An iron door creaked open with a groan. It made an unusually loud sound because its hinges were rusted.
The one who had opened the door, however, didn't care.
He was too annoyed to care about the noise.
Inside, the storage room was dim and damp, its air thick with dust and disuse.
Broken crates lay stacked in corners, forgotten toys and torn fabrics scattered across the floor like ghosts of neglected childhoods.
The little girl didn't resist as she was dragged in by the man.
She was small—no older than six.
Her dark blue hair clung to her pale cheeks, wet from tears or sweat—it was hard to tell. Her eyes, black as midnight, reflected fear and a strange quietness born from living in shadows too long.
She was Clara, just younger.
After pushing her in, the guard slammed the door shut with a heavy thud, locking it from the inside.
"Little bitch," he muttered, voice low and bitter. "Always watching with those damned eyes like you're better than me."
His hand tightened around the belt in his other fist—leather worn, the metal buckle sharp and heavy.
He paced like a caged beast, the anger building in his bones.
"Bullied by those branch family brats all day, and now I gotta babysit a bastard," he spat. "But no one cares what happens to you, do they? You ain't from the main branch. You're just a bastard. So long as I don't kill you, what's the harm in a little... stress relief?"
The belt snapped through the air as he flexed it, making Clara's eyes go wide.
She didn't run. She couldn't.
She'd tried while being dragged here, only to be punched in the stomach. That punch had pushed the air out of her lungs, and it wasn't pleasing, so she didn't want to experience it again.
Instead, she stood there, trembling, hands gripping the edge of her tattered skirt, and closed her eyes.
She didn't want to get hit, but what could she do? As the man had said, she was a bastard.
Until she proved her worth, she was useless.
The next second, a whistle of leather slicing through the air.
The belt was moving toward her, and then—
—The sharp crack of impact.
She flinched, but there was no pain.
No sting. No impact. Nothing.
Hesitantly, she opened her eyes.
And there he was.
A boy, probably the same age as her, stood with his back to her, his hand outstretched.
The belt had wrapped around his palm, and he held it with effortless calm, as though catching such a strike was no more bothersome than catching a falling leaf.
His black hair fell in soft strands over his face, and even from behind, Clara could feel it—that strange, otherworldly presence. It was like something both gentle and dangerous.
The guard, however, froze when he saw the boy. His eyes widened in horror, his mouth falling open.
"Y-Young Master Raven!?" He croaked, his voice hoarse with panic.
After all, he had hit the youngest child of the main branch.
No matter how neglected he was, the child was still the Patriarch's son. A mere guard attacking him could warrant the death penalty.
The guard dropped the belt immediately and fell to his knees with a crash, bowing so low his forehead struck the cold stone floor.
"P-Please, I didn't know it was you here! I-I wasn't going to hurt her, I swear—! Please don't report this to the main family! If the patriarch finds out I raised my hand against his son—!"
The boy sighed heavily, letting the belt fall from his hand.
"I swear," Raven muttered, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "This was the only quiet place I could nap in. And now you had to go and start making a scene here, too."
His voice wasn't angry, nor was it cold; it was a tired voice—tired in a way no child should ever sound.
The guard whimpered, nodding rapidly, still groveling. "I-I'll leave right now, Young Master! I was never here—!"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Raven muttered, waving his hand dismissively.
The guard scrambled out like a kicked dog, not even daring to look back.
The silence that followed was thick and strange.
Clara stared at the boy, still rooted in place, her heart thumping painfully loud.
It was as if some switch had been turned.
Then Raven turned around.
He wasn't as tall as expected, probably a bit higher than her.
His face was soft, still childlike, but his features were sharp. Not just pretty but beautiful with a strange melancholy behind his deep black eyes shining with gold.
"You okay?" He asked gently, tilting his head.
Clara blinked. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She didn't even nod.
She just stared at him, this strange, beautiful boy who had stepped into her world like a dream.
Looking at her, staring at him like that, he tilted his head to the side. "Hey—"
But before he could complete his words—
"Hey. Are you daydreaming again?"
Clara blinked.
Hard.
The image of the Raven's smile faded like mist, and the world came rushing back.
She frowned and turned her head, glaring at the one responsible for dragging her out of that memory.
It was Alex, standing before her with his usual smirk, tilting his head like a curious puppy, his short black hair bouncing slightly with the movement. His caramel eyes glinted with amusement as he peered at her.
"You've been doing this more often these days, you know? You keep staring off into space with that dopey expression as if you are in love."
"Yeah, I am." Clara's annoyance melted as soon as love was brought up, but Alex, hearing her openly admit it, froze, a strange chill running down his spine.
"Wait—for real??" His eyes widened as he glanced at Jake, sitting in a corner of the room, cleaning his sword with a wet cloth.
Jake met his eyes, then turned to Clara before he sighed, turning his focus back on the sword.
"Wait—you knew??" Alex grew more shocked.
Was he the only one who didn't know?
"Damn," sighing in disbelief, he rubbed his forehead. "Who's the unlucky guy?"
Snap!
The pen Clara was holding snapped as a tick appeared on her head.
"Say that again," she turned to Alex, her golden eyes shining dangerously.
"H-Huh? W-What? What did I say again?" Alex coughed, averting his eyes, but Clara wouldn't let it slide.
She got up from her seat, her palm touching her belt's handle before she pulled it out.
It turned out that the belt was a sword—a sword shaped like a belt.
But before she could make a move...
Swish!
The sound of wind whistling was heard, and all three had their expressions shift, their bodies tensed.
Whoosh!
Within a second, they had their weapons drawn, including Jake, who now had a cold expression.
They turned toward the window, only to see an arrow whizzing at them at a breakneck speed.
Clara was the first to move, her sword snapping like a whip, striking the arrow down.
Clang!
The arrow fell to the ground, but their eyes were fixed on the tree some distance from their room.
Rustle.
The leaves rustled as a man in all-black clothes peeked out of it, his eyes locked into them before Clara nodded, and the man returned the nod, vanishing.
Their eyes would then turn to the arrowhead on the floor and the attached letter.
Without a word, Clara bends down, picking it up and opening it.
Jake and Alex wait silently as Clara reads the letter, their expressions serious as they knew what it was—a message from the family.
The division Clara was a part of handled information gathering and infiltration, so she was kept updated on any important news, especially the news that could affect her.
"Huh?"
But soon, they saw her trembling, and they frowned.
"What's wrong?" Alex asked.
Jake also stepped forward, wanting to look at the letter, but Clara suddenly turned around, a wide smile stretching on her lips.
"He's coming back tomorrow!" She exclaimed.
They didn't ask who she was talking about. They didn't need to.
There was only one person she could be talking about, especially with a smile that wide.
It was their team leader, Raven Von Vaise.
Leaving the letter on the floor, all three of them stormed out of the room to inform the other members of the Vaise family.
They were all in the same mansion, after all.
This mansion was reserved especially for the Vaise family's children to stay while studying in the Velmoria Royal Academy.