Chapter Text
London had never seemed so small to Eren Yeager. The 1814 season had commenced under a scorching sun, yet nothing burned with as much intensity as the expectations placed upon the second son of the prestigious Yeager family. If the London aristocracy were a beehive, Eren was the Queen—or rather, the Diamond.
Queen Charlotte’s unprecedented decision to bestow such a title upon a gentleman was a scandal that lasted three days, until Eren appeared at the first court ball. With his impeccable poise, hair tied with a disheveled elegance, and green eyes that seemed to hold the fires of both creation and destruction, he silenced every critic.
Eren was not merely the handsomest man in Mayfair; he was the most dangerous to vulnerable hearts. He possessed the fatal combination of a vast fortune, a keen intellect, and that aura of mystery only artists possess. While other gentlemen his age were preoccupied with horse racing bets and exclusive clubs, Eren was often found in his studio, attempting to capture what he called "the invisible truth." He was the most coveted bachelor not only for his lineage but for the promise of adventure that radiated from his every gesture—a promise few traditional families were truly prepared to fulfill.
That morning, the drawing room of the Yeager residence was flooded with invitations, flowers, and scented letters of varying hues. Eren, reclining in a velvet armchair with an untouched cup of coffee, watched the commotion with a boredom bordering on melancholy. He felt like a prize horse being paraded at a fair, a "Perfect Gentleman" destined to decorate the parlors of others and secure advantageous matches. To the world, he was the pinnacle of society, London’s golden trophy; to himself, he was merely a man tired of social masks that had not even been donned for that night’s grand ball.
Meanwhile, at breakfast tables across the city, England’s most feared gossip sheet circulated from hand to hand.
"It is said that perfection is an unattainable state," Lady Whistledown wrote in her morning chronicles, "yet Mr. Eren Yeager seems determined to prove otherwise. He is the obsession of all Mayfair, the brilliance that outshines even the limelight. However, this author observes a restlessness in his eyes that no waltz seems to soothe. What does our Diamond truly seek? Perhaps someone who sees him not as a jewel, but as the man hiding behind such luster."
Eren rose and walked to the window, ignoring his mother’s animated remarks regarding the guest list for the Masquerade Ball. He felt the weight of the "perfect" title as if it were a suit of lead armor stealing his breath. The world around him felt like a well-executed painting, yet one without a soul, composed only of shades of gray and social conveniences. He craved something real, something that would make him lose control and forget the rules of etiquette that suffocated him. Little did he know that across the city, in a manor steeped in shadows, the only person capable of challenging his brilliance was merely waiting for nightfall.
***
While the bells of Mayfair heralded the ascent of Eren Yeager, Levi Ackerman’s memory receded to a rainy, silent night many years prior. Levi did not remember his mother’s face, only the warmth of an embrace that was torn from him far too soon. His grandmother, a woman of rough hands and weary eyes, had no choice but to leave him before the iron gates of the Earl’s estate. There were no long goodbyes; only a crumpled note and the promise that, behind those walls, he would have what she could never provide: a chance to survive.
The Earl knew exactly who the boy with the steel-gray eyes and solemn expression was as he stared back at him in the entrance hall.
Levi was the fruit of a sin that the nobility preferred to forget—an illegitimate son who carried the blood of a lord, but not his surname. In a rare moment of conscience—or perhaps cowardice in the face of his own guilt—the Earl decided to take him in. However, he never called him "son." To the world and the vast domestic staff, Levi was introduced as a "ward," an act of charity that justified his presence in the manor.
Levi’s childhood was a strange purgatory between two worlds. He received the education of a gentleman; he learned to read the classics, master Latin, and write with a calligraphy that would envy any diplomat. Yet, he never sat at the table with the Earl. Love was a currency that did not circulate for him. His father rarely visited the Mayfair residence, and on the few occasions he did, he could hardly hold the boy’s gaze, as if the mere sight of Levi were a mirror reflecting his own failures. Levi grew up surrounded by books but deprived of affection, learning early on that knowledge would be his only armor.
The fragile stability of his life crumbled definitively when the Earl decided to marry Mrs. Tybur. With her came new rules and a refined cruelty. His stepmother, immediately perceiving Levi’s unsettling resemblance to her husband and the threat his presence posed to her own daughters’ legitimacy, acted swiftly. After the Earl’s sudden death, the will—conveniently interpreted by the widow—made no mention of rights for the ward.
Overnight, the young man who read poetry in the library was shoved into the attic. Mrs. Tybur did not cast him out, for his penmanship and efficiency were far too useful, but she stripped him of his fine clothes and handed him a duster and floor wax. Levi became the house’s best-kept secret: a man with the mind of a lord and the hands of a servant. He accepted the burden with a frigid stoicism, cleaning the hearth's ashes while the city’s "Diamond," Eren Yeager, shone beneath the chandeliers. He was the coal that fed another’s fire, unaware that his own flame was about to be ignited by a pair of green eyes.
***
The sun had not yet conquered the London mist when Levi’s routine began. That morning, the air in the Tybur residence was thick with a feverish anxiety. To his stepmother, the Masquerade Ball at the Yeager estate was not merely a party; it was a hunting expedition. The target was Eren Yeager, the Diamond, and the prize was the fortune the late Earl had lacked the prudence to preserve.
Levi did not have a moment's rest. His hands, which once turned the pages of classics in the library, were now plunged into soapy water and polish. He spent the morning on his knees, cleaning his stepmother’s satin shoes until the sheen of the fabric reflected the exhaustion in his own eyes. Mrs. Tybur watched him from the heights of her armchair, correcting his every move with a frigid gaze, treating her own husband's son like an inconvenient piece of furniture.
Upstairs, chaos reigned in the daughters' chambers. Levi was summoned for the final details, for he possessed a manual dexterity and an aesthetic sense that the common maids lacked. It was he who adjusted the lace on the young Tybur women’s excessively ornate gowns, tightening their corsets with a force that silenced their complaints. With stoic patience, he arranged their elaborate hairstyles, pinning pearls and silk flowers into curls that seemed altogether too artificial. To Levi, it was a bitter irony: he was using his talent to transform the women who enslaved him into "nobles" worthy of a Yeager.
As Levi descended to the kitchen to fetch more hot water, he encountered Hange. Unlike the others, Hange truly saw him. She had been part of the domestic staff for years and was one of the few to witness little Levi’s arrival at the gate all those years ago.
"It is an injustice that cries out to the heavens, Levi," Hange whispered, pulling him into a dark corner while handing him a clean cloth. "Look at you. You have the bearing of an earl, the education of a prince, and the legitimate blood of that lineage, no matter how hard they try to hide it. And now here you are, dirtying your knees so those two—who haven't half your grace—can try to hook Mr. Yeager."
Levi merely shook his head, his face remaining a mask of indifference, though his jaw was set tight.
"Blood does not matter if there is no paper to prove it, Hange. To the world, I am what I clean. They are the ones who shine."
Hange gripped his shoulder firmly, her eyes sparkling with an idea she did not yet dare to fully voice.
"The world is often mistaken, Levi. And Lady Whistledown would dearly love to know that the greatest jewel in this city is not in a ballroom, but hidden behind an apron stained with soot."
***
The sound of Mrs. Tybur’s carriage wheels echoed over the cobblestones, fading until it vanished into the silence of the London night. Levi let out a sigh of exhaustion, leaning his forehead against the cold wood of the front door.
Finally, silence. His muscles throbbed, and his hands were raw from the strain of an entire day of servitude. All he desired was to climb to his frigid attic, eat the meager scraps that remained, and lose himself in the crumpled piece of newspaper he had rescued from the hearth earlier. There, by the light of a single candle, he intended to reread Lady Whistledown’s words regarding this Eren Yeager. The "Diamond of Mayfair," a man who sought the soul behind the arts, was a mythological figure to Levi—the exact opposite of his own existence, surrounded by soot and the cold calculations of survival. Levi wanted only the luxury of closing his eyes and imagining, for a moment, what it would be like to have aesthetic concerns instead of merely the fear of hunger.
However, before he could take the first step toward the stairs, a hand pulled his arm with enthusiastic force. It was Hange. Her eyes sparkled behind her spectacles, a prelude to the chaos Levi knew all too well. Without explanation, she dragged him toward the late Earl’s old bedchamber, a wing of the house Mrs. Tybur avoided out of pure disdain.
"Hange, what are you doing? If we are caught here..." he began, his voice hoarse with fatigue.
"No one will catch us. They are all far too busy ensuring Mr. Yeager looks at that shrew’s daughters," she interrupted, pushing open the heavy door that smelled of cedar and still time. Hange walked to a hidden oak chest and, with a sharp snap, revealed its contents.
Levi watched, stunned, as she rifled through luxury garments with manic energy. She held up a shirt of the finest linen and a midnight-blue velvet tailcoat, whose silver embroidery shimmered even in the gloom.
"Levi, I had an idea while watching those three preen themselves all day," Hange began, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "You have spent your life studying the books in this room; you speak like a lord and are more worthy of this name than any Tybur. Why should they pursue the Yeager fortune while you stay here cleaning up after them? Tonight, you are going into that ball."
"Have you gone mad?" Levi’s whisper was sharp. "I am the servant of this house. If I set foot in that manor, I will be recognized. I am no lord, Hange. I am the man who cleans their ashes."
Hange let out a low laugh and held a silver mask before his face.
"That is where you are mistaken. It is a masquerade, Levi! Behind this silver, you are not the servant. You are the mystery. Even your stepmother would not recognize you, for she has never bothered to truly look at you. Go and show Mayfair what a true gentleman looks like. Go see this Eren Yeager you have read so much about."
Levi looked at the mask, feeling the conflict between his survival instinct and a new, dangerous hunger to be seen. The abyss between the forgotten son of an Earl and Whistledown’s "Perfect Gentleman" seemed, for the first time, bridgeable.
"One night," he murmured, the weight of the velvet already feeling right in his hands. "Only until midnight."
With Hange’s help, he shed his livery. When he donned the coat and silk, his posture shifted instantly; the educated ward emerged from the shadows of the attic. As he adjusted the cold metal of the mask against his skin, Levi’s heart took on a new rhythm. He was no longer a prisoner of the Tybur residence; he was an enigma about to collide with the world of Eren Yeager.
***
The Yeager mansion loomed over Mayfair like a palace of light, defying the gloom of the London night. Luxury carriages formed an endless queue, and the sound of the orchestra leaked through open windows, mingling with the hum of the elite. Levi, stepping down from a carriage rented by Hange with the servants' last savings, felt his heart hammering against his ribs. The journey had been short; the physical distance between the Yeagers' opulence and the shadows of the Tybur house was a mere few streets, yet to Levi, it felt like a crossing between two continents.
At the foot of the marble staircase, he took a deep breath, adjusting his silver mask. He mentally replayed Hange’s frantic instructions: "You must leave before the ball ends. I will be waiting with the carriage around the corner, exactly where I dropped you. If your stepmother returns home and finds your room empty, we are lost." The warning echoed like a ticking clock in his mind. He had little time to be a free man.
With an elegance that seemed awakened from a long slumber, Levi ascended the steps. Upon reaching the top, he handed the invitation with the Yeager family wax seal to the liveried footman. The man looked at the paper, then at Levi’s impeccable attire and the mask that lent him an air of foreign nobility. Without question, the footman announced:
"The Silver Gentleman!"
The doors swung open, and Levi stepped inside.
For a moment, he stood paralyzed. He had seen luxury before, but nothing compared to the Yeager residence. The ceiling was adorned with frescoes that seemed to come alive under the glow of a thousand candles; the columns were of a marble so white it dazzled the eyes, and the scent of gardenias and expensive perfumes filled the air. It was the world he knew only through the cleaning of its ruins, but there, in that instant, the world was intact and vibrant. He admired every architectural detail with the gaze of one who knew the theory of books but never the practice of touch.
Levi moved through the ballroom, trying not to betray his awe. He observed the guests: the jewels, the affected laughter, the ceaseless dance of power. He saw, from a distance, the silhouette of his stepmother and her daughters, but he passed them like a ghost. They were far too busy assessing the value of others' necklaces to notice the "servant" who now exuded more authority than any lord in the room.
Meanwhile, across the ballroom, Eren Yeager felt his usual boredom weigh upon his shoulders. As the "Diamond," he knew every face in that claustrophobic society. He could identify a lord by the way he held a glass and a lady by the tilt of her fan. But when the "Silver Gentleman" crossed the room, Eren stopped hearing the music.
He watched the stranger with the curiosity that had always been his trademark. Eren was an artist, someone obsessed with authenticity, and that man in midnight-blue did not ring true to his memory. Even beneath the silver mask, there was not a gesture, a bearing, or a tilt of the head that Eren could associate with any family that frequented the London seasons. He had never seen him on rides through Hyde Park, never encountered him in gentlemen's clubs, nor at any other ball.
Eren felt that this man was a question mark in a sea of obvious answers. Without a thought for the rules of etiquette or the guests clamoring for his attention, Eren began to walk toward the art gallery, where the stranger had taken refuge. He needed to discover if this mystery had a voice, or if it was merely another mirage created by the monotony of the night.
Levi, feeling the weight of a gaze searching for him with insistence, turned slightly, meeting Eren’s green eyes as they drew near.
***
Eren approached in silence, stopping only a few paces away. He did not use the pompous tone he usually reserved for the court. Instead, he fixed his gaze upon the same painting the stranger was analyzing: a melancholy landscape of a valley beneath the mist.
"It is an unusual technique, do you not think?" Eren began, his voice soft yet carrying the natural authority of one who had lived among canvases and brushes. "The artist used short brushstrokes to give the impression that the mist is moving, but if you look closely at the shadows, you will realize that nothing there is truly what it seems."
Levi did not move immediately. He did not know that this man was his host, the legendary Eren Yeager he had heard so much about. To him, he was merely a nobleman in a golden mask with a restless presence. But the knowledge Levi had cultivated in secret within the Earl’s library, during nights when he should have been sleeping, spoke louder than his fear of being discovered.
"The use of chiaroscuro is deliberate," Levi replied, his voice firm and restrained, without averting his eyes from the canvas. "The artist does not want us to see the mist. He wants us to feel the isolation of those within it. The shadows are not an aesthetic device; they are the main subject. Everything solid there is being consumed by what is invisible."
Eren finally shifted his gaze from the painting to the man beside him. A brow arched beneath his mask. In years of frequenting London’s parlors, he had rarely heard anyone speak of art with such technical precision and, simultaneously, such soul. Most nobles merely remarked that the colors were "pleasant."
"A man who understands shadows in a ballroom made to shine," Eren commented, taking a step closer, fascinated by how Levi’s silver mask caught the candlelight. "That is almost a sacrilege in Mayfair. Most people here would only say that the colors match the ladies' silks."
Levi finally turned his head, meeting the stranger’s green eyes. He felt a strange tremor. Levi had never seen Eren up close, only imagining him as the porcelain doll described by the papers, but the man before him radiated an electric energy and a genuine curiosity that did not seem to fit the futility of the elite.
"Perhaps people feel safer speaking of silks than admitting they identify with the darkness of a canvas," Levi retorted, keeping his guard up.
Eren smiled. It was the smile of someone who had just found a hidden treasure in a heap of trinkets. He, who knew every face, lineage, and sin in London, felt completely ignorant before this man.
"You speak like someone who has spent much time observing from afar," Eren said, leaning slightly toward Levi. "It is a pleasure to find someone who is not trying to impress me with family trees or titles. I have never seen you around, and I assure you, I would remember someone with your... depth. From where do you hail, silver stranger?"
"From a place where silence is the rule, not the exception," Levi replied, suddenly remembering the cold walls of his attic and Hange’s ticking clock in his mind. "And where paintings are the only window to the world, never the world itself."
Eren felt a shiver. It was not just interest; it was an intellectual attraction he had never experienced. He wanted to know who this man was—this man who seemed to know so much about pain and art, yet possessed not a trace of the nobility’s arrogance.
***
Eren could not look away. Like an artist before a canvas that promises to be his masterpiece, he began to analyze the silver stranger with an almost invasive intensity. He noted the midnight-blue velvet coat; though the cut was impeccable, there was something in the fabric that betrayed the passage of time—a patina of something kept in storage for decades.
His eyes drifted down to Levi’s hands, covered by white kidskin gloves. Levi silently thanked Hange; without them, the skin calloused by hard labor would have surrendered his ruse. Through the silver mask, Levi’s steel-blue gaze shone with sharp intelligence, but also with a caution Eren had never witnessed in the nobility.
Levi felt a cold sweat beneath his shirt. The fear of being unmasked was suffocating. He will notice, he thought. He will see I am an impostor and cast me out with a shout. But when the man introduced himself, Levi’s dread gave way to a shock of fascination.
"I am Eren Yeager," the host said, with an intrigued smile. "And this ball is being held in my name."
Levi froze. The "Diamond" he had read about in scraps of newspaper was there, in the flesh. Eren, noticing that the stranger remained motionless and sought no one’s company, arched a brow.
"You have been here for some time and have hardly stepped out from the shadows of this gallery," Eren remarked, crossing his arms with natural elegance. "Do you not intend to invite any of the ladies to dance? The debutantes are eager for a new face, especially one so... enigmatic."
Levi cast his gaze toward the ballroom, where the elite twirled in vibrant colors. He thought of his stepmother’s daughters and the life of servitude that awaited him around the corner.
"I do not," Levi replied, his voice dry, trying to keep his guard up. "I am not much for dancing, Mr. Yeager. I grew up in the country, in a place very far and isolated from these ceremonies. My skills were not made for marble halls."
Eren studied him for a moment longer. The explanation of "the country" justified the lack of social grace, but there was something in Levi’s physiognomy and voice that did not sound like a simple countryman, nor a common noble.
"The country..." Eren murmured, stepping to the side to appreciate the view alongside Levi. "That explains why you do not look like a stuffed peacock like the others. But I confess, your presence here is the only thing that has piqued my interest tonight. If you do not wish to dance, what brings you from so far to my ball?"
Levi felt his heart race. He was inches away from the most coveted man in London, lying about his origins while Hange’s clock was ticking.
***
Levi felt his throat go dry beneath the mask. Every word that left his mouth felt like a tightrope stretched over an abyss. He needed a story that would justify his presence without betraying his identity.
"I came to accompany my father on family business," Levi lied, his voice steadier than he had expected. "He is an Earl, an old acquaintance of your family, I believe. He was invited, but the journey left him exhausted. He asked me to attend the ball so as not to slight the Yeagers."
Levi prayed inwardly that this lie would hold. He knew his late father’s name still appeared on old invitation lists, and Hange had guaranteed that the invitation he used was authentic, though "forgotten" on Mrs. Tybur’s writing desk.
Eren grew pensive, his green eyes narrowing beneath the golden mask. He knew every title and every lineage, yet this man fit into no mental box he possessed. There was something raw and authentic about him that did not align with the story of a bored Earl’s son.
"An Earl..." Eren murmured, taking a step closer, invading Levi’s personal space in a way that made him tremble. "And what might your family name be? From which county do you hail?"
Levi’s heart stopped. Panic rose like a tide. He opened his mouth, but the words seemed to snag against his teeth. However, before the silence could become a confession of guilt, salvation arrived in the form of silk and floral perfume.
"Eren! There you are!" Eren’s mother appeared like a hurricane of elegance, firmly gripping her son’s arm. "Miss Miller is waiting for the second waltz, and you know perfectly well you cannot keep a Duke’s daughter waiting. Come along!"
"Mother, not now, I am in the middle of a conversation..." Eren tried to protest, but it was in vain.
"No conversations! The role of host is not an ornament," she dragged him toward the center of the ballroom, casting a curious but brief glance at the "silver stranger."
Levi released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He retreated into the shadow of a pillar, watching as Eren was led to the dance floor.
From the center of the room, Eren began to waltz. His movements were automatic, but his mind was miles away from Miss Miller. As he spun the young lady round and round, his green eyes never left Levi. He searched for him between the columns, through the crowd, as if afraid he might evaporate.
Eren was fascinated. He thought of those gloved hands that seemed too strong for a nobleman, the accent that tried to be polished but hid a rustic firmness, and those steel-blue eyes that looked at him with a mixture of defiance and fear.
An Earl’s son from the country? Eren thought, while smiling mechanically at his dance partner. No. There is something wrong with that story. He has the bearing of a prince, but the gaze of someone who has seen hell up close. And why did he seem so terrified when I asked his name?
It wasn't just curiosity. For the first time in his life as "London’s Diamond," Eren felt he wasn't looking at a reflection of himself in society’s mirror. He was looking at something real. And he did not intend to let that silver mystery escape without first stripping away his mask—both literally and figuratively.
Levi, realizing that Eren’s gaze was constant and intense, felt a shiver. It was not the look of someone who had accepted the lie, but of someone determined to uncover the truth.
***
Levi sensed the danger before he even saw it. Mrs. Tybur’s purple silk silhouette approached the gallery like an impending storm. If she took but a few more steps, the "Silver Gentleman" would be unmasked then and there, beneath the cruel light of the chandeliers, as the servant she so deeply despised.
Hange’s warning went off in his mind like an alarm. The carriage at the corner. Now.
Without a word of goodbye, Levi spun on his heels and dived into the crowd, moving with the silent agility of one who had spent a lifetime being invisible. Eren, however, did not intend to let him depart so easily. From the center of the room, he abandoned his dance partner and cut through the guests, his green eyes fixed on the silver mask disappearing through the terrace.
"Wait!" Eren called out, his firm voice rising above the music.
Levi flew down the marble steps into the dark garden, his heart hammering against his ribs. He could already hear the sound of Hange’s horses' hooves in the distance, but Eren was faster. The host reached him near the iron gate, where the shadows of the hedges were thickest.
"I do not even know your name!" Eren exclaimed, reaching out and grabbing Levi’s arm.
In a reflex of pure panic, Levi pulled his arm away with violent force, desperate to break free from the touch that could signify his ruin. There was a dry sound of fabric sliding. Levi felt the icy night air touch his bare skin, but he did not stop. He leaped past the gate and scrambled into the hired carriage, vanishing into the London darkness before Eren could take another step.
Eren stopped by the lamppost, breathless. In his palm remained only the white kidskin glove. He brought it close to the light, and his eyes narrowed as he saw, embroidered on the cuff in antique gold thread, the Tybur family crest.
"Mother!" Eren called, returning to the ballroom with an urgency that silenced the nearby guests. He held out the piece to the Yeager matriarch. "The Silver Gentleman is gone, but he left this. He claimed to be the son of an Earl... Do you recognize this crest?"
Mrs. Yeager adjusted her spectacles and turned pale as she touched the embroidery.
"It is the Tybur crest, Eren. But that is impossible... Earl Tybur died years ago and left no legitimate heirs. The bloodline ended with him."
Eren felt a shiver of excitement. If the Earl had no sons, who was this man who moved with the dignity of a king and the gaze of a prisoner?
Meanwhile, in the dark alley where the carriage had stopped, Levi stared at his bare right hand. Panic consumed him.
"He took the glove, Hange," Levi whispered, his voice trembling. "He has my father’s crest."
"He doesn't know who you are, Levi," Hange tried to soothe him, though she was equally pale. "To the world, you are just Ackerman, the maid’s son, the lad who scrubs the floors of the Tybur manor. No one links that name to the Earl’s crest."
Levi looked at his own wrist, where the mark of servitude and the blood of nobility hid beneath the same skin.
"He will link them," Levi murmured. "I saw his eyes. He will not rest until he discovers who dared to use a dead man’s name at his ball."
Eren, in the ballroom that now felt empty of meaning, tucked Levi’s glove close to his chest. He no longer saw the "Silver Gentleman," but an enigma he was determined to decipher, even if he had to search every house in London to find him.
***
The following day dawned to the sound of horses' hooves and the furious rustle of London's most feared gossip sheet. Lady Whistledown’s pamphlet circulated across every breakfast table, and Eren Yeager’s name sat at the very top of the page.
"This Author has never witnessed anything so scandalous and, I confess, fascinating. The Diamond of the Season, Mr. Eren Yeager, abandoned his dance partner mid-waltz to pursue a mysterious guest. Who was the 'Silver Gentleman' who stole Mayfair’s attention and our host’s sanity? Sources say the stranger vanished into the night, leaving Mr. Yeager with nothing but shadows and the look of one who has seen a ghost. London waits... and so do I."
At the Tybur residence, the atmosphere was the polar opposite of the previous night’s brilliance. Mrs. Tybur, embittered by the fact that her daughters had been ignored, poured her fury upon Levi.
"You are slow today, Ackerman!" she barked, kicking the bucket of soapy water Levi was using to scrub the hall floor. "Clean it all again. And then get to the stables; I want the carriage leather gleaming before noon. You are useless, exactly as your mother was."
Levi cleaned the floor in silence, his right hand aching from the exertion, his heart heavy with the loss of the glove. To her, he was an Ackerman—a tool—never the Tybur heir that his blood claimed him to be.
The sound of the front door knocker echoed through the house. Levi shrank into the shadows as the footman opened the door. To his horror, the voice that rang through the hall was deep and unmistakable.
"I should like to speak with Mrs. Tybur," said Eren Yeager, impeccable in his morning dress.
Levi’s stepmother changed her expression instantly, donning a false, fawning smile as she received the city's most illustrious guest. She led him to the drawing room, passing by Levi as if he were a mere piece of furniture.
"Mr. Yeager! What an unexpected honor," she said. "What brings the Diamond of London to our humble home?"
Eren wasted no time on pleasantries. He withdrew the white kidskin glove from his pocket and placed it upon the table, the gold crest shimmering in the daylight.
"I am looking for the owner of this glove. It bears the Tybur family crest. As you are the matriarch of this house, I imagined it might belong to a relative of yours who attended my ball last night."
Mrs. Tybur looked at the glove and, for a fleeting second, fear crossed her eyes, followed by a biting coldness. She knew that piece belonged to her late husband’s chest, which she kept under lock and key.
"I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Yeager," she said, her voice steady as ice. "But there is no living Tybur man. This crest is a dead relic. I know of no one who attended your ball wearing it. Surely it was an impostor or some thief attempting to pass himself off as a nobleman."
Eren narrowed his eyes. He could sense the lie in the air, but he had no proof. He rose, casting one final glance at the glove.
"I see. If that is the case, the security of London is indeed declining. Good day to you, madam."
As soon as the door closed behind Eren, Mrs. Tybur’s mask of courtesy fell. She marched into the hall, her eyes bloodshot with rage, and screamed Levi’s name.
"ACKERMAN! TO MY OFFICE. NOW!"
Levi entered the room, feeling as though the floor were about to vanish beneath him. She hurled the glove at his face.
"You dared?" she hissed. "You stole his clothes? You went to the Yeagers' ball to soil this family’s name with your miserable existence?"
"He was my father too," Levi said, his voice low but firm.
"He never acknowledged you!" she shrieked, delivering a slap that sent Levi’s face reeling to the side. "You are not a Tybur. You are a mistake. I suspected you were plotting something, but to humiliate me before Eren Yeager is the end. Take your rags and get out of this house. Now! You are cast out, and if I see your face in Mayfair again, I shall call the constabulary for theft."
Levi did not cry. He simply picked the glove up from the floor—the very one Eren had touched—and walked out into the rain that was beginning to fall, with nothing but the clothes on his back and the weight of a name he could not use.
***
Levi’s world collapsed in a matter of seconds. As he crossed the service gate of the Tybur manor under the cold rain, the sound of the door slamming behind him echoed like the verdict of a death sentence.
The panic was a suffocating wave. Without a letter of recommendation, he was a nobody. In the capital’s labor market, a servant without references was viewed as either a criminal or an incompetent. Levi knew that Mrs. Tybur would destroy his reputation in any house in Mayfair simply for sport. He had nothing: no roof, no food, and not even the name his father had denied him.
Hange, who had been watching everything hidden among the shadows of the side garden, rushed to meet him as soon as Eren Yeager’s carriage vanished around the corner. She pulled Levi beneath a canvas awning.
"Levi! Take this, quickly!" she whispered, thrusting a small velvet pouch into his hands. "It is all I could gather. It isn’t much, but it will keep you off the streets for a time. Thank God she didn't see me helping you, or I would be the next one thrown out on my ear."
"Hange, I cannot..." Levi began, his voice failing him.
"Take it and go!" she interrupted, her eyes filling with tears. "Leave London. Go to the countryside. Try to make a life on some farm, where no one knows your face or your past."
Levi gripped the bag of coins. He had never liked depending on anyone, but reality was cruel. With no other choice, he walked toward the carriage station. The idea of trying his luck in the country seemed the only way to finally bury the "Silver Gentleman" and the pain of being an unwanted secret.
Meanwhile, in the library of the Yeager mansion, Eren stood before the hearth, his eyes fixed on the flames. He had left the glove with Mrs. Tybur—a gesture he now recognized as a strategic error, yet necessary to observe her reaction.
He could not understand his own obsession. He was the Diamond of London. He had dozens of invitations to balls and dinners, all with the goal of making him choose a bride before the season's end. His mother had already compiled a list of ideal candidates: duchesses, heiresses of colonial fortunes, young women of impeccable lineages.
But none of them possessed the depth of that steel-blue gaze. None of them spoke of a painting's soul with such authority.
"Mrs. Tybur lied," Eren thought, his jaw set. "I saw the fear in her eyes when she saw the crest. She recognized that piece. That man was no mere stranger."
He knew he should be focused on choosing a wife to secure the family’s future, as duty demanded. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw the shimmer of the silver mask and felt the strength of that man who seemed to be fleeing his own destiny.
Eren’s curiosity, which had always been his most defining trait, now bordered on stubbornness. Why would an heir to a supposedly extinct house be hiding? Or worse... what if he wasn't an heir, but someone Mrs. Tybur was trying to erase from history?