[Back to the Ravenshade Mansion]
Three days slipped by in the blink of an eye, and not a single one of them was worth writing down. Nothing fun, nothing interesting—just the usual tedious grind. Not even the kind of dullness that passes for "slice of life" in someone else's story. No, this was the stale kind, the suffocating kind, where the walls of the mansion feel more like a coffin than a home.
During that time, I did what any young master of an estate is supposed to do: train, study, and—at least in theory—check if there was anything in need of my "attention." (Spoiler: there wasn't. There never is.) The rest of the time, I was left to laze around… though even calling it "lazing" feels like a kindness. It was more like slowly rotting in place. Even I didn't want to, but what else was there?
The only thing remotely entertaining came in the form of gossip. Apparently, that kid ran away with his little sister, leaving behind his poor mother, who now sits in custody for murdering her drunk of a husband. Tragic, isn't it? Or hilarious. Families are like that—when they collapse, they do it with fireworks.
Still, I can't help but picture it: a boy on the run, a bag full of gold clutched in one hand, his sister's tiny fingers gripping the other, the two of them wandering into the unknown. That sounds like an adventure. That sounds alive. Almost makes me envious. Almost.
But enough about other people's misery. My current amusement is closer to home. Specifically, in the form of a certain maid, carefully brewing tea with all the grace of someone who wants me to notice.
Not that I care about the tea.
"Umm, Roselyn," I drawl, watching her movements more than the steam rising from the cup. "What's new with you?"
She flinches just slightly—like a rabbit caught in the open—then smooths her features into the perfect maid's mask.
"Huh? Ah—well, young master, I tried a new hairstyle—"
I cut her off with a lazy glance. "Not the hair. The dress. Why is it showing off so much of your legs?"
Her lips curl into a sweet smile, too polished to be anything but rehearsed. "Oh, well… I thought young master might have acquired a taste for long legs. And since I am your personal maid, I thought it only proper to… indulge that taste for you."
I let out a low chuckle, slow and amused. "Mm. Or maybe you're just jealous that I praised another maid the other day?"
Her smile twitches ever so slightly at the edges. "Young master, why don't you try the new sweet we've prepared? I think you'll like it."
I glance at the treat, unimpressed. "Isn't it the usual? I wave it off. "Anyway—how are the preparations? Everything packed?"
"Yes, young master," she answers smoothly, though there's the faintest strain in her voice. "Everything is set and in motion."
"Good."
So then—the time has finally come. The break is over. The so-called "fun days" have burned themselves out, and the academy calls once more. Whether I want to or not, I have to answer. Not that there's anything here worth clinging to anyway.
Father handles all the actual important matters, and when he doesn't, his men do. That's the structure of this estate, neat and efficient. My role as the "favorite young master" is simply to exist: to eat, to train, to study, to polish the family name by breathing in the right places. Not much of a burden, really. Some people would kill for such an easy life.
But me? I've always been the type who can't sit still. My mind and body are wired for work. Long nights, cheap pay, worn hands—I've lived that rhythm before. Strange, isn't it? To be born into luxury and still itch for labor. Perhaps it's the old scars of a former life, refusing to fade.
As for Father himself—still gone. Still busy. No surprise there. He did send a letter, though. Polite inquiries: am I well, is anything interesting happening. An apology for not being here to see me off. Classic him. A man convinced that feelings are unseemly, but still blurting them out in the most awkward of ways.
I still remember my first departure to the academy. He was there that time, standing rigid, shoulders squared, trying—and failing—not to cry. His jaw clenched so tight it looked ready to snap, his eyes glassy. The great patriarch of Ravenshade, undone by something as simple as a goodbye. Pathetic, perhaps. Or perhaps… human. Depends how you look at it.
My footsteps echoed down the mansion hallway, each one sharper than the last—a steady rhythm that announced my departure better than any farewell speech could.
At the door, the servants lined up in perfect formation, the picture of solemn loyalty. The carriage gleamed outside, polished within an inch of its life. One by one, they bowed, offering their goodbyes like mourners tossing flowers into a grave.
I gave them only a nod. Nothing more, nothing less. Then I climbed into the carriage. Inside, Roselyn was already waiting, sitting with her back straight, her face unreadable.
"Hm." I sank into the seat with a sigh. "So, are we heading out, or should we wait until all the maids burst into tears first?"
For a split second, her lips pressed thin, disapproval flickering across her otherwise flawless expression.
"You are quite cruel, young master."
"Cruel?" I leaned back, eyes drifting lazily to the window. "Maybe. But efficient."
I tapped the carriage wall with two fingers. The signal was clear.
"Let's go."
The wheels groaned, then rolled forward. The mansion shrank behind me with every turn of the road—along with the bows, the farewells, and the life I was supposed to miss.
And just like that, Ravenshade estate faded into the distance, swallowed by the horizon.
----
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The journey to the academy was easy. Comfortable, too. It's not like one of those long-winded adventures you read about, the ones where you spend days bumping along dirt roads, resting in some shady village, and getting jumped by bandits for "plot reasons." Nope. None of that.
Why? Simple. My father is filthy rich.
Unlike the common folks, we could afford the Fast Gate. It's basically a giant dimension door—think "anywhere door," except the coordinates are locked to specific stations. You step in, step out, and boom—new city, new place. It's not magic, it's money. Turns out this world has a fast-pass lane for everything.
All the paperwork? Paid for in advance. Fees? Already covered. Reservation? Booked days ago. So while others were sweating it out in long lines, juggling luggage and grumbling about the wait, I just strolled through. And oh, the looks.
The pure, undiluted envy in their eyes as I walked past, cutting through the crowd like I owned the place. Which, in a way, I kind of did.
What can I say? Money, babes. Go earn it, and maybe you'll feel the same kind of privilege.
Well then, moving on. We were still in the carriage, making our way through the capital—the beating heart of the Empire. The city of Everlight. A place people liked to call the city of hope and magic.
Yeah, that's where I was right now. And right here was where the Royal Academy stood—the pride of the Empire. Founded by the apprentice of the first Hero, it was built to honor his wish: an academy where talent wouldn't rot away in obscurity. Doesn't matter who you are—royal, noble, merchant, commoner, or even a beggar. If you've got the talent and the potential to back it up, you're welcome.
Of course, I wasn't heading to the academy just yet. Nope. We were actually going to the mansion. Yes, another one. You know how it is with rich people—one mansion just isn't enough.
My dear father made sure to build one here in Everlight, so whenever I felt bored or drained, I could retreat straight into comfort.
I know, I know—at this point it's basically showing off. But hey, don't blame me. Sure, the title of "third-rate villain" sticks to me… but it comes with a very important tag people like to whisper behind my back: filthy rich.
The ride didn't take long. The noise of the city—merchants shouting, wheels clattering, the faint hum of magic lamps—thinned out as the carriage slipped into a quieter, more exclusive district. Wide cobbled streets, neatly trimmed gardens, gilded gates. The sort of place where nobles claim "modesty" while secretly bankrupting themselves to outshine their neighbors. It was a district built on pride and paranoia.
And there it was—our estate. Or as I liked to call it, the Ravenshade Estate 2.0: Everlight Edition. Not the official name, of course, just my little rebranding. The carriage rolled to a silent stop on the gravel driveway, and the driver, the same one who'd ferried me to my little "enlightening" meeting, opened the door.
I stepped out and looked up at the mansion. To most, it would've been breathtaking—elegant lines, tall windows, the kind of architecture meant to whisper old money with every stone. To me? Just another cage. Granted, it was shinier and bigger than the last one, but a cage is still a cage. It was a gilded cage, built to hold a gilded heir.
"Home sweet home," I muttered, my lips quirking at the irony. I had a home and a family and a name, but none of them felt like my own.
Roselyn shot me a look—curious, but wisely kept silent. She didn't need to say a thing. Her silence, her careful presence, was loyalty enough. She was a witness to my new reality, and a part of it.
I adjusted my coat with a sigh and strode forward, my new shoes crunching softly on the gravel. Mansions, walls, gates—none of them really mattered. Because no matter where I went, no matter how polished the prison, I still had the one thing I could never leave behind.
Myself. The original me, and the new me, tangled together in a way I couldn't undo. And that, more than any gilded cage, was the true prison.