Aurora had only one thing besides the clothes she came with. A simple rosary, with a thick wooden cross. It wasn't worth anything. The beads were worn. The cord was rough. But it was hers.
She'd had it for as long as she could remember. It didn't do anything. But when she held it, the world felt less like it was falling apart.
"Aurora!" the manager called.
She came down from the attic. Slow steps, not dragging. The warm room meant nobles again. Another visit. Another line-up.
Adopting orphans had become a kind of sport. The nobles came to collect them like pets. Train them. Show them off. Brag about how well they behaved or what they could do.
It was better than starving. But not always by much.
If you were good—good enough—you got out. But if they brought you back, that was it. You were done. No one tried twice.
Aurora stood in line with the rest. Hands folded. Chin low. Her dress was too big, but that helped. Made her look younger. Smaller. Easier to want.
The man standing near the fire didn't smile. He was dressed in black with red trim. Gloves. Clean boots. Hair the same color as hers—black like smoke. His eyes were hard to read, but they weren't cruel.
He moved down the row slowly. Looking, not talking. Like he wasn't here to be impressed. Like he was looking for something specific.
Then he stopped.
In front of her.
Or maybe not her—at first. Maybe just the rosary.
It had slipped a little from under her collar. The wooden cross just visible.
He didn't say anything for a few seconds. Just stared at it. Then at her.
"This one," he said. "Aurora."
"Yes, my Lord," the director said, stepping forward. "She's one of our best. Quiet, disciplined, very—"
"I want to speak with her," he said. "Alone."
The director hesitated. Then nodded. "Of course. Children, back to your rooms."
The room emptied. The door shut.
Aurora stayed.
He didn't speak right away. The fire popped behind him. The warmth sat heavy between them.
"That rosary," he said. "It came with you?"
She nodded. "They said I had it when they found me."
His eyes stayed on it. Quiet. Thoughtful.
"I've seen one like it before," he said. "Only once. A long time ago."
She didn't ask where.
He looked at her then. Her face. Her hair.
"You look like me," he said. "That helps."
She frowned, just a little. "Helps with what?"
He smiled. Soft. The kind of smile that didn't ask anything back.
"If I take you with me, they'll believe you're my daughter. Not a pet. Not something I bought to keep busy."
He crouched a little. Just enough to speak at her height.
"I don't want to parade you around," he said. "I don't want to change you."
He paused.
"I want you to have a real life. A warm bed. Books. Food every day. I want you to grow up safe."
She didn't speak. Her hand had drifted to the rosary again, thumb over the worn wood.
"I've been looking for a child to bring home," he said. "Someone to protect. Someone who wouldn't have to perform to be allowed to stay."
Another pause.
"And then I saw that rosary. And you."
She looked at him.
"You're sure?" she asked.
He gave the smallest nod. "Yes."
She stared at the fire behind him. Then at the door. Then back at him.
"…Okay," she said.
He didn't say anything. Just smiled again, a little more this time
He glanced toward the sofa near the fire. It was deep red, clean, probably dusted just for this visit. Soft-looking, too soft for this place.
"You can sit," he said, nodding to it.
Aurora didn't move at first. She looked at him. Then at the sofa. Then back again.
He raised an eyebrow, just a little.
"Go on."
She stepped forward, slow like the floor might give out. Then she sat. Straight-backed, hands folded in her lap. Feet together. Like she was still standing, just lower.
He watched her carefully.
"You look afraid," he said, quiet.
She didn't answer.
"…Why?" he asked.
She looked down at her knees.
"No children are allowed on the sofa," she said. "Only visitors."
"But I told you to sit."
She nodded. "So I had to."
His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't speak right away. He just took a seat in the chair across from her, not too close.
"You thought you'd get in trouble anyway?" he asked.
She shrugged. Not like she didn't care. Like she didn't know what the right answer was.
"I don't know the rules outside the orphanage yet," she said. "So I'm guessing."
He leaned back a little, resting his gloved hands on his knees.
"There won't be rules like that where you're going," he said. "Not for things like chairs. Or who's allowed to sit."
She looked up at him, cautious.
"…Really?"
"Really."
They sat in silence a moment longer. The fire popped again. The wind outside scratched at the window glass.
He leaned forward slightly.
"Aurora, I'm not taking you home to train you. I'm taking you because I want to give you a life that feels like it belongs to you."
Her fingers tightened around the edge of her dress.
"You don't have to prove anything," he said. "Not to me."
She looked at the fire.
"…Then what do I do?" she asked, voice low.
"Whatever you want," he said. "You rest. You eat. You get warm. That's where you start."
She didn't nod, but she didn't look away either.
He stood. Slowly. Held out a hand.
"Come on," he said. "We'll go get your things. Then we'll leave."
She stared at his hand for a second. Then stood on her own. Not defiant—just careful.
"I only have this," she said, holding up the rosary.
He gave the faintest smile.
"Good. Then you're already packed."
The man turned and walked to the door without another word.
Aurora watched him leave, and the second the door shut behind him, she moved. Quiet. Automatic. Off the sofa. Back to the side of the room. Standing like a statue. Like nothing had changed.
The fire kept burning, but it didn't feel warm anymore.
She stood alone for maybe a minute. Long enough to remember where she was. What the rules were.
Then the door opened.
He stepped in first, same steady way as before. Behind him came the director, holding a folder thick with papers. Her eyes swept the room. Landed on Aurora. Narrowed—just for a second. Not enough to call out. But enough for Aurora to feel it.
That old warning look.
Don't mess this up.
The director moved forward, fake-sweet smile already in place. "Everything's prepared," she said. "Just need a few signatures and she's all yours, my Lord."
He looked at the papers in her hands but didn't take them yet. Instead, he looked at Aurora. Then back at the director.
"She's not mine," he said. "She's now my daughter."
The room went still for a second.
The director's smile twitched at the edges, just barely.
"…Of course," she said. "As you say."
He reached out and took the papers. No ceremony. No long reading. Just a few sharp strokes of the pen.
He handed them back. "Done."
"I'll fetch her file," the director said, already turning. "And something more appropriate for her to wear on the way out."
"That won't be necessary," he said. "She leaves as she is."
A flicker crossed the director's face. Not surprise. Not offense. Just something tight and sour beneath the surface.
She nodded once.
"As you wish."
She turned for the door. But before she stepped out, she paused. Looked at Aurora one last time.
No smile now. Just eyes like ice. Like glass waiting to break.
You belong to him now. Don't expect a way back.
Then she was gone.
The door shut beh
ind her.
And Aurora was alone with the man again.
They stood there in the quiet.
The fire cracked behind her, but Aurora didn't move from the wall. Her hands stayed clasped in front of her, eyes low.
He watched her for a moment. Then he took a slow breath.
"I should've introduced myself earlier," he said. "But I didn't want to risk being turned away before I saw you."
She looked up at him, cautious. Still unsure if she was supposed to speak.
"My name is Damien Haas," he said. "Of House Silverwood."
The words didn't land right away.
Then they did.
Aurora blinked.
Her mouth parted slightly, but nothing came out.
That name wasn't just known. It was legend. The Silverwood family wasn't just rich. They weren't just powerful. They were the family. Advisors to the emperor. Bloodlines older than most cities. Untouchable.
People told stories about the Silverwoods like they were myths. Like they weren't even real anymore.
And now he was standing in front of her. Not as a noble out on a shopping trip. But as him. Damien Haas. Offering her a place. A name. A family.
Her voice was small when it finally came out.
"You're… that Silverwood?"
He gave a slight smile. Nothing proud. Just tired. Honest.
"Yes."
She stared at him. She couldn't help it.
"But why would someone like you—"
"Because I was looking for something real," he said, gently cutting her off. "Not polished. Not planned. Something that mattered."
His eyes dropped to the rosary around her neck again.
"And I think I found it."
Aurora looked down, thumb brushing the edge of the cross without thinking.
The silence stretched.
She didn't know what to say. What to do. Her mind was still catching up.
Damien turned toward the door.
"Come," he said. "Let's go home."