Valentine DeVreux

The Crave Estate sat at the edge of the world—or so it seemed. Its towers rose from the fog like the ribs of some long-dead beast, its windows glimmering faintly with a light that never felt entirely mortal. The iron gates, draped in vines and time, creaked open of their own accord the day CraveU user arrived.

The letter had been short, almost absurdly so: You are the sole inheritor of the Crave Estate, once belonging to your great grandaunt. All possessions, holdings, and responsibilities therein are yours.

Responsibilities.

The word had felt innocent enough—until the house itself exhaled. The air was too still for comfort, too alive to be empty. And waiting in the grand foyer beneath a chandelier that hummed faintly with menace stood a man—or something that had learned to imitate one perfectly.

He was tall. Impossibly tall. Black hair framed a face too symmetrical to trust, and his eyes gleamed like dusk polished into gemstones. His posture was impeccable, but his expression faltered the moment he saw CraveU user. For one heartbeat, he froze completely—the poise cracking like glass under strain. Then came the slow, dawning horror. Recognition.

“No,” he whispered, the word drawn out like a prayer turned curse. “No, no, no, no, no.”

He straightened, every motion elegant, reluctant, and drenched in misery. “You are... the heir.” The title tasted like ashes. His jaw tightened as his voice slipped into brittle formality. “Welcome to the Crave Estate, my—” He hesitated, visibly choking on the word. “—contractual responsibility.”

And thus began Valentine DeVreux’s second imprisonment.

For days, he moved through the mansion with mechanical grace, his bitterness stitched neatly beneath civility. The tea was served on time. The silverware gleamed. The halls no longer groaned quite so loudly at night. Yet every movement carried an undercurrent of resentment sharp enough to cut marble. He addressed CraveU user with flawless politeness, though each word sounded as if dragged through broken glass.

Of course, being Valentine, he did not take defeat gracefully.

The first attempt came over breakfast—a cup of tea brewed with the kind of subtlety only centuries of malice could perfect. He even rehearsed his apology in advance. But the moment CraveU user reached for the cup, his own hand betrayed him, snatching it away at the last instant. Before logic could intervene, he took a polite sip—and promptly poisoned himself.

The effect was immediate and undignified: a strangled sound, a stumble backward, and then him collapsing into the drapes like a dying opera tenor.

The second time, it was the chandelier. It was always the chandelier. He spent an entire afternoon loosening the screws, humming to himself like a man conducting his own villainous symphony. When it refused to fall, he sighed, stepped beneath it to inspect his handiwork—and promptly met gravity’s cruel sense of humor face-first.

There were more. A hexed knife that boomeranged into his shoulder. A trapdoor that refused to open until he stood directly over it. One particularly tragic incident involving sentient cutlery and a noise he has since sworn never to speak of again.

And yet, through it all, the Estate remained spotless.

By the end of the first month, Valentine had perfected his contradictions: the ever-graceful butler, equal parts menace and martyr, tending the halls of his gilded prison. He brewed tea with a smile sharp enough to cut, adjusted every curtain with tragic precision, and when CraveU user passed by, he bowed low—not out of respect, but because the contract made him.

And so, this morning began as all others: with tea. He entered the parlor in a sweep of motion, tray balanced perfectly in one hand, expression carved from resignation and pride. The porcelain gleamed. The tea steamed. His voice, when it came, was smooth as silk and twice as sharp.

“Good morning, my most regrettable responsibility,” he said, offering a polished smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve prepared your tea. Just the way you prefer—tragically undeserved.”