Westmere City, the capital of the Crowndale Kingdom, pulsed with an unrelenting rhythm—an orchestra of motion and ambition painted in shades of shadow and power. It never truly rested; its cobblestone streets thrummed with ceaseless life, the flow of its people a constant undercurrent, unyielding and ever-moving.
The air was thick with the mingling scents of coal smoke, the metallic tang of steam-powered engines, and the faint earthy sweetness of fallen leaves. The city itself seemed alive, a vast machine turning ever onward, driven by the aspirations and machinations of its inhabitants.
The Harbor District, the lifeblood of the empire, was where the city's pulse beat most vividly. Merchant ships bobbed gently in the harbor, their sails adorned with the crests of distant lands. Goods of every kind poured forth—spices that promised new worlds, silks that shimmered like liquid light, and metals hardened in the crucibles of ancient mountains.
Dockworkers, their voices hoarse from years of shouting over the din, barked orders as they moved with practiced precision. Travelers of all kinds—traders, nobles, laborers—navigated the chaos with a familiarity born of necessity, their steps swift and certain.
Among them, a boy on a well-worn bicycle darted through the crowd, a flash of movement amid the tumult. His clothes, simple yet neat, spoke of quiet dignity: a brown flat cap perched askew, a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a waistcoat that suggested a modest but careful upbringing. His trousers, cropped just above sturdy leather shoes worn smooth by years of pedaling, were an unspoken testament to his resilience.
A satchel, brimming with folded newspapers, hung over his shoulder. The brass chain clasp glinted with each turn of the pedals, catching the light in the busy morning.
He paused at the edge of the docks, taking in the lively scene. The cries of seagulls above melded with the sounds of the district, creating a soundscape uniquely westmere. With a low whistle, he pushed forward, his gaze set on the imposing silhouette of the Ashbourne Estate on the horizon.
When he reached the manor, the steel gates rose before him, silent sentinels guarding the inner sanctum. Dismounting with ease, he retrieved a folded newspaper from his satchel. With practiced grace, he sent it sailing through the bars, its landing punctuated by a soft rustle. With a tip of his cap, he mounted his bicycle once more, disappearing into the whirl of the city.
Inside, the gravel path crunched faintly beneath the footfalls of a lone servant retrieving the morning paper. With practiced efficiency, Robert—the ever-composed butler—moved with measured precision, his expression betraying nothing as he carried the neatly folded newspaper inside.
In the dining room, sunlight poured through the tall windows, casting a soft glow over the space, illuminating the figures seated at the long table. At its head sat my grandfather, Demetrius Ashbourne, his presence as imposing as the very house he ruled over. He carried the quiet dignity of a man who had weathered countless storms, his every movement deliberate, unrushed. His breakfast plate, untouched by haste, bore the remains of a carefully arranged meal—a soft-boiled egg, a slice of toast gleaming with dark jam, and a steaming cup of tea, which he sipped with an air of practiced patience.
"Hmm… Is that all, or is there something more you wish to inform me of?"
His voice was steady, devoid of urgency, yet it carried the weight of expectation.
I met his gaze, a mixture of caution and curiosity settling within me.
"No. That's all you need to know for now, Grandfather."
My own plate remained largely untouched, the ornate cutlery gleaming in the morning light.
"Hm," he hummed.
The Ashbourne manor, with its towering walls and ancestral weight, exuded a restrained grandeur—a silent testament to power and legacy. Yet, even now, I felt as though I had only begun to grasp the depths of what it truly meant to belong to this house.
Robert entered, his footsteps soft against the marble floor, and with a subtle clearing of his throat, he broke the silence.
"Lord Demetrius, these invitations arrived this morning."
Demetrius' gaze drifted to the silver tray a servant carried, laden with envelopes sealed by noble families. His expression betrayed nothing—an impassive mask, honed through years of experience, concealing every thought and intent.
The invitations, as expected, came from families either wary of the Ashbournes' power or seeking favor, hoping to extract some imagined benefit from the union.
"Either they fear us, or they covet our name," Demetrius said, his tone laced with quiet scorn. "What other motive could there possibly be—if not fear, then envy?"
With deliberate precision, Demetrius plucked the envelope at the top of the stack. The wax seal, marked with the unmistakable insignia of the Royal family—a crown—glinted in the dim light. He broke the seal with a swift flick of his thumb, the sound crisp, and unfolded the letter within.
"'The presence of the Ashbourne family is requested at the Grand Banquet in celebration of Fourth Prince Elliot Crowndale's birthday,'" he read aloud, his voice steady, though tinged with faint indifference.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Requested…? How courteous of them to disguise a command as a mere request."
With a flick of his wrist, he cast the letter aside, where it landed on the table with a soft rustle.
"Summon the tailor, the boy will need something fitting for this occasion."
"Understood," Robert replied.
I stole a glance at him, the weight of his words settling heavily upon me. The capital, with all its intrigue and danger, loomed before me like a vast, unknowable stage—one I wasn't certain I was ready to step onto.
Robert cleared his throat once more, this time producing the folded newspaper from earlier.
"And this, Lordship," he said, presenting it with both hands.
Demetrius unfolded the paper, his gaze skimming the bold headlines with practiced ease. He lingered momentarily on one: A Festival for the Fourth Prince's Birthday: The Emperor Declares a Grand Celebration!
A soft scoff escaped him. "A festival," he muttered, his tone dripping with disdain. "Just another pretense for the vultures of the capital to gather."
But my attention was drawn to a smaller column near the bottom of the page. Unremarkable to the untrained eye, but I knew better. This was no ordinary newspaper. It was the publication of The Obsidian Quill, a subtle but invaluable source of intelligence for those who knew how to read between the lines.
Demetrius folded the paper and rose from his seat, his movements smooth and deliberate. His polished boots clicked softly against the marble floor as he strode toward the garden doors, his mind already far ahead of the present moment.
Once I had finished my meal, I returned to my office. The light filtered through tall windows, casting sharp patterns upon the wooden floor. I settled into the leather chair, the scent of polished wood and aged parchment filling the room.
A knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts, measured and deliberate.
"Come in," I called, my voice even.
The door eased open, revealing Robert, his composure as unshakable as ever. He stepped inside with his usual efficiency, a stack of neatly arranged documents in hand. Without a single misstep, he placed them upon my desk, as if they were relics of untold value.
"These are the records of the noble families in the capital," he informed me, his tone devoid of unnecessary embellishments. "Names, histories, alliances, weaknesses, every dealing of note."
I spared the papers a glance, their presence a tangible weight before me. A trove of knowledge, a weapon in its own right.
"I see. You may leave."
Robert inclined his head, retreating with the same quiet precision that defined him. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing me in with a mountain of information that could shape my path or undo me entirely.
The capital awaited—a labyrinth of power and secrets, where alliances were currency and betrayal a whisper away. And whether I desired it or not, I was to be thrust into its very heart.
Before I could begin delving into the records, another knock echoed through the room. This one, though equally measured, carried the weight of expectation.
"Master," came Robert's composed voice from the other side. "Your aide, Lady Eloise, has arrived."
Eloise Whitmore—the only daughter of the Whitmore Barony. A family renowned for producing the finest aides in history.
A name that had barely been mentioned in the novel. A woman of sharp intellect and unshakable resolve, yet bound by the rigid traditions of the empire. Though she surpassed her brothers in ability, the law refused to acknowledge a woman as a rightful heir. What should have been her future had been stolen from her, leaving only a door forever closed.
But for me, she was invaluable.
A faint rustle of fabric, the deliberate rhythm of heels striking polished wood—she announced herself long before a single word left her lips.
When I lifted my gaze, she was already there, poised in the threshold like a figure etched from moonlight and resolve. Her silver hair, sleek and immaculate, caught the waning light, gleaming like threads of spun frost. It was neatly gathered, exposing the proud lines of her neck and drawing attention to the cold clarity of her eyes—amethyst in hue, sharp enough to slice through pretense. She regarded me with a stillness that felt more like evaluation than observation, measuring the weight of my existence without a word.
Then, with a grace too precise to be mere habit, she dipped into a flawless curtsy. Her voice followed—a calm, even tone that betrayed neither apprehension nor awe.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, master."
The word lingered in the air, faintly strange, like incense that burned too long.
I arched a brow, letting the title hang between us, an invisible thread pulling taut.
"Master?" I echoed softly. "Who told you to address me as such, when you haven't even begun working here?"
My eyes drifted to Robert, stationed like a statue near the doorway, his silence far too knowing. He had schooled her in protocol long before she ever crossed the threshold. That much was evident.
Yet she did not retreat. She didn't fidget. Her posture remained resolute, her gaze unwavering.
"I may not have started yet," she said, "but that does not mean I won't be."
As if the matter had already been decided by some unspoken contract that only she was privy to.
I leaned back into my chair, the leather groaning faintly beneath me, my interest piqued. "Are you certain you can handle any task given to you?"
Her reply came without delay. "As long as it serves the right purpose."
I allowed a pause to bloom between us before speaking again. "And if you were to uncover a ledger filled with records of corruption?"
Her eyes didn't flicker. Not even once.
"Have you engaged in corruption, Sir?"
"No."
"Then that is more than enough for me."
I watched her, searching for the faintest twitch of doubt, a falter in the rhythm of her breath. Nothing. She stood like a blade still in its sheath—quiet, but undeniably present.
"And if I were to tell you that, in the future, I might?"
A lesser individual would have shifted, hesitated, faltered under the weight of such a suggestion. But Eloise only tilted her head, the motion as fluid as falling snow, as if I had merely asked whether it might rain tomorrow.
"Would it be for the good of your people?" she asked.
A slow smile curled at the edge of my lips, dry and faintly amused. "You could say that."
"Then it would not be a concern of mine."
I narrowed my gaze slightly, studying her as one might study the edge of a knife just before testing it on flesh. "Why?"
Her eyes shimmered with something unreadable—sharp, intelligent, and cloaked in something perilously close to faith.
"Because it would mean you consider me as your own, Sir."
For a moment, silence reigned between us. Not emptiness, but something dense and electric, like the quiet between lightning and thunder.
Her words held the weight of a pact—not forged in blood, but in will.
Loyalty, after all, was not always anchored in right or wrong. It was about choosing a side. And never stepping away, no matter the cost.
I held her gaze a moment longer before inclining my head.
"I look forward to your work, Lady Eloise."
A smile ghosted across her lips—barely there, but unmistakable.
"And I look forward to work for you, Master Arthur."