The autumn air in New Albion was sharp that evening, a cold wind curling down the narrow avenues, scattering leaves across cobblestones. But inside the Corinthian Hall, warmth and wealth pressed close together.
The city's elite had gathered for a gala — a charity ball in name, but in truth a display of power, where fortunes were flaunted and alliances quietly sealed with champagne and laughter. The chandeliers glittered, violins hummed, and every conversation carried the undercurrent of politics.
Adrian Vale did not belong there, and everyone knew it.
Yet he entered with Evelyn on his arm, her presence commanding enough to quiet the murmurs. She wore a gown of deep sapphire, her composure like steel wrapped in silk. Adrian, though plainly dressed compared to the gold-embroidered lords, carried himself with the same fiery intensity he brought to the council chamber.
Crowds parted, though not out of respect — more like curiosity, even disdain. They watched the upstart reformer walk into their sanctuary, daring to stand as though equal among them.
And then, across the hall, Sebastian Crowne appeared.
Tall, immaculate in a black dinner coat, he moved through the throng with ease, every smile calculated, every handshake deliberate. When his gaze fell on Adrian, his lips curved — not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.
The crowd sensed it instantly. Whispers rippled, glasses stilled midair. Here were the two men who had come to embody New Albion's future: fire and steel, reform and tradition, locked in a rivalry that seemed destined to end in catastrophe.
They met at the edge of the ballroom floor, where the string quartet's music faltered as if even the musicians could feel the air tightening. Evelyn held Adrian's arm firmly, but her eyes flicked between the two men with sharp awareness.
"Mr. Vale," Crowne said smoothly, his voice carrying just enough to be overheard. "You seem determined to bring your crusade into every hall, no matter how ill-suited the venue."
Adrian's jaw tightened. "The crusade, as you call it, belongs to the people. If that makes this hall uncomfortable, perhaps it is the hall that is ill-suited to the nation."
A ripple of laughter — nervous, uncertain — ran through the bystanders.
Crowne stepped closer, lowering his voice though his words remained sharp. "You mistake recklessness for courage, Vale. These people you charm with your speeches will cheer while you burn the house down around them. Do you think they will love you when the ashes fall?"
Adrian's eyes burned. "Better ashes than rot. Better fire than silence. At least they will know someone fought for them."
The two men stood inches apart now, the ballroom holding its breath. Crowne's hand twitched toward his pocket watch, as though restraining himself from a greater gesture. Adrian's fist clenched at his side, his body trembling with the effort not to strike.
"Gentlemen," Evelyn cut in, her voice cool but commanding. "This is neither the place nor the hour."
Her intervention drew a thin smile from Crowne, though his eyes did not leave Adrian's. "Indeed. There will be a time, I am sure. One cannot always run from the reckoning one deserves."
The implication was clear, and a murmur spread like wildfire through the hall. Dueling had been outlawed in New Albion, but the old codes of honor still lingered. A challenge had not yet been spoken, but everyone felt the shadow of it in Crowne's words.
Adrian's breath came quick, but Evelyn's grip on his arm was unyielding. He forced himself to speak evenly. "If there is to be a reckoning, Mr. Crowne, let it be in the council, where words — not weapons — decide the fate of this nation."
Crowne's smile widened, cruel and knowing. "Words can only go so far, Vale. Eventually, even the most eloquent must answer for them."
With that, he turned, bowing slightly to Evelyn before melting back into the throng. Conversation resumed in scattered fragments, but the room never truly recovered its ease.
Later that night, in the quiet carriage ride home, Evelyn turned to Adrian. "You must be careful," she said. "Crowne will not relent. He will drive you to the edge, and he will do it where everyone can see. Do not let him dictate the terms of this fight."
Adrian stared out the window at the flickering gaslamps. His hands were still trembling, though he hid them in his lap. "He underestimates me," he muttered. "He thinks I will break. But I won't. I can't."
Evelyn laid her hand over his. "No. You cannot. But you must also not lose yourself. Do not let him make you a weapon of his choosing."
Adrian did not answer. In his chest, the fire burned hotter than ever.
And somewhere across the city, Sebastian Crowne stared into his brandy glass, thinking not of council debates but of pistols at dawn, and the inevitability of two men whose pride would not let them coexist.
The city had begun to whisper not if, but when.