It was a pleasant morning in the village of Veymora—
the kind that felt warm without being stifling, cool without being cold.
Balanced. Comfortable. Perfect.
At the edge of the village stood a house painted white and ash-grey, neat in a way that felt intentional. Not grand. Not old. Not humble either. It carried the look of something carefully maintained—almost suburban, yet refined enough to draw the eye.
That house belonged to the Magpin family.
Among the villagers, they were known by many names.
Scholars.
Intellects.
The fortunate.
People spoke of them with admiration—their manners, their speech, the way they handled things. Everything about them seemed measured, correct, and enviably composed.
Damon Magpin, the father, was the pillar of the household. A diligent employee, well-regarded at his workplace, often spoken of as "reliable" and "essential." The kind of man whose name lingered after meetings ended.
Regina Magpin, his wife, was just as admired. A housewife by choice, though many wondered why—given her competence, her elegance, her quiet efficiency. Neighbors praised her endlessly, sometimes with curiosity thinly disguised as admiration.
And then there was their son, Ethan Magpin.
A model student.
Top of his class.
Well-spoken.
Well-liked.
Teachers praised him. Classmates respected him. Some even admired him.
From the outside, the Magpins seemed… complete.
As if perfection had settled comfortably within their walls.
Some believed they were simply born this way.
Others whispered that their perfection was practiced—that it hid something sharp beneath its polish.
That the Magpins were proud.
Not loudly.
Not foolishly.
But in a way that didn't need to announce itself.
The Magpins, of course, had no idea just how accurate those whispers were.