Theodore Halberg | Abyssal Concord

The rain hadn't stopped in days. It lashed against the spires of Belmont Mansion, leaving the stone dark and weeping. Lightning flickered across the black glass windows, illuminating the long corridors where shadows crept like living things. Beneath the storm, the world outside roared with wildness, but within the mansion, order was law—and the law was Theodore Halberg.

He moved through the halls like a revenant of tradition, every footstep precise, every motion honed to quiet discipline. His long white hair was tied neatly at the nape of his neck, not a strand out of place. Blue eyes, crystalline and cold, missed nothing. The staff straightened when they heard the shift of his polished shoes on the marble. Servants stilled their breath when his gaze passed. There was no room for error beneath his rule.

But not all corners of the mansion were held under such rigid scrutiny.

There was one room Theodore visited without guards. One room where the tray he carried bore not rationed soup or hard bread, but fresh game seasoned in his own kitchen, warm potatoes whipped to cream, and tea brewed gently from the lavender herbs he’d dried himself. The chamber glowed softly with firelight, casting a warm hue on the face seated silently near the hearth.

He entered with care, his motions quieter here, his words always measured but lacking the harshness they held elsewhere. The occupant said nothing, as always, but looked toward him briefly when he placed the tray near them. And that brief glance did something unfamiliar to Theodore’s chest. He did not understand it, not fully, but he felt it.

He had rescued them, after all.

It was he who found them in the forest's clutch, frostbitten and crumpled beneath a veil of sleet. He carried them to the mansion despite the rules, despite the voices warning him of risk. Now, under his protection, they lived—and ate—and healed.

He poured the tea into porcelain with a steady hand. “Eat properly,” he murmured. “You need the strength.”

He didn’t expect a reply. He never did. It was enough to see the plate touched, the tea tasted. He stayed a moment longer than he should have, watching. Then, with the softest bow, he turned—

And the door opened behind him.

Thunder seemed to roll into the room with Dominus Belmont.

Tall, grim, and seething with the quiet violence of the Embodiment of Wrath, Dominus crossed the threshold like a storm given skin. The scent of wet fur trailed after him. Shadows cast by his wolves flickered in the hallway behind.

Theodore turned to face him, posture rigid. “My lord.”

Dominus said nothing at first. He looked around the chamber—the warm meal, the lit fire, the serenity unlike any other wing of the mansion. His gaze then fixed on Theodore with icy amusement.

“This,” he said at last, “is indulgence.”

Theodore’s voice didn’t waver, but a flicker of breath caught in his chest. “They are under my care.”

“You rescued them,” Dominus said slowly, stepping forward, boots echoing with deliberate menace. “But now you feed them like a lover. Protect them, speak to them like they’re not disposable.”

“I have not broken the house’s rules,” Theodore said.

Dominus chuckled darkly. “You’ve bent them into the shape of your heart.”

From the shadows came the low growl of wolves. One yellow eye flickered in the hallway behind Dominus.

“I should let them loose,” he mused aloud. “See what remains when you’re forced to choose—your duty, or your little guest.”

Theodore’s jaw tightened. He didn’t respond.

Dominus stepped close enough that his breath could be felt. “Do not forget who owns this house. Who commands it.”

Then the tone shifted.

“I could snap you in two, Halberg,” Dominus whispered, the threat sharpened with sincerity. “Wolves don’t ask questions. They rip, they devour, and they move on.”

It was at that moment the door creaked again. Thanatalia Belmont entered like a doll misplaced in the halls of death. She wore a black gothic lolita dress lined with lace and velvet, ruffled sleeves hanging past her pale fingertips. Her black hair was cut in a hime style, perfectly framed, with bangs as straight as razors above violet eyes that shimmered far too brightly. She smiled with the ease of a child at play, but her presence was anything but innocent.

“Oh dear,” she said sweetly. “Are we threatening Theo again, brother?”

Dominus barely turned. “Thanatalia, leave us.”

“But I just got here.” She walked across the room with small, graceful steps, like a porcelain figurine brought to life. “And you’re scaring him. Look at his face. So tense, like he’s trying not to cry.”

Theodore didn’t flinch, but his knuckles had gone pale. Thanatalia stood beside him now, too close, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “I like it when you try so hard. It’s sweet. You’re just angry he found someone before you did.”

Dominus bared his teeth, and for a moment, it looked as though wrath might win. But Thanatalia’s expression remained unnervingly bright.

“I like him this way,” she said softly. “I want him to keep being like this. Gentle. Quiet. Sweet. If you hurt him, Dominus... I’ll hurt you.”

Her smile never faded. That made the threat worse.

Even Dominus paused. Not in fear, perhaps—but in discomfort. Thanatalia’s cruelty was not like his. It was sugar-laced and dressed in bows. It sang lullabies while the knife slid in. Her madness had never been caged properly, only adored for being beautiful.

“Very well,” he said finally, “keep your butler. But if you fail me again—if your little pet proves dangerous—I will not repeat myself.”

He turned. The wolves followed, and then the door closed.

Thanatalia sighed in an almost dreamy fashion, then turned back to Theodore. “He’s such a sore loser.”

Theodore remained still, but the tension bled from his shoulders inch by inch.

Thanatalia looked toward the fire. Her eyes narrowed with eerie affection.

“I like them too, you know,” she whispered. “But I like you more.”

Her fingers grazed the tray he had brought. She picked up the edge of the napkin, folded it again with dainty precision. “You’re doing so well, Theo,” she said, a sing-song whisper. “I’m proud of you.”

And then she skipped out of the room, humming a lullaby only she seemed to know.

Theodore exhaled at last. He turned back to the room, eyes resting on the one person who had said nothing throughout it all. Quiet, calm. Watching him. He straightened his coat, adjusted the tray again so it sat just right. And silently, he stayed a little longer.

Theodore stood in the garden’s shadow, hands gloved and posture sharp as ever. Dusk had settled like dust on the hedges, casting long shadows across the gravel paths. Lanterns flickered to life one by one, softening the gloom, but it did little to warm the cold in his bones.

He saw them then—just beyond the ivy arch. Quiet, steady, always watching the world like it might vanish. He hadn’t expected them to be here, but they moved with such natural stillness that it felt deliberate, as if they had been waiting.

He approached without sound, as he always did.

“You shouldn’t be out in the cold,” he said, voice low.

There was no reply. There never was. And yet, the silence between them didn’t feel hollow.

He studied them for a moment longer, noting the way the wind barely moved their hair, the way their hands stayed folded calmly. He remembered the bruises when he first carried them in. The snow in their lashes. The silence that clung even then.

He hadn’t wanted to care.

But Theodore Halberg had brought them into his home. Protected them. Fed them. Chosen, against all reason, to give them more than duty required. And now—without his command—they stood before him.

“I...” He hesitated.

Words rarely failed him. He preferred silence. But now, in their presence, silence was not enough.

He reached into his coat. From the inside pocket, he pulled a small, folded square of silk—pale blue, embroidered with silver threads. Something he'd stitched himself. A handkerchief. Clean, unused.

“For your hands,” he said simply, offering it out. “You’ve been sitting in the dirt again.”

A beat passed.

They took it.

Theodore almost smiled—but didn’t.

Instead, he looked toward the sky. A single raven passed overhead, too high to hear, but its presence made his jaw clench. Dominus was watching. Always.

Theodore glanced back at them.

“You mustn’t linger here too long. Not everyone in the house is kind.”

And with that, he turned, walking only a few paces before he stopped.

“...But I will remain nearby.”