Chapter 1

The city never slept, but it did forget her.

Lena Ardent sat beneath the flickering streetlamp, sketchbook balanced on her knees, charcoal dust painting her fingertips like bruises. The wind off the river gnawed at her coat, carrying the faint scent of metal and smoke. Around her, the world moved on cars hissing past puddles, strangers wrapped in noise and purpose.

She had neither.

It had been six years since she last heard her own voice. Six years since the car crash that stole it, along with her confidence. Now, her silence was her armor and her cage.

She made a living sketching faces on the sidewalk, each portrait sold for enough to buy a loaf of bread or a night’s rent in a shared flat. When people asked her name, she smiled and pointed to the small sign beside her drawings:

“Lena Ardent — Art that Speaks Without Words.”

But that night, as the clock neared midnight, the city seemed to hold its breath.

A black car rolled to the curb. Its windows reflected only darkness. From the back seat, a gloved hand emerged holding an envelope sealed in red wax.

Lena froze. No one ever approached her this late.

A voice, smooth and male, spoke through the open window. “Miss Ardent?”

She nodded cautiously.

“The client wishes to make you an offer.”

The hand extended the envelope. She hesitated, then took it. The paper was thick, heavy, perfumed faintly with cedar and smoke. By the time she looked up again, the car was gone.

Lena turned the envelope over in her fingers. Embossed on the wax seal was a crest a crescent moon crossed by two wolves. Beneath it, a single word: “Veyne.”

She tore it open. Inside was a letter written in elegant black ink:

You have been recommended for a confidential position.

Your silence is your greatest qualification.

If you accept, come to Veyne Estate before dawn. Bring nothing but yourself.

Compensation: one million euros, payable upon completion of the contract.

Failure to appear will be taken as a refusal.

At the bottom, instead of a signature, there was a single crimson fingerprint.

Lena’s pulse quickened. It could be a prank or worse. But her rent was three months late, her sketchbook nearly empty, and hope was something she hadn’t tasted in years.

By the time the church bells struck twelve, she was already walking toward the northern hills.

The road wound through a forest that seemed to belong to another century. Pines towered overhead, whispering secrets as the moon slid through their branches. A fine mist clung to the ground, and every shadow felt alive.

When the gates of Veyne Estate appeared, they were taller than any she had seen—iron twisted into the shape of wolves howling at the sky. Beyond them, a single mansion stood in the distance, its windows aglow like lanterns in a sea of black.

Lena pressed the intercom, her gloved hands trembling.

The gate clicked open without a word.

Inside, silence ruled. No servants, no music, only the faint hum of electricity and the distant crackle of a fire. The walls were glass and stone, reflecting the forest and moonlight in endless silver tones.

At the center of the grand hall stood a man.

He was tall easily six foot three with dark hair swept back from a sharp, unreadable face. His suit was black as the shadows, his eyes colder than the snow-laced air. When he moved, it was with the quiet confidence of someone who had never been refused.

Lena froze, instinct screaming that this was the man who had summoned her.

He studied her in silence for a long moment. Then, without speaking, he extended a piece of parchment.

It was a contract.

I, Lena Ardent, agree to serve Damien Veyne in the capacity of personal assistant and interpreter for the duration of three lunar cycles. I will not speak of his condition, his home, or the nature of my employment.

In exchange, I will receive one million euros upon completion.

At the bottom was a space for her signature.

Damien Veyne handed her a fountain pen.

Lena looked up at him, her lips parting as if to ask—but no sound came. Instead, she reached for her notepad and scribbled:

Why me?

Damien took the pen from her hand, his fingers brushing hers electric, burning. He wrote beneath her question in strong, deliberate strokes:

Because you cannot speak and I must not.

Their eyes met. Something ancient moved in that silence recognition, or perhaps danger disguised as destiny.

Lena signed.

The ink glowed faintly for a heartbeat, as if sealing something deeper than paper.

Damien reached into his coat and produced a small silver pendant shaped like a crescent moon. He placed it gently around her neck.

“A mark of contract,” he wrote. “It protects you inside these walls.”

She frowned, scribbling, “From what?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he gestured for her to follow. His movements were precise, controlled, almost too graceful like a predator disguising itself as a man.

They walked down a corridor lined with portraits. Each canvas depicted a different member of the Veyne family men with silver eyes and women whose gazes followed her. At the end of the hall, a grand library opened like the heart of a labyrinth.

“Your quarters are here,” Damien wrote, passing her another note. “You’ll find paper, ink, and a bell. Use them if you need me.”

She nodded, her pulse still quick.

Before leaving, he paused at the doorway. His profile caught the moonlight, sharp and ethereal. Then he looked back, eyes flickering with something not entirely human.

“Welcome to silence, Miss Ardent.”

And with that, he was gone.

Lena stood alone in the echoing room, the contract heavy in her pocket, the pendant cold against her skin. Outside, a wolf howled low and distant, as if marking her arrival.

For the first time in years, she felt her silence wasn’t empty.

It was the beginning of something that had been waiting for her all along.