Adrian
The council chamber was a cathedral of ambition — arched ceilings heavy with carved stone, long tables polished until they reflected the lights, and portraits of grim-faced patriarchs staring down from the walls as though the room still belonged to them. For centuries, the same families had ruled here, trading power like heirlooms.
Adrian Vale, the son of a nobody, stood at the edge of it. His coat was still threadbare, his shoes worn, but his words had already traveled farther than most of these men had ever dreamed.
He was here because someone had summoned him.
That someone was Lord Octavian Gray.
Gray entered with the quiet authority of a man who did not need to prove himself. Tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair streaked with silver, he moved as though the room bent around him. Though still young compared to the council's elders, his reputation was already legendary: a war hero who had led men through fire and steel, a reformer who spoke of a new Albion rising from the ashes of the old.
"Mr. Vale," Gray said, offering his hand. His voice was deep, steady, and — unlike most councilmen — warm. "I've read your pamphlets. You write like a man who wants to tear down the government."
Adrian shook his hand, meeting his eyes without hesitation. "I want to build a new one. Stronger. Fairer."
Gray smiled faintly. "Good. The nation needs architects more than wreckers. And I believe you might yet prove one."
Adrian felt a thrill run through him. Here was a man he had admired from afar, now looking at him as if he were not a stray dog from the provinces, but an equal.
"I will not flatter you, Vale," Gray continued. "You are reckless. You lack restraint. You attract enemies faster than allies. But vision is a rare thing, and you have it. If you can temper your fire with discipline, there may be a place for you at the table where decisions are truly made."
Adrian's breath caught. "Then let me prove it."
"You already have." Gray gestured to the chamber around them. "Crowne despises you, which means you've struck a nerve. And I've learned that anyone who unsettles him is worth watching closely."
That evening, Adrian found himself in a different kind of hall: the Hartwell residence, where Evelyn and Emily had invited him for dinner.
It was a world away from the smoke-choked taverns and printing presses. Crystal chandeliers glowed above white linen, and the air smelled of roses drifting in from the conservatory. Emily flitted about like a spark, pouring wine, laughing too loudly at Adrian's stories, teasing him with quick remarks that left him scrambling for retorts. She delighted in his ambition, in the sheer audacity that set him apart from the polished men who courted her in practiced tones.
Evelyn was different. She watched. She listened. And when she spoke, her words cut deeper than any jest.
"You believe you can change the council," she said at one point, her gaze fixed on him across the table. "But what if the council changes you first?"
Adrian hesitated. He had thought of enemies, of battles, of triumphs. But he had not thought of compromise — of how easily ideals might bend under the weight of power.
"I won't let it," he said finally.
Evelyn's eyes softened for the briefest moment, as if she wished she could believe him.
Emily, noticing the tension, leaned across the table and whispered loudly enough for both to hear, "If he grows dull, Evie, I'll claim him for myself. I've always wanted a scandal."
Evelyn rolled her eyes, but Adrian flushed, unsure whether to laugh or protest. He chose neither, burying his face in his wineglass instead.
Weeks passed. Under Lord Gray's patronage, Adrian gained entry into the fringes of the council's work — drafting reports, speaking at committees, even challenging older members with ideas that made them sputter with outrage. His speeches grew sharper, his audience wider.
But so did his rivalry with Sebastian Crowne.
Crowne mocked him in print, in salons, in the very chambers where Gray had given Adrian a seat. Yet the more Crowne sneered, the more the city listened to Adrian. Crowne represented the old Albion, gilded and complacent. Adrian represented something dangerous, something alive.
One evening, after a particularly bitter exchange in the council, Crowne cornered him in the corridor.
"You mistake notoriety for influence," Crowne hissed. "They may laugh, they may applaud, but they will never give you real power. Men like me will never allow it."
Adrian leaned closer, his voice low and calm. "Then I'll take it without your permission."
Crowne's eyes narrowed. "Careful, Vale. Men who climb too fast often fall the hardest."
Adrian left the chamber with his blood still pounding. Outside, the city roared with carriages and shouts, with factories blowing out smoke against the stars. He found Marcus waiting, leaning against a lamppost, a bottle tucked under his arm.
"How was the great council?" Marcus asked.
Adrian's lips curved in a thin smile. "It was the future. And they don't even know it yet."
But in his chest, Evelyn's words lingered like a warning: What if the council changes you first?