It was the kind of rain that did not fall… but seeped.
Thin and relentless, it slid through fabric, clung to skin, and settled into the bones like an unshakable chill.
Ambrose Lysander stepped down from the carriage, leather suitcase in hand. The driver, a surly old man who had barely spoken the entire trip, did not even pretend to offer assistance. Instead, he spat onto the wet ground, flicked the reins, and rattled away down the muddy road, leaving Ambrose alone in the dim evening light.
His gloves were damp.
His polished shoes had already lost their battle against the mud.
And yet, he simply adjusted his cuffs, straightened his spine, and strode forward… As if he had never expected kindness to begin with.
The grand Ashford estate loomed ahead, its stately silhouette cutting through the dreary sky.
He had waited for this moment.
Years of careful planning. Years of learning, of discarding his past self piece by piece.
And now, with one final step, he would shed the last remnants of . . . .
From this moment on, he was Ambrose Lysander.
The butler.
The one who would walk through these doors with perfect manners, polished words, and quiet obedience. All while searching for the first crack in their foundation.
He raised his hand and knocked.
. . .
The door that opened was not the grand entrance, but the smaller one, meant for servants.
A woman stood there. Middle-aged, her graying hair pinned in a tight bun, her expression as rigid as the starched apron she wore.
Her gaze swept over him. From his soaked hair to the mud-splattered hem of his coat. Her lips pressed into a deeper frown.
"You're late."
Ambrose met her stare with calm politeness. "I would have arrived sooner, but I found myself at odds with the weather."
She made a noise. Not quite a scoff, but close.
"Name?"
"Ambrose Lysander," he said. "I applied for the butler position."
At this, the woman's expression shifted. Not quite approval, but something close to reluctant acknowledgment.
"You'll speak with the housekeeper. Wait here."
She turned, calling into the corridor behind her, summoning a few others. When they arrived, young footmen and a maid with sharp eyes, she gestured at them.
"Show him to his room."
The footmen hesitated. One of them wrinkled his nose. "He's dripping," he muttered. "Shouldn't he—"
"Apologies," Ambrose said smoothly, "I would have preferred to arrive in a more presentable state, but it seems the rain had its own plans."
There was a beat of silence.
Then, a chuckle.
A few of them exchanged looks, shoulders loosening. Even the stern woman exhaled, just barely.
One of the younger footmen gave a lopsided grin. "Well, at least he's not some stiff-necked lord. Come on, then. Let's get you sorted."
And just like that, the tension cracked just a little.
Ambrose allowed himself a small, practiced smile.
After all… A fortress is best conquered from within.
And he had just stepped through the door.
. . .
"Well... it's not so bad here."
Hans spoke without much conviction, leading the way down the narrow servant's corridor. The lantern he carried swayed, casting flickering shadows along the damp walls.
"The pay's steady." He glanced over his shoulder. "The maids are pretty, if you don't mind sharp tongues."
Ambrose followed in silence, his suitcase steady in his gloved hand.
"I don't."
Hans snorted. "You say that now."
A small, easy chuckle escaped Ambrose's lips—like the sound of someone who laughed often but never quite fully.
"I only hope everyone likes my work," he said lightly. "I'd like to stay... for a long time."
Hans missed the weight behind those words.
He only shrugged, stopping at a plain wooden door at the farthest end of the hallway.
"This is you."
Ambrose stepped inside. The room was small. Bare. A narrow bed pushed against the wall, a chipped washbasin, a little window overlooking nothing but grey clouds.
Hans lingered at the threshold. "Best get used to rising early. The housekeeper's a real harpy if you're late."
"I'll remember that."
Another small smile, this one softer, as if the day had worn him thin.
Hans nodded, satisfied enough, and shut the door behind him.
. . .
The smile dropped the moment the latch clicked.
In the silence, Ambrose Lysander stood motionless in the middle of the room. Letting the damp cold sink into his bones.
The walls pressed close. The ceiling hung low. A single gust of wind slipped through the cracked windowpane.
It was the sort of room meant to remind a man of his place.
And perhaps once. Long ago. It might have worked.
But not anymore.
Ambrose set down his suitcase. Slowly, methodically, he peeled off his damp gloves and laid them across the desk. His coat followed, hung with careful precision on the lone hook by the door.
He did not light a candle.
He didn't need the light to see.
Instead, he moved through the dark by memory, shedding layers one by one.
The waistcoat. The cravat. The starched white shirt clinging damp to his skin.
Until all that remained was the man beneath the uniform. A lean figure wrapped in pale scars, the faint lines of old wounds running across his ribs, his back, the curve of his shoulder.
He caught his own reflection faintly in the black window glass.
It had been so long since he'd seen his own face.
Not Ambrose Lysander.
Not the polished butler.
Just... him.
He turned away from the glass.
This was not the time to remember who he had once been.
He would wake early. He would serve. He would smile and bow and pour wine and polish silver.
And wait.
A fortress is best conquered from within.
He sat down on the narrow bed, the mattress creaking beneath him.
Outside, the rain continued. Soft and endless.
It would take months. Years, perhaps.
But the Ashfords had ruined one family before.
Now they had let the wrong man through their gates.
. . .
Ambrose rose before the first bell.
The air still clung with night's chill, seeping through the cracked window. He dressed in silence. Each button fastened with precise care, each crease smoothed into place.
By the time the other servants began to stir, he was already gloved and composed. Greeting them with small nods and faint smiles.
The staff quarters were alive with soft grumbles and clinking cups of weak tea. Sleep-heavy footsteps shuffled past him in the narrow halls.
"First morning, aye?"
Ambrose glanced up to find Hans passing him a steaming tin mug.
"You'll find the butlers don't lift much more than trays around here. Just follow the silver and you'll be fine."
Ambrose took the cup with a murmur of thanks. He didn't drink it. The bitter smell told him it had been brewed from leaves boiled one too many times.
"The pay is good," Hans added again, as if reminding himself.
Ambrose only smiled.
. . .
The head butler, a stiff-lipped man named Mr. Fleming, assigned him to observe the morning rounds.
Breakfast trays. Light dusting. Straightening the library.
Ambrose followed in measured silence, nodding when appropriate, speaking only when spoken to.
He memorized everything.
The household rhythms. The placement of each silverware set. The order of which doors were locked and which were not.
Every turn of a key. Every careless word exchanged between servants.
By mid-morning, he'd already mapped quarter of the house inside his head.
. . .
Then… The grand hallway.
He was carrying a tray of polished glasses when he saw him.
Carmine Ashford, the young master.
He stood near the staircase, one hand trailing lazily along the carved banister. His hair was sleep-mussed, blonde streaked with warm red brown. As if he'd been out in the sun too long.
He hadn't quite grown into his height yet. Long limbs wrapped in a loose morning coat. But the promise of his bloodline was already there.
Those dark blue Ashford eyes.
Eyes that had ruined lives long before he was ever born.
Ambrose's grip on the tray tightened, just barely.
He bowed.
"Master Carmine."
It was the first time he spoke the boy's name aloud. The syllables tasted strange on his tongue. Like something that didn't quite fit inside his mouth.
Carmine's gaze flicked to him... then lingered.
Too long for a mere glance.
Ambrose felt it.
That quiet, unsettling weight of being noticed.
The boy's mouth parted just slightly, like he meant to speak.
But before he could, a maid called him from the drawing room.
Carmine's eyes snapped away.
Ambrose straightened, stepping forward, unseen, unremarkable,
just a shadow passing through the house.
He didn't notice the boy's head turning back, watching him for one moment longer.
. . .
By noon, the house had settled into its midday hush.
Ambrose found himself in the narrow servants' hall, seated at a long wooden table among the other staff.
It was a modest meal. Stew, dark bread, and the same bitter tea from the morning. But the mood was lighter here, tucked away from the eyes of the masters.
The kitchen maid, Rose, chattered the loudest. Complaining about how the youngest Ashford heir always left his boots muddy no matter how many times she polished them. Hans leaned back in his chair, grinning lazily, while the older housekeeper traded gossip with the scullery boys.
Ambrose ate quietly, spoon moving slow and steady.
He listened.
He learned.
It didn't take long for the conversation to turn toward him.
"So, Mr. Lysander..."
Rose leaned her elbows on the table, bright eyes narrowed with interest.
"Where'd you work before, then? Not many men your age still looking for service work unless they've been kicked out."
A ripple of low chuckles followed.
Ambrose lifted his head, polite smile already in place.
"Ah... well."
He paused, letting a faint sheepishness flicker across his face. Just enough to suggest there might be a story worth hearing.
"In truth, I did part ways with my last employer rather... abruptly."
That caught their attention.
Hans straightened, the others leaning in closer.
"Oh?" Rose smirked. "Do tell."
Ambrose glanced down at his half-empty bowl, as if weighing whether or not to speak.
Then, just the smallest crinkle at the corner of his eyes.
"The restaurant owner's daughter took... something of a liking to me."
A beat…
Then the whole table burst into laughter.
Hans thumped the table with one broad hand. Rose snorted into her cup. Even the dour-faced housekeeper cracked a smile behind her handkerchief.
Ambrose only shrugged. That same small, self-deprecating smile lingering on his lips.
"I suppose I can't blame her. But her father thought otherwise."
The laughter rolled on—warm and harmless.
. . .
It was such a small, simple thing.
A little self-effacing charm. A harmless story at his own expense.
But by the time the meal ended, the staff was already leaning toward him in ways they hadn't that morning.
Hans clapped him on the shoulder as they stood to clear the dishes. Rose whispered something teasing in his ear. Even the housekeeper gave him a nod of approval.
But as the laughter echoed in his ears, something tightened behind his ribs.
Ambrose's fingers curled tighter around the handle of his mug.
He forced the smile to stay in place.
.
.
.