No Path Chosen

[One Day Earlier – The Morvain Estate]

The sun filtered through the tall windows of the Morvain estate, casting sharp lines across the polished floor. Servin stirred beneath the soft sheets, eyes blinking open to the quiet hush of a Sunday morning.

No training today.

His father was away on business, and the manor felt lighter in his absence.

Servin got up, washed quickly, and made his way downstairs—just in time to catch his mother rushing out the front door, coat half-buttoned, speaking rapidly to an aide beside her.

"Mother," he called.

She paused, turned briefly. "Yes, Servin?"

"Do you have any money I can use today?"

She frowned for a split second—clearly hadn't thought about that. But she reached into her purse, pulled out the entire coin pouch, and handed it to him without counting.

"Take it. I'm late."

And just like that, she was gone, carriage doors swinging shut behind her.

Servin stood at the steps, pouch in hand, and let out a small breath.

No training. No eyes watching him. Just a quiet Sunday and an unexpected freedom.

He turned to his personal butler, who had appeared silently nearby, hands folded.

"Freth," Servin said, "let's go shopping."

The older man tilted his head slightly. "May I ask what you're looking to buy, young master?"

"A cat," Servin replied simply.

Freth blinked. "Ah. Very well."

They arrived at Virtlen Plaza by mid-morning, the bustling heart of Mirage's upper district. Gold-leafed signs gleamed in the light, and the streets bustled with polished boots and long skirts. Servin moved quietly among them, flanked by Freth, who carried his coat.

The pet shop sat nestled between a florist and a clockmaker. A soft chime rang as they stepped inside.

Warm light. Clean wooden floors. The scent of hay, fur, and something sweet.

Inside, creatures of all kinds greeted them—cats, dogs, owls, rabbits, axolotls, and birds perched or pacing in their little corners.

They made their way to the cat section.

Freth adjusted his gloves. "Different colored cats have different temperaments, you know. What kind are you looking for?"

Servin didn't hesitate. "A black one. Active. Doesn't meow much."

The butler arched an eyebrow. "Very specific. Though… black cats tend to be more reserved. Clingy, even. And yes, they are usually quieter."

Servin nodded. "Perfect."

They moved slowly past the cages until one caught his eye.

A sleek black cat sat near the edge, alert and calm. Its fur shimmered slightly under the light, and its sharp blue eyes followed their every step. Not too thin. Not chunky. Just… right.

"That one," Servin said, pointing.

The shop attendant stepped over. "Ah, good choice. He's about a year old—healthy, curious, very well-behaved. Lives quietly, but likes attention."

"How long do cats live?" Servin asked, crouching near the cage.

"With good care? Up to thirty-four years."

Freth raised an eyebrow. "That's… impressive."

"A good companion for a child," the staff added with a smile.

"Can he learn tricks at that age?" Servin asked.

"Of course," the attendant said. "With the right training and treats, he'll pick things up quickly."

Servin straightened. "I'll take him."

The sun was still high when Servin stepped out of the pet shop, the black cat tucked carefully in the carrier beside him. His butler, Freth, trailed behind with two bags of supplies—treats, grooming tools, and a small book titled "Training Your Companion: A Beginner's Guide."

They climbed into the waiting carriage, its velvet-lined interior a familiar comfort. The streets of Virtlen Plaza bustled outside, but inside the cabin, everything felt quiet.

Servin opened the carrier slightly, just enough to let the cat peek its head out.

Blue eyes met his.

"Not scared at all, are you?" he muttered, watching as the cat calmly sniffed the air and settled into his lap without a sound.

Freth gave a small smile from across the seat. "He's taken to you quickly, young master."

Servin didn't reply immediately. He was running his fingers gently behind the cat's ears.

"He reminds me of... something," Servin murmured.

He looked out the window, thoughtful.

The trees lining the plaza had silver-green leaves that shimmered in the wind, like rivers of light. He used to call them "silva trees" as a child, before learning their proper name.

His lips curved just slightly.

"Silva," he said quietly. "That's what I'll call him."

Freth raised a brow. "A fine name."

Servin didn't respond—just stroked the cat's fur in silence as the carriage rolled on.

And for the rest of the ride, Silva didn't make a sound.

The sun filtered through tall glass panes, casting angled beams of warm light across the floor. Outside, the estate grounds were quiet—no sword drills, no echoes of his father's voice. Just stillness.

Inside his room, Servin sat cross-legged on the polished marble, surrounded by chalk lines, bits of string, and a loosely rolled diagram.

Perched silently on the corner of his desk was the black cat. It blinked up at him, blue eyes steady. It didn't meow. Didn't move. Just watched—like it had lived there all its life.

Servin leaned forward, tightening the small rope harness he'd fashioned from soft cord. Next to him, a rough sketch of the estate's eastern ventilation shafts was weighed down with a metal paperweight.

He glanced at it, then at the cat.

"You're small enough to fit," he muttered. "And if that boy could teach a cat to sneak through a vent, so can I."

The cat gave a long, slow blink.

Then yawned.

Servin frowned slightly. "Really?"

He tapped the floor twice, mimicking the rhythm he'd seen the street kid use.

The cat didn't budge. Tail flicking. Eyes half-lidded.

"…Right. This'll take time."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny dried fish treat.

That finally got the cat's attention. It leapt down in one smooth motion and trotted over.

Servin offered it the treat with a smirk. "We'll start with the basics, then."

Outside, the shadows shifted as the afternoon sun crawled westward.

Inside, the quiet training began.

The kitchen was quiet, bathed in the soft hum of amber light from the overhead fixtures. Servin knelt beside Silva's new food dish, pouring in a small handful of dry kibble. The black cat sniffed it once, then began to eat—quiet and graceful.

Servin watched him closely, noting every movement.

Then the door swung open.

Hailey Morvain stepped in, dressed in her evening gown, her heels clicking softly against the tiled floor. She paused, surprised.

"…What's this?"

Servin didn't look up. "His name's Silva."

The cat glanced at her, then immediately padded around to the far side of the bowl, keeping Servin between them.

Hailey blinked. "You bought a cat?"

"I had spare lin." Servin stood calmly. "I'll take care of him."

Hailey took a step closer, her expression softening despite herself. "He's beautiful. Look at those eyes…" She reached down gently—but Silva backed away, tail flicking.

"…He doesn't seem to like me," she said, standing straight again with a small, amused huff.

"He's careful with strangers," Servin replied, as if that explained everything.

Then came heavier footsteps—measured, firm. Jerad entered through the side hall, eyes sharp from a long day.

He stopped at the sight of the cat.

"A pet?" he said simply.

Servin nodded. "Yes, Father."

Jerad studied the cat for a moment. Silva, sensing his attention, lifted his head from the dish and stared back—unblinking.

Jerad's voice was calm, but laced with warning. "If you want to keep him, act like it. Train him. Feed him. Clean after him. No maids. No excuses. Understood?"

"Yes, Father."

Without another word, Jerad turned and left the room.

Hailey gave Silva one last glance, still intrigued, then followed her husband with a curious look lingering in her eyes.

Silva resumed eating.

Servin knelt beside him once more and whispered, "See? We're both good at avoiding people."

The cat flicked an ear, but didn't look up.

The manor had begun its nightly routine. Lamps were lit, curtains drawn, and servants moved quietly through the halls preparing for dusk. The dining room had long been cleared, and a hush settled across the estate—not silence, but the kind of calm that signaled the day was ending.

In the kitchen, Silva had already been fed and was now perched lazily atop a windowsill, his tail flicking in the warm breeze. Servin had returned to his room upstairs, not to sleep, but to study the ventilation diagrams again, stringing a small line between two points like he was preparing for a rescue mission no one had asked for.

A knock came at the front door—not loud, but firm.

Hailey Morvain opened it herself, still in her evening dress, a silk shawl loosely gathered around her shoulders. She wasn't expecting visitors.

The young man on the step inclined his head with effortless grace.

"Apologies for the hour. I'm Silas. Servin's private tutor. I've come to pass on some materials and speak with him briefly, if he's awake."

Hailey blinked.

Then, without hiding the once-over she gave him, she smiled.

"You look far too good to be a tutor," she said, voice laced with amusement. "But I suppose appearances can be misleading."

Silas only offered a polite smile. "I try not to let them be."

Just then, Jerad stepped down from the hallway behind her, his footsteps sharp on the stone. He glanced at the doorway.

"…You," he said after a beat. "The one from the other day."

Silas bowed respectfully. "Yes, sir. I'm here to see Servin."

Jerad gave a nod—not warm, but not dismissive. "He's upstairs. Maids will show you."

He turned without another word, disappearing into his study.

Hailey watched him go, then turned back to Silas with an intrigued look, her smile lingering. "Well then. Enjoy your visit."

She didn't wait for a response, gliding past him with a soft rustle of silk.

Silas was escorted by a quiet maid through the eastern wing of the estate and up the stairs to Servin's private quarters.

Later That Evening – Servin's Room

A soft knock. The door creaked open.

Servin looked up, eyes lighting up. "Silas."

Silas stepped in, offering a faint smile. "Didn't expect to see you with a cat."

Servin smirked. "Just got him today. His name's Silva. I'm training him… for something," he added, voice dropping to a whisper.

Silva blinked from the floor, tail twitching.

"Mind if I sit?" Silas asked.

"Of course." Servin moved aside, clearing a space near the diagram-strewn floor.

Silas lowered himself beside him. "I came to tell you what happened. You deserve to know."

He explained everything—Harry's injuries, the Silent Chord's pursuit, how Leon barely got them out. The Vice Stringer. The Gloamwardens.

Servin's expression darkened with each word. His fists clenched. "I should've been there."

Silas didn't argue.

After a beat, Servin spoke quietly, "I need to go back. To the orphanage."

Silas tilted his head. "Is that possible?"

"In certain conditions," Servin replied without hesitation. "One: it has to be a day both my parents are out. Two: I leave the night before. They don't check on me in the morning—they go straight to their own business. Three: I return before dusk, before they get back."

He looked at Silas seriously. "And the maids… I'll make sure they don't find out. I'll ask Freth, my butler, to cover for me."

Silas held his gaze. "Then we'll make it work."

Silva stretched, letting out a quiet yawn as the plan settled in the air between them.

Later That Night – The Morvain Estate

"I'll bring you tonight," Silas said quietly, standing near the doorway. "Once everyone's asleep, I'll return. Just be ready."

Servin gave a quick nod. "I'll use the window. Every door and gate locks after dark."

Silas's eyes flicked toward the ceiling, calculating. "I'll lift you down. You won't need to climb."

He turned, coat sweeping behind him as he strode out of the room, leaving Servin in silence with his cat curled near the diagram on the floor.

Downstairs, the lights had dimmed. Candles flickered low. As Silas passed the kitchen hall, Hailey Morvain appeared from the parlor arch, wine glass in hand, a relaxed tilt in her posture.

"You're leaving already?" she asked, her tone warm—almost too warm.

Silas paused, offering a courteous nod. "Yes, ma'am. My message is delivered."

She stepped closer, just enough for the perfume to linger.

"Such commitment. Servin's lucky to have someone like you." Her eyes roamed his face. "You're… quite refined. For a private tutor."

Silas didn't answer. A polite half-smile. One step back.

Hailey watched him walk to the front doors, a soft hum in her throat. Her gaze lingered on his back, the way his shoulders moved beneath his coat. Then the door closed.

She stood still, glass trembling slightly in her hand.

Her breath left slow through her lips. She swallowed.

"Gods, that face…" she whispered to herself.

She set the glass down carelessly on a nearby table and turned down the hallway, her steps quick but composed.

By the time she reached her private chamber, her fingers were already undoing the laces at her wrist. Her cheeks burned pink, her breath quicker now, and the moment she closed the door behind her—locked it—she leaned against it with a shuddering exhale.

All from a glance. A voice. A flash of wind in his coat.

She let her head fall back, a guilty smile pulling at her lips.

"Tutors aren't supposed to look like that."

Outside the Estate

Silas stepped quietly through the manicured courtyard, stopping just beneath the shadow of the tall eastern wing.

There, hidden among the trees lining the wall, he closed his eyes.

Wind answered.

Both arms shimmered—flesh turning to sleek, black feathers—until long, powerful wings unfurled from his shoulders. His body remained mostly human, but with these wings, he had more than enough lift.

He launched into the air in one silent glide, landing soundlessly on a high branch where moonlight kissed the leaves.

The estate fell into silence below.

Minutes passed. Lights died. Guards rotated.

Then—a sound.

A low moan echoed from one of the rooms below.

Silas flinched.

Again.

"…Silas…"

His head jerked slightly. He stared down at the window.

No way…

The voice was soft. Feminine. Drenched in something he didn't want to name.

He dragged a hand across his face, muttering under his breath, "Please be dreaming… or hallucinating…"

Then a whisper came from above.

"Silas."

He looked up. Servin was at the window, dark coat on, rope looped and ready.

Silas took a breath, his feathers rippling as he dropped from the branch and hovered just off the stone wall.

He extended his wing-arms upward.

"Jump. I've got you."

Servin gave one push and leapt.

The wind caught him—soft and steady—and lowered him down like a feather drifting to the ground. His boots touched the grass without a sound.

"You ready?" Silas asked.

Servin nodded. "Let's go."

With a single flap of his wings, Silas turned toward the fence line. Together, they moved through the trees and vanished into the night—leaving the weight of marble halls and locked gates behind them.

The orphanage waited.

And for one night, so did freedom.