The winter fog rolled thick across Montreal's southern port. Rusting cranes loomed above the docks like silent sentinels, their cables swaying in the night wind. Dozens of trucks were lined up, headlights off, their tarps concealing crates stamped with the Ashford Relief Foundation seal.
Sebastian's forces slipped through the shadows, faces covered with scarves, iron pipes and pistols glinting faintly. At their head, Sebastian himself moved with burning conviction, his voice low but steady.
"Tonight, we bleed the empire dry. When the people see we've taken their supplies, they'll know Ashford bleeds like any man."
The rebels surged forward.
But Arthur had been waiting.
The Cameras Roll
Atop a warehouse rooftop, Eva's drones buzzed silently, their cameras glowing faint green. Global media partners—paid discreetly by Ashford Finance—were already streaming the operation live, disguised as "independent journalists."
Candy leaned over the monitor, licking her lips. "Oh, this is gonna be rich."
On the screen, Sebastian's rebels began smashing open crates. But instead of weapons or luxury goods, they spilled out bags of rice, flour, and milk powder, stamped with Ashford's crest and the words:
For Montreal's Children.
The crowd of onlookers, drawn by whispers of rebellion, gasped.
Someone screamed: "They're stealing food from us!"
Phones lit up instantly, recording.
A Perfectly Timed Broadcast
By dawn, the footage was everywhere.
Sebastian, red-faced and furious, was broadcast worldwide—shown kicking open crates of milk meant for orphans, shouting for his men to "take it all."
Arthur didn't need to say a word.
Every politician, every noble, every rival family whispered the same thought: The rebellion isn't righteous—it's selfish.
The Unraveling
In his hideout, Sebastian slammed his fists into the wall hard enough to splinter wood. His closest men looked uneasy.
"This was supposed to be their weapons depot!" he shouted, blood dripping from his knuckles. "Marcellin swore it!"
But Marcellin was already gone—vanished with Ashford agents, his family spirited safely out of the city.
Nora's voice came from a flickering screen in Manhattan. Calm, precise, cruel.
"You've lost your people, Sebastian. Bread is louder than fire."
Arthur's Lesson
That evening, Arthur sat at the head of a long oak table, his empire's core assembled.
"The world saw what I wanted them to see," Arthur said, his tone silk over steel. "Sebastian is not a liberator—he is a thief. His rebellion will wither not because I struck him, but because his own people will turn away."
Bella smiled faintly. "You didn't fight him. You let him fight himself."
Arthur's eyes gleamed. "That is how empires rise. Through patience. Through precision. Through finance."
The room bowed their heads.
The Young Lion's Doubt
Sebastian sat alone in the ruins of a factory safehouse, firelight flickering against his haunted eyes.
The chants outside had quieted. The men who once marched proudly beside him now whispered of betrayal. Mothers spat at his name in the street.
And for the first time, the young lion felt the iron weight of failure press upon his chest.
He whispered into the silence:
"Arthur Ashford… I will not bow."
But the echo that answered him was hollow.