Ever since the young master of House Solareth began to behave eccentrically, the household had descended into chaos. The corridors were now alive with gossip, maids pacing up and down, exchanging whispers and scandal as though they were trading precious jewels.
Annabelle, however, was not one for such chatter. She preferred to keep to herself, rarely speaking of her employers and making it a habit to avoid overly talkative maids. She understood better than most what an opportunity it was to serve House Solareth — to work under a noble family, enjoy their protection, and earn wages far beyond what common work offered. Opportunities like that were rare. Getting in was easy; staying was the true challenge. And Annabelle had promised her mother she would remain out of trouble and avoid the kind of company that would drag her into it.
But even she was struggling to ignore the events unfolding lately. Rumours spread like wildfire — some claimed the young master had sold his soul to a demon, others insisted he was an anomaly who had finally awakened late, becoming a Thread-Bearer at last.
Annabelle herself was a thread-bearer, though a weak one. She understood more than the other maids — those who didn't possess threads and viewed even the weakest bearer as a demigod. But among thread-bearers, in a world ruled by strength, bloodline, and power, it took far more than a thread to stand out — even for noble heirs and legacies like him.
For the young master's sake, though she neither liked nor hated him, she hoped he possessed threads strong enough to uphold the dignity of House Solareth.
She had been assigned by the Lady of Solareth, Levi's mother, to help prepare for brunch. Apparently, the family would dine together — something that hadn't happened in months. If she remembered correctly, the last meal had been five months ago, and even that was cut short after the young master initiated a food fight. A food fight in which only he did the attacking, while everyone else defended themselves against flying pastries, scalding tea and chunky soup.
A wistful smile tugged at Annabelle's lips. She did not remember his behaviour fondly; he was insufferable, and she had been one of many victims of his mischief. Yet… it had been amusing at times when he was a bit younger.
She balanced a tray in her hands; inside it, the special cups the Lady reserved only for noteworthy occasions and headed for the dining hall. Turning a corner, she suddenly collided with something solid and stumbled back.
"Ouch…" she winced, clutching her forehead while trying desperately not to drop the tray. "My goodness, please watch where you're going. All this gossip has made you clumsy, hasn't it?" she muttered.
She assumed she'd bumped into another maid until she looked up.
Her blood ran cold.
Before her stood a youth, taller than her by a head. Dark hair. Golden eyes bright like the sun, a beautiful sun, she thought, despite herself. His gaze bore down on her, regal and crushing, and for a moment she felt as though she stood before Draken Solareth himself, Grand Duke of the House.
"My, my. It seems everyone is gossiping these days," he said, voice a smooth baritone, eerily similar to his father's. "Tell me, what are they saying now? I'm familiar with being the topic of conversation, but surely there's something new?"
Annabelle lowered her head immediately, bowing deeply.
"Apologies, my lord. I have been careless, and my tongue has slipped. Forgive this servant. I was merely frustrated that others are neglecting their duties."
"Yes, yes… You are right," he replied.
Though he agreed, something in his tone sent a shiver down her spine, less agreement, more calculation, declaration.
"I'll deal with that. Worry not. What is your name, young lady?"
Young lady? I'm likely older than him… she thought, but she held her tongue.
"My name is Annabelle, my lord."
"Ah. Annabelle." His eyes lingered for a second. "Very well. I assume my mother tasked you and the others with setting the table. Continue."
With that, the young man strode past her with confident, lazy grace. Annabelle turned to look after him, confusion knitting her brows.
He had just stepped past her with effortless confidence, posture relaxed yet predatory—as though the corridor belonged to him alone. Annabelle continued to stare after him, tray trembling faintly.
Was that truly the young master? He looked different, older in the eyes, steadier in the soul. Even his hair was woven into a crown braid, falling into a simple ponytail. Refined. Regal. Foreign.
What happened to him? she wondered, unable to tear her gaze away.
And… where did he learn that hairstyle?
However, just as she turned to leave, she froze. Her blood ran cold.
His receding figure, instead of shrinking with distance, seemed only to grow in presence as though the hallway itself bent around him. Annabelle's senses sharpened, instinct snapping awake like a taut string. Her eyes widened, her jaw nearly slack.
Pressure. Faint but unmistakable, the subtle aura of essence flows through one's veins.
He awakened, she realised. The rumours were true.
A quiet breath escaped her. Perhaps this is good for the house, she thought. That the young master has finally awakened, whether relief or apprehension stirred in her heart, she could not tell, only that she could no longer deny the power that radiated from him. It was controlled, refined even, nothing like the reckless boy who once threw food across the dining hall. Titles… that pressure wasn't from a mere novice awakening.
A second thought struck her like lightning.
Wait.
He already has titles?
But he only awakened yesterday… didn't he?
Something was not adding up