he knew the truth.

You don’t belong here.

The boy in the mirror didn’t argue, just stared back with the same hollow eyes.

Reginald cleared his throat softly, breaking the silence in the room. “Marquess Vandross has requested that you meet him when you are ready, sir. He’s waiting for you in the study.”

Ronan tore his gaze away from the mirror, still feeling unsettled by the sight of himself dressed in such fine clothes. He gave a small nod, trying to suppress a little bit of his feelings. Reginald motioned toward the door, and without a word, the maids stepped aside to make way for him.

As they walked through the estate, Ronan couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer size and elegance of the place. Every hallway was lined with paintings, statues, and intricate tapestries that were maybe telling stories of Ravencia’s history. The marble floors gleamed underfoot, and the occasional servant moved quietly along the corridors, bowing their heads as Ronan passed. Despite the grandeur of it all, Ronan felt like a shadow moving through a world he wasn’t supposed to touch. The vastness of it all only made him feel smaller, more out of place.

They passed through a grand hall with large windows overlooking the estate gardens, where perfectly manicured lawns stretched out into the distance, dotted with fountains and statues. The sunlight filtering through the windows bathed the space in a warm, golden glow, making everything seem even more surreal.

Eventually, they stopped outside a heavy wooden door. Reginald gave a polite knock, then opened it for Ronan to enter. The study was a stark contrast to the bright hallways they had just walked through. It was dimly lit, the walls lined with shelves of books, and the scent of parchment and ink filled the air. A large, mahogany desk stood in the center of the room, cluttered with papers and ledgers, and behind it sat Gideon Vandross, his focus entirely on the document he was reviewing.

For a moment, Ronan hesitated at the threshold, unsure whether he should speak or wait to be addressed. But before he could decide, Gideon looked up, his sharp eyes meeting Ronan’s. The light from the desk lamp cast long shadows across his face, making his expression hard to read.

“Ah, Ronan. Come in,” Gideon said, his voice calm but commanding. He gestured toward a chair across from him. “Please, sit.”

Ronan stepped forward, his movements awkward as he approached the desk and lowered himself into the chair. His left leg drummed nervously while sitting in the chair, and though he tried to appear indifferent, the space and the man in front of him made it hard to breathe easily.

Gideon set down his pen and leaned back in his chair, observing Ronan for a moment before speaking again. “I trust you are settling in well?” His tone was polite, but there was an edge to his words, a subtle hint that he was studying Ronan’s every reaction.

Ronan hesitated before answering, unsure of how much to reveal. “I’m... getting by,” he said, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. “It’s different.”

Gideon raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I can imagine. It’s not every day someone from the slums finds themselves in a place like this.”

Ronan bit back a sarcastic reply, not wanting to provoke a deeper conversation about his discomfort. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, waiting for Gideon to continue.

After a pause, Gideon’s expression grew more serious. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his fingers steepled together. “There’s something important I need to discuss with you, Ronan.”

Ronan’s heart skipped a beat. Was it some kind of new condition, some hidden price for the luxuries he was now surrounded by? He straightened in his seat, his eyes narrowing slightly. “What is it?”

Gideon’s gaze remained steady, but his voice became a little deeper. “I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I believe that for you to truly start anew in this world, you need more than just a change of clothes and surroundings. You need a new name.”

Ronan’s stomach tightened at the suggestion. His name? The last piece of his old life? He hadn’t expected this. “You want me to change my name?”

“Yes,” Gideon said, his tone firm. “I want you to take the name Vandross. Become part of my family. It will give you standing in Ravencia, protect you from those who would see you as nothing more than a lowborn.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Ronan stared at Gideon, his mind racing. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. To take the name Vandross? To become part of this world? The very idea felt like betrayal—to his mother, to his sister, to everything he had endured in the slums.

“I can’t,” Ronan blurted out, his voice more forceful than he intended. “I’m not... I’m not someone who belongs with that name.”

Gideon’s eyes darkened slightly, but he didn’t seem surprised by the rejection. “I understand your hesitation. But you need to think of this practically. This isn’t about erasing who you are—it’s about survival.”

Ronan shook his head. “I’m not just going to abandon who I am.”

Gideon leaned back again, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m not asking you to abandon anything. But consider this—you can’t live in two worlds forever. If you refuse this, you’ll always be seen as the boy from the slums, and the world can be extremely cruel at times. But with the name Vandross, you can carve out a place for yourself. A place where you decide who you are.”

The room fell into a heavy silence. Ronan’s mind churned with conflicting thoughts. He didn’t care about being accepted into high society, nor did he want a place in this world of wealth and power. The idea of erasing what little remained of his past felt wrong. His name—Grey, although granted was a name every lowborn had—was all he had left of his mother, his sister, the life he had struggled through. He wasn’t ready to let it go.

Gideon, observing Ronan’s hesitation, spoke again, his voice softer but firm. "I’m not asking you to fit into this world, Ronan. You don’t have to seek anyone’s acceptance, nor am I trying to change who you are. But to survive here, you need more than just your wits. You need a name that holds weight—one that can shield you from the worst this empire has to offer."

Ronan’s jaw tightened. "It’s the only thing I have left."

Gideon studied him for a long moment, his sharp eyes calculating. “Then we won’t discard it,” he said slowly, a hint of concession in his voice. “We’ll merge it. You can keep your name, but you’ll need to add mine for protection. Ronan G. Vandross. It’s a compromise. You hold onto what’s yours, but you’ll gain the protection my name offers.”

Ronan thought about it a little and realized he didn’t completely hate the idea. “And what exactly do you get out of this?”

Gideon’s lips curved into a thin smile. “I told you, didn’t I? A strong ally with potential.”

Ronan mulled over the offer, still uneasy but unable to deny the logic in Gideon’s words. He didn’t trust him fully—there was still a part of the Marquis that remained a mystery—but for now, the compromise seemed like the only option.

After a long pause, Ronan nodded slowly. "Ronan G. Vandross, then. But don’t expect me to become someone I’m not."

Gideon’s smile widened ever so slightly, but there was something darker behind his eyes, something that hinted at plans yet unspoken. "Of course, Ronan. I remember our contract. You don’t have to worry." He extended his hand, waiting for Ronan’s response.

Ronan hesitated, then reached out, gripping Gideon’s hand. The man’s grip was firm, and though his smile held a hint of warmth, there was still something unreadable behind his eyes.

“I’m not asking for you to trust me completely,” Gideon said, his tone calm and measured. “But I hope there comes a day when you can understand that I have no intention to be your enemy.”

Ronan nodded slowly, his grip loosening as he withdrew his hand. “Maybe,” he muttered, still uncertain.

Gideon leaned back in his chair, the faintest glimmer of approval flashing in his eyes. “Good. Now, you only have about a month before you actually start attending the university. But we don’t have a lot of time to prepare for all the important things.” He gave a brief pause, contemplating, and then continued, “You also have the matter of learning language skills, but I will give you a few days to settle down first. Reginald will show you around the estate. Get a sense of the place, explore the grounds. This is your home now, after all.”

Ronan’s eyes flicked toward the door where the butler, Reginald, stood silently. He wasn’t sure how to feel about being referred to as part of this place. Home? It didn’t feel like it.

With a nod from Gideon, Reginald gestured for Ronan to follow him. The walk was quiet at first, the only sounds being the soft echo of their footsteps against the polished floors. Ronan’s unease was palpable, the luxury of the estate a constant reminder that he was far from the world he had known.

As they moved deeper into the estate, the silence between them grew uncomfortable. Ronan felt the weight of it pressing down, unsure whether to say something or remain quiet. Reginald, with his stoic expression and sharp movements, gave no indication of discomfort—he seemed to glide through the hallways with a quiet purpose.

When they passed a particularly ornate room, its doors slightly ajar, Reginald broke the silence, his tone emotionless as always. “The west wing. The former lady of the house enjoyed reading there, and it is now reserved for the master’s private research. He told me you can also use it at your leisure.”

Former Lady?

Should he probe for more? Or not?

Thinking about it, he realized it actually wasn’t his business. So he decided not to say anything, merely nodding as his eyes trailed over the rich, gleaming wood of the door, the intricate carvings on its frame, and the faint smell of old parchment that wafted from inside. Every room they passed seemed more luxurious than the last—golden accents on the furniture, pristine tapestries, chandeliers that sparkled even in the dullest light.

Reginald’s voice cut through the silence again as they turned a corner. “You’ll find the stables beyond the garden. The horses are well-bred, trained for long distances and battle. Master Vandross prefers to travel by carriage, but he rides when necessary.”

Ronan raised an eyebrow, only half-listening to the details. His attention kept drifting back to the luxury of it all. It wasn’t just material; it was a reminder that this world was built for people who had never suffered, never known hunger or desperation. Even as he walked, the weight of it felt like a burden on his shoulders.

They walked past large, arched windows overlooking a fountain, its water sparkling in the sunlight. The gardens were as carefully arranged as the rooms inside, with each flower and tree placed with a precision that made Ronan’s stomach churn. This world, with its order and control, was everything the slums weren’t. It was everything he had never been.

As they neared the end of the tour, Ronan found himself lost in his thoughts, barely paying attention to Reginald’s words. They walked through one final hallway, the quiet stretching between them again, until they came to a stop outside a large set of doors. Reginald turned to Ronan, his face as blank as ever. “This is the eastern wing, where the master’s quarters and your own room are located.”

Ronan glanced around, noting the opulence even here. “I don’t know if I should be here.”

Ronan realized it after he had said it, that he said it out loud. He turned towards Reginald and saw him staring at him. The butler’s expression didn’t change, but there was a brief flicker of something behind his eyes.

“Few of us ever truly know where we belong,” Reginald said quietly, his voice calm, and probably safer than usual. “The important thing is not whether you should be here, but what you will do now that you are.”

Ronan blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected answer. For a brief moment, the usual stiffness in Reginald’s posture seemed to fade a little, and Ronan sensed something from him the first time—an emotion that wasn’t quite visible but hung in the air between them. There was caution, yes, but there was also a hint of empathy, a quiet understanding of what Ronan was going through. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make Ronan pause.

After Ronan didn’t say anything, he saw a flicker of something else in Reginald’s expression— hesitation, perhaps—before he spoke again.

“If there’s anything you require,” Reginald said, his voice softer than before, “you need only ask.”

It wasn’t much, barely more than a passing statement, but there was something in the way it was said that gave Ronan pause.

Maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t judge people so quickly.

He might not be the only one who had suffered.