The council chamber thundered with voices, but tonight they thundered for Adrian Vale.
For weeks he had pressed for his new bill — a sweeping reform of the city's labour laws, granting protections and fair wages to the factory workers who toiled in the choking mills. The industrial barons had fought him viciously, their money poured into pamphlets and speeches against him, but Adrian's relentless words cut through their resistance like steel.
Tonight, after hours of debate, the vote came. And when the tally was read, the reform passed.
The chamber erupted — half in applause, half in outrage.
But the applause was louder.
Adrian rose, fire in his eyes, his heart pounding with the knowledge that he had done it: he had changed the city's future.
Crowne, sitting across the chamber, did not clap. His gaze was fixed, cold, and calculating, his lips barely twitching as though suppressing a smile only he understood.
The next evening, in a quieter corner of the city, Adrian found himself in Clara Moreau's company once more.
He had not meant to go. Evelyn had begged him to rest, to spend the evening with her and Emily, but after the victory in council, his blood still burned too hot to be stilled by domestic peace. When a note arrived
Come, celebrate properly, among those who understand what you've achieved
— he had tucked it into his coat pocket almost guiltily.
Clara's parlour smelled of smoke and perfume. The lamps burned low, casting amber light across velvet drapes and mismatched chairs. A piano rested against one wall, half a glass of wine perched on its lid.
"You've done it," Clara said, clapping her hands when he entered. "You've shown them all. No one will forget tonight."
Adrian laughed, unguarded, exhilarated. "It isn't about being remembered. It's about what it means for the workers, for the city."
Clara stepped closer, her eyes glinting in the lamplight. "And yet… you will be remembered. You must be. You burn too brightly not to leave your mark."
Her words landed like sparks. Evelyn praised him with measured devotion, with faith in his cause. Clara praised him —the man, the fire, the hunger. And in his tired, heady state, he drank it in.
She poured him wine, and they talked late into the night. She asked questions no one else asked: about his childhood, about the first time he realized words could be weapons, about the loneliness of ambition. He found himself telling her things he had never said aloud.
When he rose to leave, she touched his arm lightly. "Don't vanish, Vale. Let yourself be seen. Even heroes need someone to see the man behind the speeches."
Adrian left with her words echoing louder than he wished they did.
Back in the Hartwell residence, Evelyn waited. She told herself he was late because of the press, the council, the endless demands that came with changing the world.
Emily sat with her, feigning light chatter, though her gaze flicked often to the clock.
At last Evelyn rose, smoothing her skirt, her smile calm but strained. "He is burning himself out," she said softly. "But he does it for the right reasons. I must have patience."
Emily nodded, though something in her chest twisted. She knew her sister's composure, knew how much it cost her to say the words. And she knew, too, that Adrian's absences carried a sharper edge than Evelyn dared to admit.
Emily wanted to speak —wanted to warn her — but bit her tongue. Her own secret love left her no ground to stand on.
Better silence than betrayal.
Meanwhile, across the city, Crowne received word from his informant: Vale had spent hours in Clara Moreau's apartment, had left well past midnight. No scandal yet, not openly. But the story was forming.
Crowne sat in his study, penning letters by candlelight. Anonymous pamphlets, careful leaks to the right ears, whispers in the corridors of the powerful. Not proof, not yet — but suggestion. Suggestion was enough.
He smiled as he sealed the envelope. Vale's star was rising, but stars burned out fastest at their brightest. All it required was patience. The fall would come, and when it did, it would be from a height high enough to shatter him completely.
And so, in New Albion, the paradox sharpened:
Adrian Vale, champion of the people, now the most celebrated voice in the council.
Adrian Vale, husband-to-be of Evelyn Hartwell, admired and envied by society.
Adrian Vale, secretly drawn into a game he did not know was being played against him.
The higher he climbed, the tighter the net closed.