Crowne
Sebastian Crowne did not believe in accidents. In his world, every gesture, every word, every tilt of a glass at a dinner party was calculated. He had been trained for it since childhood.
The Crowne estate sat on the edge of the capital, a sprawling mansion of marble pillars and manicured gardens, where servants moved with the silence of shadows. Inside, everything gleamed: the silver, the chandeliers, even the family portraits that lined the stairwell, each ancestor captured in oils with the same angular jaw and cold eyes.
Sebastian had grown up beneath those eyes. He had been told, again and again, that his life was not his own — that he carried the weight of centuries, that the Crowne name was not a possession but a burden. His father's voice, though now silent in the grave, still rang in his ears: We are Albion, boy. Without us, it crumbles. Remember that.
And Sebastian did.
He had entered the council chambers as if stepping onto a stage built for him alone. His speeches were elegant, his presence magnetic. He wore tailored suits as though born in them, and the papers adored him, sketching his face in their society columns with words like dashing and brilliant.
Yet lately, there was a crack in the mirror.
That crack had a name: Adrian Vale.
At the gentlemen's club on Eastbourne Street, Sebastian reclined in a leather chair, a glass of brandy in hand, while fellow councilmen gathered around the fire.
"This Vale fellow," muttered Lord Camden, puffing furiously on his cigar, "he's everywhere. Pamphlets, speeches, rallies — it's intolerable. He's a nobody, yet he acts as though he built the nation with his bare hands."
"A dangerous upstart," another agreed. "He'll burn out soon enough."
Sebastian swirled his brandy, hiding the irritation in his eyes. Burn out? No — Vale was not burning out. He was burning brighter. And though Sebastian loathed to admit it, he envied the man's raw fire.
He leaned forward, his tone smooth. "Gentlemen, do not mistake notoriety for power. Vale is a spark, yes, but sparks die quickly. Albion needs steady flames, not wildfires. And that" — he tapped his chest lightly — "is what families like ours provide."
The older men nodded, soothed. But Sebastian felt no such comfort. He knew Vale's spark was not so easily extinguished.
That night, back at the estate, Sebastian sat alone in his study. The fire crackled low, casting long shadows across the shelves of leather-bound books. On his desk lay a stack of newspapers, each bearing some mention of Adrian Vale's name.
He read them all.
Not because he wanted to. Because he could not stop himself.
Vale's words were reckless, raw, sometimes even naïve. Yet they struck chords Sebastian's own speeches never had. Where Sebastian spoke to impress, Vale spoke to ignite. Where Sebastian relied on heritage, Vale relied on hunger.
And people — damn them — were listening.
Sebastian closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. He told himself that Vale was dangerous because he threatened the order of Albion. But in truth, he threatened something deeper. He made Sebastian feel… less than him.
The next morning, Sebastian visited the council chambers early, before most men had arrived. He stood at the great window overlooking the city, watching the smoke-stacks and spires blur into the mist.
Lord Gray found him there.
"Up with the sun, Crowne? That's unlike you."
Sebastian turned, masking his surprise with a smile. "Discipline, my lord. One must set an example."
Gray studied him for a long moment. He was not fooled easily. "Vale unsettles you."
Sebastian's jaw tightened. "He is reckless. Dangerous."
"Or perhaps," Gray said evenly, "he is what you wish you could be."
Sebastian bristled. "I am what Albion needs. Stable, polished, prepared. Not some ragged child scribbling slogans."
Gray chuckled softly, as though indulging a student. "Perhaps. But remember this, Crowne: sometimes, nations follow the ragged child. Because they see themselves in him. And they see themselves in you far less."
Sebastian held Gray's gaze, every instinct urging him to reply, to lash back. But he said nothing. Because Gray was right.
That evening, at a ball thrown by the Chancellor's family, Sebastian played his part flawlessly. He danced, he charmed, he smiled at the right jokes and delivered better ones. Yet when Adrian Vale entered the hall — dressed modestly, but walking with unshakable confidence — every head turned. Not toward Sebastian. Toward him.
Sebastian's glass cracked in his hand.
When he returned to the estate that night, blood still faintly staining his palm, he poured himself another drink and stood before the portrait of his father.
"You were wrong," Sebastian whispered. "It isn't bloodlines that hold Albion together. It's… the people."
He set the glass down with deliberate care, his reflection warped in the crystal.
"Which means," he murmured, "I'll have to break him before he breaks us."