Prologue: Strings of Fate

Is man's will truly free?

Some would argue that it is. That man is the master of his own fate, his destiny his own to shape.

Others may argue that man's fate is preordained by some being of higher existence. By God.

His story, already penned. Every step he would take, written long before he took them. The end of his tale, already set in stone.

But for some of us, our will - our fate - is dictated by our blood.

The will behind my conception was like an heirloom, passed from one generation to the next, as a means to preserve the family's most cherished treasure: its legacy.

I was born into a story already written. By the time my name was chosen, the path I would walk in life was already paved.

My schooling. My recreational activities. My social circle. My career.

My mannerisms. My speech. My demeanor.

The emotions I'd wear.

The emotions I'd mask.

The emotions I'd never be allowed to feel.

All of it had been decided for me.

I was raised like a performance. Groomed to reflect glory that was not mine, but inherited. Controlled, like a marionette on strings.

Strings that stretched back centuries, to Allessandro Umbrae, the legitimized son of a Medici noble and a courtesan rewarded for his economic services with the title Marchese di Valmonta.

That was how Casa Umbrae di Valmonta - House Umbrae of Valmonta - was born. Where the Umbrae legacy began.

The legacy that was eventually passed down to me, trapping me in a gilded cage of duty and perfection.

Disobedience was not an option. Failure was punished. Love was conditional. Praise was performative.

Success was determined by one thing only: how well you followed the script.

And I followed it religiously. I devoted myself to my role, like I was taught to. I adhered to the plan, like I was dictated to.

My life played out exactly how it was supposed to. My days were monotonous, and my emotions were monochrome.

That is, until I was nine years old.