Fifteen Years Ago
The Edge of Eiren Hollow, Eastmoor Province
The boy sat on the edge of the manor gate, watching from behind the iron bars.
Inside, a celebration was unfolding.
Golden lights dangled from the trees. Laughter trailed across the manicured lawns like perfume. Through the window, he saw a girl in a white dress twirl with a ribbon in her hair, and a man—tall, stiff, proud—smiled as he poured champagne into crystal flutes.
Augustus Dusk.
The man who was supposed to be his father.
But Elias Morran had never called him that. Never been allowed.
He shifted, fingers gripping the wrought iron harder. His clothes were too thin for spring's chill. A bruise darkened his left cheek, the color of spoiled plums. Another gift from the man who actually raised him.
"You shouldn't be here," came a whisper beside him.
Elias didn't flinch.
It was the groundskeeper's daughter, Meri—barefoot, holding a stolen slice of cake. She was the only one who ever spoke to him like he was real. But even she didn't get too close.
"Go away," he muttered.
"You'll get caught again. He said if you showed up…"
Elias turned toward her, eyes hollow. "Did he say my name this time?"
Meri hesitated. "No."
Elias smiled, bitter. "Didn't think so."
Because Augustus Dusk never said his name. Not once. Not in court documents. Not in letters. Not even in secret.
He was a mistake wrapped in silence. A ghost born of lust and shame.
His mother had once been a maid here. Beautiful, ambitious—and careless. Augustus used her like a warm towel and discarded her just as quickly. When Elias came, she begged the Dusk family for help. But the only answer she got was money—blood-money, laced with conditions.
No claims. No surname. No entrance.
He would never be a Dusk.
He would never even be acknowledged.
"I'll leave soon," Elias muttered, eyes fixed on the ballroom. "I just wanted to see."
"See what?"
"What a father looks like when he's not lying."
Meri gave him the cake anyway, then ran before the guards could notice.
He didn't eat it.
He just stared at it until the frosting melted in the cold.
---
Eight Years Ago
Saint Aleric's Academy, West Arlon
"—I don't care who he is. The foundation board has rules."
"But he's top of his class, sir—"
"He's a bastard."
Elias paused outside the headmaster's office, hand hovering near the doorknob.
"I know who his father is," the man behind the door said coldly. "Everyone does. But the Dusk family doesn't want his name near theirs. He's lucky we even let him attend on scholarship."
Another voice—a woman's, nervous—tried to defend him. "Augustus—he donated the library wing last year. If we told him Elias—"
"He'd cut funding," the man snapped. "And we both know it."
Elias stepped back, eyes burning.
He was eighteen now. Tall. Sharp-featured. Already dangerous. People mistook his quiet for calm—but inside, he was a maze of locked doors and screaming wolves.
That night, he stared at the gold-plated plaque above the library entrance.
Donated by the Dusk Family
For the Betterment of Promising Bloodlines
He spat on it.
Then he walked away.
---
Three Years Ago
Augustus Dusk's Private Study, Dusk Estate
"I told you never to come here."
Augustus's voice had lost its warmth over the years. Now it was steel—cold, shaped, lethal.
Elias stood across from him, tall and silent.
He wore a black suit. Hands gloved. No emotion on his face.
The older man poured himself a drink without offering one. The two of them looked nothing alike at first glance—but in the dim lamplight, their bone structure whispered secrets. The same sharp nose. The same jawline. The same empty cruelty in the eyes.
"You're getting bold," Augustus said, sipping brandy. "Are you here for money again?"
"No."
"Then what? Another place at one of my schools? A promise of business later?"
Elias stepped forward.
"No," he said, softly. "I came to see what kind of man refuses to name his own blood."
Augustus stiffened. "Don't play righteous. Your mother knew the deal."
"She begged you."
"She trapped me."
"She died choking on her own spit because she couldn't afford a goddamn doctor."
Augustus said nothing.
Elias stepped closer.
"I don't want your name," he said. "I don't want your money."
"Then what?"
"I want your house," Elias said coldly. "Your empire. Your wife's tears. I want your legacy in flames. I want to become the ghost you buried and then make sure you see it when you die."
Silence stretched.
And then Augustus laughed.
A cruel, rich sound that rattled the glass in his hand.
"You?" he said. "You'll always be filth, Elias. A bastard born of spilled seed. And when I'm gone, no one will mourn you."
Elias smiled thinly.
"That's the thing, Father."
He turned to leave.
"No one will mourn you either."
---
[Present Day]
The parlor still stank of sex and brandy.
Seraphine sat by the window, veil on her lap, fingers trembling.
And Elias watched her from the doorway, dressed now in a suit too fine for someone like him—but fitting. Fitting like armor.
He'd taken everything that night: her breath, her dignity, her grief.
But it wasn't enough.
He wanted more.
He would take her mind next.
He would take her heart—and make her twist it in his name.
Because Elias Morran didn't want to be forgotten.
He wanted to be the only name left when the ashes settled.