[Current Balance: £709,747,891 3s. 6d.]
---
An hour had passed since the somber dinner. The great hall of Kenway Keep was quiet now, the remnants of the meal cleared away, the family having retreated to their private chambers to process the difficult emotions of the evening.
Alaric, however, was not in his room. He was in his private office, a sanctuary of polished dark wood and quiet luxury. It was a larger space than his office in Bristol had been, the furniture more opulent, it spoke to the family's now astronomical wealth. A fire crackled merrily in the grand marble fireplace, casting a warm, flickering glow on the towering bookshelves and the plush leather of the wingback chairs.
He sat behind his massive desk, a single lit cigar resting in an ashtray, its fragrant smoke curling lazily towards the high, vaulted ceiling. He stared into the flames, his thoughts a turbulent sea. The plea in his aunt's eyes haunted him.
The heavy oak door to the office opened silently, and Linette Kenway stepped inside. She had clearly been crying; her eyes were red-rimmed, but her posture was straight, her expression a mixture of maternal grief and unyielding resolve.
"Alaric," she said, her voice soft but firm. She walked across the thick Persian rug and sat in one of the chairs opposite his desk, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
Alaric took a slow drag from his cigar, his gaze shifting from the fire to his aunt. "Aunt Linette," he greeted quietly.
"I know you are busy," she began, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts to control it. "I know you have the weight of this entire… enterprise… on your shoulders. But Edward… he is my son. Your cousin."
Alaric sighed, the smoke escaping his lips in a long, weary plume. "I know, Auntie. I know."
"Do you?" she pressed, her voice gaining a sharp edge of desperation. "He is out there, Alaric, living a life of danger and squalor, chasing a fool's dream of fortune. And for what? Pride? He has a home here. He has a family who loves him." Her composure began to crack. "'Laric, my nephew... what about Caroline? And little Jenny? How many years has it been since Edward and Caroline have even seen each other? Does he even know he has a daughter!?"
The last question was a raw, heartbroken cry that seemed to hang in the air between them. It was the last straw. Alaric's own carefully constructed emotional defenses crumbled under the weight of her grief. He stubbed out his cigar, the last of his peace shattered.
He let out a long, heavy sigh. "Alright, Aunt Linette," he said, his voice filled with a weary resignation. "I'll try. I'll go find him. I'll talk to him." He met her tear-filled gaze, his own eyes holding a deep, profound sadness. "But I can't promise anything. I can't force him to come home. That has to be his choice."
'Haaaa… damn it.'
---
At that very moment, miles away on the busy evening dock of Philadelphia, a lone figure stepped off the gangplank of a newly arrived brigantine from the south.
He was a striking man, his presence was an immediate, exotic contrast to the predominantly English and German settlers of the city. His head was clean-shaven, his skin was a warm, sun-kissed caramel. He wore the flowing, practical garments of an Ottoman traveler, a simple but fine red sash wrapped around his waist.
He was not a white man, nor was he African. He was something else entirely, a man from a distant land. He paused at the foot of the gangplank, his sharp, intelligent eyes taking in the sights and sounds of the new city, a city he had heard much about in his travels.
'So this is where they are…' he thought, a slow, knowing smile touching his lips.
---
On the other side of the harbor, a different kind of vessel, a sleek, fast schooner, had just tied up at the pier. A woman disembarked, moving with a quiet, predatory grace that made her stand out from the crowd.
Her hair was a cascade of dark curls, her eyes a startling, piercing green. She wore dark, practical traveling clothes, but a tight, crimson corset added a splash of dangerous color, and a black cloak was draped over her shoulders. She paid the captain her fare, her movements economical and precise, then melted into the bustling dockside crowd, her gaze sweeping over the city, searching. She had followed intel from Boston, whispers of a certain powerful family making a new home here.
---
Within the opulent, candlelit walls of Kensington Palace in London, the night was far from over. King George I sat at the head of a long council table, his face a mask of bored impatience. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax and the low murmur of his ministers and advisors, their reports on colonial affairs a tedious drone in his ears.
"And the southern colonies, Your Highness," a portly lord was saying, "report a successful tobacco harvest. Profits are up three percent from the previous year."
"Excellent," the King grunted, his German accent thick. "And New England?"
"Stable, Your Highness," another minister replied. "The usual grumblings about taxes, but nothing of consequence. The new governor reports all is in order."
King George's fingers drummed a slow, irritated rhythm on the polished table. He cared little for the minutiae of colonial agriculture. His mind was on a more pressing, more infuriating matter. "And what of William Penn?" he demanded, his gaze sweeping over the room. "Is the old Quaker still throwing his tantrums? Still crying about his broken deal with the late Queen?"
One of his men, a high-ranking Templar whose face was a mask of polite deference, stepped forward. "Sire Penn has been… remarkably quiet, Your Highness. Our agents in Pennsylvania report no signs of resistance, no further seditious writings. It seems he has accepted the new reality."
A smug, satisfied smirk touched the King's lips. "Good," he said, his voice laced with contempt. "He should know his place."
He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "And what of the man, Alaric Jonathan Kenway? The one who authored that treasonous letter in Bristol?" The bounty had been issued weeks ago, the news spreading through every port and tavern in the empire. "We have placed five hundred thousand pounds on his head. Is there still no information?"
The Templar shook his head, his expression grim. "Unfortunately not, Your Highness. He seems to have vanished. Our spies report that the Celestial products, however, have not. They are appearing not just in London, but in Portugal, the Papal States… everywhere. And they pay no tax to the Crown."
The King's fist slammed down on the table, making the silver candlesticks jump. "And you cannot find the source!?" he roared, his face turning a blotchy red. "For months, this phantom merchant has been making a mockery of our trade laws, and you fools can find nothing! Every time we get a lead, it vanishes! The sellers change, the routes shift! Are you all incompetent!?"
He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to regain control. He glared around the room at the silent, intimidated faces of his council. "And the Shadow Raven?" he snarled. "What of him? The Mediterranean powers have gifted us a fortune in gold and resources to hunt this one assassin, and what have we to show for it? Nothing! Months of failure! Do you think they will simply forget this debt? They will demand repayment, with interest! They will see us as weak, and that weakness will invite war!"
His voice rose to a furious shout. "We already have Bristol defying us, cozying up to the French! And you sit here, telling me of tobacco harvests!? We are the strongest kingdom in the world, and we cannot even manage our own affairs!?"
He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated rage.
"ARE YOU ALL SO UTTERLY, HOPELESSLY INCOMPETENT!?"
---
The same night, the weight of his promise to Linette still heavy on his mind, Alaric stood with Kassandra on the balcony of their bedroom.
A pale, waxing crescent moon hung in the inky black sky, a silver sliver against an endless expanse of stars. The air was cold and still.
He hugged her from behind, his arms wrapping around her, his palms resting gently on the slight, firm curve of her belly. He could feel the faint, steady warmth of the new life growing within her, a tiny, miraculous anchor in his chaotic world. He was excited, and terrified, to be a father. He knew, with an almost comical certainty, that he would spoil their child rotten.
"Agápi mou, I can feel a war brewing," Kassandra murmured, her voice a soft whisper as she gazed up at the moon.
She leaned her head back against his shoulder, a small, contented smile on her lips, not for the impending conflict, but for the simple, profound comfort of his touch. "How are you going to play this out?"
Alaric didn't reply immediately. He just held her, closing his eyes, savoring the quiet moment, the feel of her in his arms, the silent promise of their child.
"I mean," Kassandra continued, her voice still a low murmur, "you're so strong, you could probably just defeat their armies all by yourself." It wasn't a challenge, just a simple statement of fact, a curious probe into his thoughts.
"...Yeah, I could do that," Alaric finally replied, his chin resting on her trapezius, his breath warm against her skin. "But it wouldn't be a real war. It would just be a massacre committed by one man." He sighed, the sound a quiet cloud in the cold air. "Instead of earning respect for the kingdom we will build, they'll just fear me." He paused. "The moment they get news of me appearing on the other side of the world, they will begin to pester this place. It would just be… troublesome."
"Can't you teleport?"
"Oh? You know that word?" Alaric's brows rose in amusement. "I get surprised by the words you all use nowadays."
"...We get that from you," Kassandra stated plainly, a hint of laughter in her voice.
"Heh, I guess you do," he chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "Even if I can teleport, I want our kingdom to be feared and respected for having an exceptional army and naval force, a flourishing economy where people can live without trampling on others, where the leaders and the justice system are competent and honest. A nation built on strength and principle, not just the power of one man."
"..."
Kassandra was silent for a long moment, her gaze still fixed on the distant moon.
"I must admit," she said finally, her voice filled with a quiet wonder, "I have never seen a man like you in my entire life."
"...I don't know if that's a compliment or-" Alaric began, a sheepish smile touching his lips, but she cut him off.
"Maláka, of course it's a compliment!"
"Oh... hehehe."
---
Hours later, the Kenway Keep was silent, its inhabitants lost in sleep. The moon had climbed higher, casting long, stark shadows across the sprawling, snow-dusted grounds. It was eleven in the evening, and the only sounds were the whisper of the wind and the distant cry of an owl.
But the estate was not unguarded.
Two figures, cloaked in darkness, crept through the woods at the edge of the property line. They moved with a practiced stealth, their feet making no sound on the frozen earth.
"Alright," one of them whispered, his voice a tense hiss. "What's your plan?"
"Ah damn, security's all over the place," the other muttered, peering through the trees at the distant, torchlit walls of the mansion. Even from here, they could see the dark shapes of guards patrolling the ramparts, their movements disciplined and alert.
"Yes. So what's the plan?" the first repeated impatiently.
"Will you be silent? I can see a dark pathway over there," the second whispered, pointing towards a less-trafficked service road. "I'll throw a rock opposite our direction, distract the guard for a second."
"Okay."
"In three... two... one..."
He picked up a small, sharp stone and, with a flick of his wrist, sent it sailing through the air.
Clack... clatter-clack.
The sound of the stone hitting the paved path on the far side of the road was sharp and distinct in the quiet night.
"Huh?" A lone guard, stationed near a small gate, turned his head towards the sound. "Now-now... what do we have here?"
"Now!" the second intruder hissed.
With the signal, both figures bolted from the cover of the trees, sprinting across the open ground towards the dark pathway, their feet pounding on the frozen dirt.
They thought they were unseen.
"…"
They were wrong.
The guard who had turned towards the rock didn't even look back at them. He simply raised a small whistle to his lips.
Before the first shrill note could even fade, the night erupted.
"HALT!"
The single word, shouted with the force of a thunderclap, came from everywhere at once. Figures seemed to materialize from the very shadows. Guards dropped from the trees above, rose from hidden positions in the ditches, and stepped out from behind the stone pillars of the gate.
In an instant, the two intruders were surrounded, the sharp, cold points of two dozen swords aimed directly at their throats. They had been seen before they had even thrown the rock.
"Haaaa... damn it."
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