The Life of Aurelius Valemont: Missions (Part 1)
Aurelius: Age 16
The next day arrived with an unsettling stillness.
A knock echoed against my bedroom door.
"Come in," I said.
Matthew entered—his face expressionless as usual—but his silent nod spoke volumes. Father was summoning me. I rose from the bed, fully dressed and already expecting this moment.
But instead of heading toward Father's office, Matthew took a different route.
I frowned. "Aren't we—"
Before I could finish, the silent wolf finally spoke. Just three words, low and firm.
"First mission. Now."
My breath caught. My fists clenched on instinct.
Of course. Father told me yesterday that once I passed the final lesson, he would assign my first mission—my first kill.
The air felt colder.
My mind spun with one consuming thought: If I ever become like him… I'll kill myself.
If I ever lose myself—if I ever become another monster under his control—then there's no point. If I ever so much as lay a hand, even by accident, on Peter… on Philip… on Yumi… or worse, if I ever hurt Luciana with words that echo my father's—
I'd rather end it.
But no… I don't think Father would ever target Luciana. Not directly. She's not just any woman—she's the last of her royal lineage. A rare political gem, his crown. He might discard her one day like he did to my mother, but not yet. Not while her status still serves his interests.
We arrived at the training room. I thought we were done with this place for now.
Then Matthew opened the door.
Father sat inside.
He was waiting.
Calm, composed, his posture regal even in simplicity. A wooden chair beneath him. A black folder in his hand. The kind of folder that seals a fate.
Matthew stayed behind me as I stepped forward. I didn't bow. I didn't pretend.
Instead, I spoke first—my voice sharp with quiet defiance.
"If this mission is to eliminate Peter, Philip, or Yumi… I'll kill myself."
Father looked up, the faintest trace of amusement in his cold eyes. Then it vanished, replaced by the usual dispassion.
"You're not ready to threaten me yet, Aurelius," he said. "Your first mission is to eliminate these three individuals—"
He opened the folder.
"—Marriane Harlet. Dmitri Rosvav. Sora Tsugihime."
He closed it again and handed it to me.
"Assassinate them. Quietly. Cleanly. Without being caught. And without fail."
I accepted the folder without a word. My hand didn't shake, but my heart did.
Father leaned back slightly, gaze like a blade. "They'll all be present at the gala in New York City tomorrow. I've arranged everything. Disguises. Entry. Tools."
He paused, then added in that cold, poisonous voice I've grown to hate:
"Don't disappoint me, son."
I nodded once. No emotion. No reply.
I turned and left.
As the heavy doors closed behind me, I heard Matthew remain in the room—loyal to the end. Father's shadow.
Mine was waiting.
I walked silently down the long corridor, each step echoing through the marbled halls. My chest felt heavy.
"I have to leave this afternoon," I muttered under my breath. "I need to say goodbye first."
Servants passed by briskly—some polishing the walls, others carrying fresh linens and books. They all paused when they saw me. The maids bowed their heads respectfully, and even the senior staff lowered their gazes in deference.
Not long ago, they used to whisper about me—some with pity, others with disdain. But now they bowed… because he acknowledged me. Because the demon—my father—finally saw me as something worth noticing.
The thought made my stomach twist.
I caught my reflection in the polished window as I passed. Sharp jaw. Cold eyes. That eerie, regal stillness in my expression.
The more I looked, the more I saw him staring back at me.
His replica. His heir.
It wasn't just in appearance. Even the way I moved—the way silence followed my presence—made them fear me. I hadn't said a word, and yet the hall seemed to darken with my approach. My father's shadow, etched into my skin.
One of the younger maids looked up and blushed when I offered a faint smile. I nodded politely, already used to that kind of reaction. If this estate were a twisted studio, Matthew, Philip, and I would be the idols everyone admired from afar—each with their own mysterious appeal.
On my way to the East Wing library, I passed Beatrice—Father's second wife. One of the many. She used to insult me behind carefully powdered smiles, but now she said nothing. Her eyes were filled with quiet bitterness as she walked past me, her hand tightly holding Leonard's—her precious son. My half-brother. His eyes flicked to mine, unsure. Conflicted.
I didn't bother acknowledging them. I kept walking.
When I reached the grand double doors of the library, I pushed one open slowly.
The scent of parchment and aged wood welcomed me—but so did something far warmer.
"Aurelius!" a soft, elegant voice called out.
Before I could react, Luciana had already wrapped her arms around me. My last stepmother, yet the only one who ever felt like family. My older sister in all but blood. My mother's reflection. The one who still called me her little knight every five seconds.
I let her hug me. Maybe I needed it more than I thought.
Philip scoffed from his seat, folding his arms. "You're spoiling him again."
"I'll spoil him as much as I like," Luciana said without missing a beat, stroking my hair gently before pulling back.
Yumi looked up from the table where she had been tending to some books. "Where's Matthew?" she asked casually—too casually.
I arched a brow and smirked. "He's handling something with Father."
Yumi blinked. "O-oh. I just—wanted to ask something."
I grinned. "You've grown quite attached to him, haven't you?"
She turned red in an instant, flustered and avoiding eye contact. "T-that's not—! I mean, I just—he—shut up, Aurelius!"
Peter chuckled from the far end of the room, looking up from a weathered book. "Watching all of you reminds me how old I am. If only I could be young again…" His voice trailed wistfully. "My late wife would've loved to see scenes like this."
I smiled faintly, the warmth of the moment grounding me. But in the back of my mind, I couldn't forget the folder Father had given me. Or the blood waiting to be spilled tonight.
I sank into one of the leather chairs near the fireplace, the folder still in my hand. My expression must've turned grave, because the room's energy shifted immediately.
Yumi, ever watchful—my personal maid since the day I was born—approached hesitantly. "What's that folder, Aurelius?"
I hesitated for a moment, then answered quietly, "It's from Father."
The moment that word left my mouth, silence fell like a curtain. Everyone froze—Luciana, Peter, Philip, even Yumi. No one dared to speak.
"I have to leave this afternoon," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Father gave the order."
Still, not a single word. But I could see it in their eyes—they knew exactly what kind of order it was. What kind of mission this would be. The air was thick with tension, unspoken dread wrapping around all of us.
Five long minutes passed in silence.
Finally, Peter—the old Valemont librarian, Philip's grandfather and the quiet wisdom of the estate—spoke. "When will you be back?"
I didn't look at him right away. "Two days from now."
Another heavy silence.
They all understood: this wasn't some diplomatic errand or harmless training mission. No, this was the kind of mission the Valemont heir had no choice but to accept. The kind that wasn't discussed aloud.
I exhaled, my chest tight. Then I stood. "I should go prepare."
"Bye, everyone."
Luciana crossed the room before I could take another step. She wrapped her arms around me tightly and pressed a kiss to my cheek.
I blinked, a faint blush rising to my face. "Luciana…"
She pulled back with a gentle smile. "Stay safe, my little knight."
She was only three years older than me. Technically my stepmother. But in truth, she was more like the older sister I never had. Still, the closeness sometimes caught me off guard.
Behind her, Philip scoffed loudly.
I turned my head, and sure enough, he was rolling his eyes. "You're blushing, Romeo."
I gave him a look. He'd had a crush on Luciana since we were fourteen and—judging by the way he scowled—it clearly hadn't faded.
I gave them all one last glance, then turned and left the library, jaw clenched.
It's time. My first mission. My first blood.
As I made my way to my room, the hallways seemed longer, darker. The weight of what I was about to do pressed down on me with every step.
Once inside my room, I locked the door, opened the black case under my bed, and began preparing.
Weapons. Tools. Papers.
Everything I'd need to take three lives without leaving a trace.
By 4:10 p.m., the estate's courtyard was unusually quiet. Even the usual chatter of the guards and staff was muted. A black armored SUV waited for me at the front steps, engine humming low like a beast ready to be unleashed.
I descended the marble staircase, dressed in full black—tailored suit lined with hidden compartments, reinforced gloves, blades strapped to my back beneath the long coat. My face remained emotionless, a mask I had worn too many times in front of my father.
Matthew stood by the door, handing me the encrypted phone and a small earpiece. "Communication is one-way unless you activate protocol nine," he said quietly. "Emergency only. Your flight leaves in thirty minutes."
I nodded. "Are you coming with me?"
He shook his head. "Father wanted you to do this alone."
Of course he did. He wanted to see if I could become him.
I turned toward the estate one last time. Through the arched windows of the east wing, I could barely make out the library's light. I wondered if Luciana was still pacing, or if Yumi was sitting quietly on the couch with her hands clasped in worry. Maybe Peter was muttering about his youth again. Maybe Philip was smashing a keyboard, pretending he didn't care.
I wished I could see them one more time. But I had already said goodbye.
Without another word, I entered the SUV. The doors shut with a thud, and a minute later, we were gone.
Six Hours Later — New York City, Manhattan
Location: Gala at The Arleston Grand Hotel
I stepped out of the sleek, rented black car like any young billionaire's heir would. Smooth, polished shoes hit the red carpet as the doorman greeted me with a rehearsed nod. "Welcome, Mr. Alex D. Mercer."
My alias.
The Mercer family didn't exist. But the ID, the documentation, the digital footprint—even the news articles—I had made sure it was all real enough to pass.
Inside, the hotel gleamed with gold and chandeliers. Classical music danced through the air while servers in tuxedos passed champagne and hors d'oeuvres. Cameras flashed. Laughter echoed. Masks—both literal and metaphorical—covered every face here.
This was where monsters hid in plain sight.
My targets were among them.
Marriane Harlet — corporate saboteur, known for laundering through art auctions.
Dmitri Rosvav — a Russian black-market arms broker.
Sora Tsugihime — a former assassin turned intel trader.
All three had escaped my father's wrath once. Tonight, they would not escape mine.
I glanced at the small mirror on one of the pillars near the hallway entrance.
And for a moment—I saw him.
Not me.
Victor Valemont.
His cold eyes. His predator's stance. His smile.
I blinked and looked away, jaw tight.
No. Not yet. I am not him.
I adjusted my cufflink and made my way into the crowd.
Tonight would mark the beginning.
Not of who my father wanted me to be—
—but of who I chose to become.
I scanned the crowd, eyes sharp beneath a calm exterior. Then I spotted her—Marriane Harlet. Dressed in a scarlet gown that clung to her like silk on fire, she was laughing with two older men near the bar, twirling a crystal glass in her hand. Her eyes gleamed—not with joy, but with calculation.
Target acquired.
I might be sixteen, but no one could tell. My height, posture, and tailored suit disguised the truth. Years of brutal training had carved away any trace of boyhood.
I picked up a champagne flute from a passing tray, letting the golden liquid shimmer under the chandelier light. Then, with a soft inhale, I approached her—smiling gently, the very same smile Father made me practice countless times in front of a mirror.
The smile of a predator pretending to be a prince.
The black file he'd given me before departure was burned into my memory. Each page a dossier of my targets—their crimes, routines, and most importantly, their weaknesses.
Marriane Harlet. Age: 37. Crimes: Corporate espionage, bribery, smuggling. Weakness: Attractive young men. Seduction, praise.
"Pardon me," I said, voice smooth but shy, as if I had just gathered the courage to speak. "I couldn't help but notice… you have the most captivating laugh in this room."
She turned to look at me. Slowly. Eyes scanning—assessing. Her smile widened.
Hooked.
She studied me, lips painted red, curiosity flickering in her gaze. Her eyes scanned my face, then down to my tailored suit, pausing just long enough to signal what I already knew—she was interested.
"Well now," Marriane purred, swirling her glass. "A young man with confidence. And manners. That's rare these days."
I chuckled softly, lowering my gaze just enough to look humble. "I was told that beautiful women should never drink alone."
"Who said I was alone?" she teased, gesturing to the men beside her.
"They don't seem half as interested in your laugh as I am," I replied smoothly, earning a soft laugh from her lips.
Her guards—or whoever those men were—watched me, but didn't act. I'd studied them too. Not professionals. Likely business associates, not bodyguards. Lucky me.
She leaned closer, her perfume sharp and floral. "And what brings a charming boy like you to a gala full of old men and liars?"
I met her gaze. "Let's just say... I'm here to meet someone unforgettable. I think I just did."
Her cheeks flushed, and she laughed again, softer now. Intimate. Dangerous.
I offered her my hand. "Would you care to dance?"
She took it without hesitation.
On the dance floor, the music slowed. I led her with graceful ease, letting her rest her head against my shoulder. My fingers grazed the back of her dress, feeling the edges of concealed items she may have hidden. Nothing I couldn't disarm.
"What's your name, darling?" she whispered.
"Call me... Alex," I lied.
"Well, Alex," she murmured against my ear. "You're quite something."
I guided her near one of the pillars, out of direct view. One of the staff passed by—I slipped something into his tray. The vial. Colorless. Tasteless. Father's own design. A neurotoxin that triggers cardiac arrest within minutes, masked as a natural death. It had to be clean. Elegant. No signs.
She finished her champagne.
One minute later, she staggered.
"Are you alright?" I asked gently, guiding her back to her seat.
Her breathing quickened. "I... I feel... strange…"
Her associates stood in panic. I pretended to be equally alarmed, calling for help. Within moments, medics arrived. But by then, her heart had already stopped.
Target One: Eliminated.
No traces. No suspicion. Just another tragedy in a glamorous world.
Target Two: Dmitri Rosvav
Status: Alive. Not for long.
After Marriane's "incident," the gala's mood shifted—but not enough to cancel it. These were the elites of the underworld and high society. Death was just another headline to them.
I slipped away quietly, my steps calculated. I had no time to waste.
Dmitri Rosvav. A former Russian intelligence officer turned arms dealer. Brutal. Paranoid. Always surrounded by muscle. His profile in Father's black file was filled with red flags: ex-military, multiple kill records, skilled in Krav Maga. Not the kind of man I could approach with a drink and a smile. No... this one required precision.
I changed into a waiter's uniform in one of the restricted backrooms. The disguise was part of the plan. Father taught me that infiltration was sometimes more effective than confrontation. I moved through the shadows of the kitchen and corridors until I reached the private lounge.
Dmitri sat in a velvet armchair, a cigar between his fingers, flanked by two men—armed, sharp-eyed, but bored. Classic mistake.
I wheeled a cart with drinks closer, head slightly bowed. One of the guards raised a hand to stop me, but Dmitri waved lazily.
"Let him through. I could use another bottle."
I approached, carefully placing a bottle of his favorite brandy on the table. "Compliments of the host," I said, voice deeper than usual, mimicking a slight Eastern accent.
He grunted in approval. "At least someone here knows respect."
As he took the glass, I casually stepped back, tapping my belt once. That activated the tiny signal on the bottle's cap—a microdose chemical reaction designed to release the delayed toxin once the bottle was opened.
Rosvav poured a glass.
Sipped.
I didn't stay to watch. That wasn't part of the plan.
By the time I reached the hallway, a commotion started inside. I didn't run. I walked steadily, blending into the sea of staff. Another "accidental" death. Heart failure. Overdose. Who would question it? The man had enemies everywhere.
Target Two: Eliminated.
As I stepped outside into the cold New York air, I pulled the blazer tighter around me. The city lights reflected in my eyes. One more name left on the list.
Sora Tsugihime.
She would be the hardest.
Not because of security. Not because of status.
But because of her eyes.
They reminded me of Mother.
Target Three: Sora Tsugihime
Age: 21
Nationality: Japanese
Languages: Japanese, English, Russian, Korean
Weaknesses: Loyalty to her little brother (Kaoru, age 8), classical music—especially Chopin, emotional triggers related to family, scent of lavender, indirect confrontation.
I checked the time.
00:19 a.m.
The gala was still alive, but quieting. Glasses clinked more softly. Laughter had grown polite, contained. Two deaths had already occurred tonight—and people were pretending not to care.
I changed again—this time into a black tailored suit, simple yet dignified. It matched the tone of the private balcony where I knew Sora would be.
I read her file again earlier. Unlike Marriane or Dmitri, Sora wasn't a criminal in the usual sense. She was a codebreaker. A linguist. A quiet analyst turned rogue when her family vanished. She was the mind behind several secret leaks—ones that almost exposed Father's networks in Eastern Europe. That made her dangerous.
But... she was different.
Not soft.
But not heartless either.
She stood alone, leaning against the balustrade, her back to the glowing skyline of Manhattan. She was dressed in midnight-blue satin, a violet comb in her dark hair. Lavender. Just like the file said.
I approached slowly, making just enough noise not to startle her.
"Beautiful night," I said.
She didn't turn. "Too quiet. Two deaths at one party," she murmured in fluent English, laced with a Tokyo accent. "Something's wrong."
I stood beside her, keeping my posture relaxed. "You seem calm for someone who noticed."
Sora looked at me then. Sharp eyes. Calm, calculating. "I've been watched before," she said in Russian. "You're not one of them."
"No," I replied in Korean. "I'm something else."
She blinked once. A shift in her stance. Respect, maybe. Or suspicion.
"Who are you?" she asked in Japanese now.
I hesitated. Her voice was soft. It reminded me of... her. My mother. The warmth behind the silence. The grief hidden behind the smile. It shook me more than I thought.
I should've pulled the blade. The syringe. Anything.
Instead...
"I'm sorry," I said—quietly, in Japanese. "You weren't supposed to remind me of anyone."
Her eyes widened. "What are you—"
She didn't get to finish.
I moved fast—faster than thought. Injected the temporary tranquilizer just below her neck. She gasped, collapsing gently into my arms before she could scream. I caught her.
I looked at her sleeping face.
This wasn't a kill.
I couldn't do it.
Not her.
I left her unconscious in a safe room of the hotel, placed her brother's location and a private bank account into her phone—encrypted, untraceable. The envelope I left by her side said:
"逃げて.消えて.二度と戻るな."
Run. Disappear. Never come back.
Target Three: Spared.
I walked out of the hotel alone. Snow had started to fall.
I had completed my first mission.
But not as Father ordered.
This wasn't his victory.
It was mine.
The private jet was silent.
Matthew sat across from me, eyes fixed on the window. He hadn't said a word since we took off from New York.
The folder was tucked between us on the table — the one Father gave me. Inside were photos: Marriane Harlet — gone. Dmitri Rosvav — eliminated. Sora Tsugihime — unmarked.
Blank.
A ghost I refused to bury.
I leaned back, arms crossed, watching the city lights shrink below us. My chest felt like it was being held together by thread.
"Matthew," I said quietly. "You knew I spared her, didn't you?"
He didn't answer. Just nodded once.
"She reminded you of your mother, didn't she?" he asked without looking at me.
"Yes."
A pause.
"She was never my target," I added. "She was a message. A test."
"And what do you think Father will do when he learns you failed?"
"I didn't fail," I said coldly. "I rewrote the mission."
Matthew finally looked at me. "Then be ready to bear the consequences."
Valemont Estate – 2:38 AM
The jet landed.
Two black cars were already waiting.
I expected it — the pressure, the silence, the stare of every man stationed at the estate.
The air felt heavy as I stepped inside the mansion. The halls were dark, only lined by faint candlelight. Father was always theatrical when disappointed.
Matthew led me to his office in silence, then stopped outside the large double doors.
"You'll walk alone," he said. "He's... not in a good mood."
I entered.
Victor Valemont sat at the head of the long, dimly lit chamber. Firelight danced across the edges of his sharp features. He didn't stand. Didn't speak. Just gestured to the folder.
I dropped it on his desk.
He opened it. Scanned.
Flip. Flip.
Then... pause.
His eyes stopped at the blank space. No confirmation photo. No proof of death. Just an empty page.
"You disobeyed," he said calmly.
"I chose differently," I replied, standing tall.
"You were ordered to eliminate three threats."
"Two are gone. The third isn't a threat anymore. I erased her, but not by killing her."
"You're not here to show mercy," he said sharply. "You are not your mother."
I didn't flinch.
"But I am your son," I said.
Silence stretched. The flames behind him crackled.
Then, suddenly, he stood. Walked around the desk until we were face to face. Inches apart.
"You want to test me, Aurelius?" he hissed. "You think this was some... emotional triumph?"
"No," I said quietly. "I just decided what kind of monster I'm willing to be."
His hand twitched — as if tempted to strike me.
But he didn't.
He turned away instead. "Get out."
I didn't move.
"If you ever disobey again—"
"You'll kill me?" I interrupted.
Silence.
"That would make your son more useful dead than alive," I said. "I wonder how that makes you feel."
I walked out before he could answer.
Matthew was waiting outside.
He looked at me. "Still alive."
"Barely," I muttered.
"You made an enemy tonight."
"No," I said with a faint smirk. "He made one years ago."
I returned to my room, exhausted. I didn't bother changing. I just collapsed onto the bed and let sleep take me.
The next morning, I showered, got dressed, and made my way to the East Wing — the library.
The moment I stepped into the corridor, I noticed it: the way the servants looked at me.
They used to ignore me. Now, they avoided my gaze.
Their fear wasn't loud. It was quiet, careful — in the way their eyes dropped, in the way their hands trembled when they bowed. It was the aftermath of bloodshed, the shadow of my father clinging to me like a second skin.
My reflection now looked like him.
His replica. His heir.
But the moment I entered the library, warmth returned — if only in this room.
As always, the first to greet me were Luciana and Yumi. Without hesitation, they ran to me. Yumi threw her arms around me, her voice trembling.
"I thought you'd be back in two days… just like you said!" she cried, holding me tight.
Luciana added quickly, concern flooding her voice, "Did you get hurt? You're earlier than you promised."
I gave a small chuckle, arms wrapping around both of them. "I know, I know…"
But I sighed softly, Sora's face flashing through my mind like a flicker of guilt I tried to ignore.
Behind me, a hand landed on my shoulder — firm, familiar.
Philip.
"You made us worried, man," he said, voice dry but warm. My best friend. Peter's grandson. The only one in this estate who knew what it felt like to rot beneath Victor Valemont's thumb.
I grinned a little. "Aww... are you upset that I left you alone with Luciana? How's that forbidden love of yours?"
Philip staggered back, his face going red as he rushed to his laptop and started typing furiously. "I— I— I know what you did in New York!"
I smirked. "I knew you would."
He didn't respond, but the back of his ears were bright crimson.
Luciana, ever graceful, looked between the two of us with a sigh. "You two never change."
"Maybe that's the only good thing left about us," I murmured, my eyes trailing to the floor for a second too long.
Peter was nearby, quietly observing from his corner chair, pretending to read. But I saw the relief in his old eyes. I was alive — and that was enough for now.
Aurelius: Age 17
I turned seventeen today.
There was no cake, no grand celebration — at least not from the man who should've cared. Father didn't even acknowledge it. Just more missions. More folders. More blood.
But then there was them.
Yumi, Luciana, Matthew, Peter, and Philip.
They remembered.
No extravagant gifts or golden candles — just smiles. Laughter. Warmth.
And somehow, that was more beautiful than anything else in this cursed estate.
The library, our sanctuary, glowed with quiet comfort. The scent of old books, flickering lantern light, and soft whispers made it feel more like home than anywhere else in this house. Maybe because here, I was me. Not a replica. Not a weapon. Not a shadow.
Just Aurelius.
I sat near the hearth, watching them. Yumi placed a small plate with warm bread and tea in front of me, her eyes sparkling.
"Happy birthday, young master," she whispered, bowing slightly — then pouting. "You should eat more. You're too skinny for someone so tall."
Luciana leaned against the shelf beside me, arms crossed, brows furrowed. "Seriously. You're already 6'1 — it's infuriating. I'm stuck at 5'4 forever."
I raised an eyebrow, hiding my smirk. "Maybe drink more milk?"
She gasped. "Excuse me? Did the birthday boy just disrespect me in my own library?"
I chuckled. "Our library. You just spend the most time in it."
"Because someone's always gone for days," she muttered, eyes dropping — and the warmth in the room dimmed just slightly. Even her teasing had limits.
No one mentioned the missions. They never did. Even when I came back bruised, or bloodied. They knew. But they stayed silent. Because everyone feared him.
Philip cleared his throat and sat down beside me, handing me a tiny, clumsily wrapped package. "Here," he muttered. "Don't get used to this. I'm not the sentimental type."
I opened it. A small silver USB drive.
I glanced at him, amused. "A weapon of mass destruction?"
"Kind of," he said with a shrug. "It's a collection of encrypted files I've been collecting. On your Father. On his allies. His operations. Thought you might want it for... insurance."
I blinked.
Peter spoke from his usual seat in the corner, sipping tea. "Knowledge is sharper than a blade, my boy. And far more dangerous when in the right hands."
I nodded slowly, tucking the drive in my coat pocket.
"Thank you," I said softly. And I meant it.
Luciana suddenly grabbed a book and smacked me on the arm. "Now you're seventeen and practically a giant — does that mean I have to start calling you Sir Aurelius?"
"Only if I can call you Lady Lulu."
Her eyes narrowed. "I will end you."
Yumi giggled. Matthew entered just then, carrying a small, unopened envelope. He handed it to me without a word, nodding once. I took it, confused.
It was mother's handwriting.
My heart stopped for a second. Then I opened it carefully — inside was a simple letter, one she must've written before she died. Matthew must've kept it all these years.
"To my dearest Aurelius,
Happy Birthday, my little star. I know you'll grow tall, strong, and brave — not like your father, but like yourself. I hope you smile today. Even just once.
Love,
Mom."
The words blurred.
Luciana gently placed a hand on my shoulder. "You okay?"
I nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah... I am now."
Matthew's voice broke the hush.
"Yumi gave this to me," he said quietly, "on your ninth birthday… before Master Victor killed Lady Anastasia."
My chest tightened.
"She wanted you to have it, but…" He paused, his gaze lowering. "Master came to her room that night. He abused her… then stabbed her multiple times."
I froze.
I already knew—Yumi had told me everything. But hearing it again… from Matthew, the quietest of us all, the silent wolf who rarely spoke unless necessary… it hit differently. It wasn't just a retelling. It was a weight. A truth he carried all these years.
Luciana's hand was in mine. I didn't even remember reaching for her.
"Can we…" My voice cracked. "Can we visit her grave? It's been eight years since her funeral."
Silence fell across the room.
Then Matthew nodded.
"Master didn't give you any missions today. You're clear."
He was still talking. Still making an effort. That alone was a gift.
I looked at him and gave a faint smile. A thank you.
Luciana gently squeezed my hand, her expression soft.
"We'll go," she said.
Peter stood from his chair with effort, cane in hand. "She'd want to know how much you've grown."
"Especially this tall freak," Philip added, standing beside me with a crooked grin.
I chuckled, grateful for the warmth, the family I chose — even if my bloodline said otherwise.
Luciana turned to me, her voice low. "Let's bring her flowers."
I nodded. "She always liked white hyacinths…"
"I'll get them," Yumi whispered, wiping her eyes.
And so we prepared — not for a mission, not for blood — but for a moment of peace. To remember the one person who gave me love before I ever understood what it meant to protect it.
The wind was gentle as we stepped onto the private graveyard at the far end of the estate, surrounded by iron fences and weeping trees. The sun filtered softly through the gray clouds above, casting a pale glow on the marble headstones.
I walked ahead, Luciana beside me, Yumi just behind. Matthew, Philip, and Peter followed in silence. No one spoke. They didn't have to.
Her grave was at the far corner, isolated, as if forgotten by everyone except us. The name carved into the stone was simple, elegant:
Anastasia Valemont
Beloved Mother. Gentle Soul.
There were no flowers. No signs anyone else had visited. Not even him.
I knelt, brushing the leaves off the cold stone with my hand. The pain in my chest returned — familiar, like a wound that never really healed.
Yumi placed the white hyacinths on the grave gently. "She'd be proud of you, Aurelius…"
I didn't answer.
Luciana knelt beside me, placing her hand on my back. "She'd hate what your father made you do… but she'd still love you. All of you."
Matthew stood behind us, silent, hands in his coat. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. A subtle nod — his way of honoring her.
Philip let out a quiet sigh. "She was too good for this place."
Peter, with both hands on his cane, murmured, "She saw beauty in everyone… even in Victor, once. Tragic, really."
The breeze whispered through the trees. I finally spoke.
"I was nine… and I still remember her perfume. The way she'd run her fingers through my hair when I had nightmares. She used to hum when I couldn't sleep…"
A pause. My fingers clenched over the cold earth.
"And he took her away from me."
No one answered. But their silence… it meant they understood.
I stood up slowly. "She gave me the last good thing I ever had — all of you."
Luciana wiped a tear and smiled. "Then she's still here."
We stayed a little longer, not speaking, just letting the wind speak for us. When it was time to go, I turned back one last time and whispered:
"I'll protect the smiles you loved."
And we walked away — quieter, but lighter.
End of Chapter 50.