Lord Boros Torren's mansion was not in the upper part of the city. It was above the upper part of the city.
Built on a natural elevation that overlooked Arven, the residence was a declaration of gray stone and wrought iron that screamed ancient power and old money. It did not have the vulgar, golden ostentation of the Kladis house. It didn't need it. House Torren didn't have to shout that it was wealthy; the silence of its walls and the height of its towers whispered it with a blood-chilling authority.
Nikolas Kladis hated coming here.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a silk handkerchief as he waited in the antechamber. The pendulum clock in the corner marked the seconds with a slow, deliberate tick-tock, designed, he was sure, to unnerve visitors.
'He's making me wait,' Nikolas thought, twisting the handkerchief. 'He always makes me wait. To remind me of my place.'
He was the richest man in the commercial district. He had half the merchants in his pocket and the other half in his debt books. But here, in this house, he was just a moneylender. A commoner with cash. A useful dog.
The double door of dark oak opened. A butler who looked mummified in his uniform gave a minimal bow.
"Lord Torren will receive you now."
Nikolas stood up, smoothing his velvet robe, and walked in.
Boros Torren's office was a cavern of shadows and mahogany. The curtains were drawn, blocking the afternoon sun, and the only light came from the fireplace and a few strategically placed oil lamps.
Boros was seated behind his desk. He did not rise.
He was a thin, almost skeletal man, with features sharp as blades and pale skin that seemed not to have seen the sun in years. His eyes, black and dull, fixed on Nikolas with the indifference of an entomologist observing an insect.
"Sit down, Nikolas," Boros said. His voice was soft, dry, like dead leaves rustling in the wind.
Nikolas sat in the chair across the desk. He felt small.
"My Lord," Nikolas began, trying to project confidence. "The wedding is confirmed. It will be in two days. Everything is ready."
Boros did not smile. He only interlaced his long, bony fingers on the desk.
"I have heard rumors, Nikolas. Unpleasant rumors."
Nikolas swallowed.
"People talk, my Lord. Envy..."
"I heard," Boros interrupted, "that you had an... incident. A theft during your gala. That your security was breached by common thieves. That your son was humiliated in his own ballroom."
Nikolas flushed red. Shame and anger mingled in his throat.
"It was an oversight. A group of opportunists took advantage of the party. But they took nothing of value. Only... trinkets. And Daemon... Daemon was drunk. It was an accident."
"An accident," Boros repeated, savoring the word with disdain. "Incompetence is not an accident, Nikolas. It is a habit. And I worry that your habits are starting to affect my interests."
He leaned forward, and the lamp light made his eyes look like two empty wells.
"I have given you plenty of leeway. I have allowed you to use my name, in whispers, to intimidate your debtors. I have ignored your... vulgar methods. Because you were useful. Because you promised results."
"And you will have them!" Nikolas rushed to say. "The Voss girl accepted. The contract is signed. In two days, her father's routes will legally belong to Daemon. And, by extension, be under our control."
"The routes," Boros murmured. "And the rest."
"Yes, yes. Everything. The warehouses. The contacts. And if there exists... that thing we are looking for... we will find it."
Boros tapped the table with one finger. A single dry rap.
"Not 'if it exists', Nikolas. It exists. My informants on the northern border have seen the movements. Voss was moving more than just spices. Something small. Heavy. And extremely valuable. Star Iron, perhaps. Or something better. I need that monopoly. House Greythorn is pushing in the north, and I need an advantage here in the south to maintain my position before the Grand Duke Drayvar."
Nikolas nodded frantically.
"We will have it. Once Elara is Daemon's wife, we will squeeze old Voss until he confesses every secret. And if he doesn't confess..." Nikolas made a gesture of twisting a neck. "We have ways."
Boros leaned back, retreating into the shadows.
"You'd better. Because your debt to me, Nikolas, is not just one of money. It is one of patience. And my patience has run out."
He opened a drawer and pulled out a document. He tossed it onto the table. It slid to a stop in front of Nikolas.
"This is the promissory note for your gambling debts and your failed loans at the port. The total sum. With updated interest."
Nikolas looked at the figure. He felt the air drain from the room. It was an astronomical amount. Enough to buy a small county. Enough to ruin him ten times over.
"If that wedding is not consummated," Boros said with lethal softness, "or if the Voss routes do not pass to my direct control before the new moon... I will execute this document. I will take everything from you, Nikolas. Your house. Your business. Your gold. Even the rings on your fingers. And you and your useless son will end up begging in the Ash District."
Nikolas trembled. Fear was a metallic taste in his mouth.
"I will not fail, my Lord. The wedding will happen. Nothing will stop it."
"Ensure that," Boros said, returning to his papers, dismissing him without another word. "Ensure there are no more 'incidents'. Or the next incident will be you."
Nikolas stood up, made a clumsy bow, and left the office.
When the door closed, he leaned against the hallway wall, breathing heavily. His heart hammered against his ribs.
'Damn old man. Damn vampire.'
But fear was stronger than hate. He had to make sure. He had to armor that wedding.
'Guards,' he thought as he walked quickly toward the exit. 'I will double the guard. I will triple the security. No one will enter that wedding without my permission. No one will ruin this.'
He stepped out into the sunlight, but the cold of Torren's office still clung to his bones.
At the Voss residence, the atmosphere was the opposite of the Torren mansion. There was no silence or static shadows. There was constant, nervous, frenetic movement.
Tailors and seamstresses, sent and paid for by Nikolas Kladis—a gesture of "generosity" that was actually a form of control—came in and out, carrying fabrics, ribbons, and accessories for the bride.
Kael watched the spectacle from a corner of the room, a pear in his hand and an expression of polite boredom on his face.
'What a circus. They dress the victim and tell her it's a party.'
Elara stood on a low stool, while two seamstresses adjusted the hem of a white silk dress with silver thread embroidery. It was a magnificent dress. Expensive. Ostentatious.
The kind of dress that screamed "look how much money we have" instead of "look how beautiful the bride is."
Elara looked like a wax statue. Her face was expressionless, her eyes fixed on an empty spot on the wall. She didn't move, didn't speak, barely breathed. She was the perfect image of resignation.
"A little tighter at the waist," ordered the head seamstress, a woman with her mouth full of pins. "Mister Kladis wants her figure to show."
Elara did not protest when they pulled the corset strings, cutting off her air.
Kael took a bite of his apple. Crunch.
The sound made Elara turn her head slightly. Her eyes met Kael's.
There was panic there. Pure, raw panic, screaming behind the porcelain mask.
'She's going to break. I have to keep her whole.'
He waited for the seamstresses to pause to search for more thread and approached the stool.
"You look beautiful, Miss Elara," Kael said loudly, with a tone of perfectly feigned childish admiration. "Like a princess."
The seamstresses smiled, charmed by the well-behaved boy.
"It's true," one said. "She will be the most beautiful bride in Arven."
Kael moved closer, pretending to examine the skirt fabric. When he was close enough for only she to hear him, he whispered:
"Don't tremble. It shows in the fabric."
"I can't breathe," Elara whispered, without moving her lips, looking ahead. "I feel like I'm suffocating. This is real, Kael. The dress is real. The date is real. What if it fails? What if..."
"Elara," Kael cut in, his voice soft but firm as wire. "Look at me."
She looked down at him.
Kael smiled at her. A warm smile, full of confidence, the kind of smile a younger brother would give his older sister before a party.
"Everything is going to be alright," he said, lying with the naturalness of breathing. "Everything is under control. Every step, every minute. You just have to hold on a little longer."
'A lie. Chaos isn't controlled. It's only pushed in the right direction. But she doesn't need to know that.'
"Your sacrifice will save your family," Kael continued, using the words he knew she needed to hear. Appealing to her martyrdom. "You are brave. You are strong. You are doing the right thing."
'You're doing what I need you to do.'
Elara's eyes filled with tears, but they didn't fall. Kael's affirmation seemed to give her an anchor. She took a deep breath, forcing the corset to yield.
"Thank you, Kael," she whispered. "I trust you."
"You do well," he replied.
He moved away just as the seamstresses returned to the attack.
Kael left the room and headed to the kitchen. Nia was there, sitting at the table, cleaning vegetables with a small knife. Aldric was leaning against the back door frame, guarding the yard.
"How is she?" Nia asked when she saw Kael enter.
"Scared. But holding on," Kael replied, taking a seat across from her. "How about you?"
Nia put down the knife. Her face became serious. She no longer looked like a child playing.
"I went this morning," she said quietly. "I took the clothes. Thorne was... different."
"Different how? Drunk?"
"No," Nia shook her head. "Clean. He shaved. He cut his hair. I barely recognized him. He looks... he looks like a man going to a funeral. His own funeral."
Kael nodded, satisfied.
"The acceptance of death is a powerful tool. It removes the fear of consequences."
"He scared me," Nia admitted. "He was very quiet. He was just sharpening that knife. He told me: 'Tell the boy I'll be there. And his papers had better be real'."
"They are real," Kael said. "Or enough for what I need."
Aldric turned from the door.
"The Kladis have doubled the guard at their mansion," the knight reported. "I've seen new patrols. Mercenaries, but better quality than the ones who came here. And there are rumors that Torren has lent some of his own guards for the perimeter."
"They're afraid," Kael said. "The theft scared them. Nikolas thinks we're going back."
"That makes getting in harder," Aldric pointed out.
"We're not sneaking in this time," Kael reminded him. "We're going in with an invitation. You as an escort, me as part of the bride's entourage. The external security doesn't matter. The problem is inside."
"Thorne doesn't have an invitation," Aldric noted.
"Thorne is the surprise factor," Kael said. "Gareth will handle getting him in. His men have already bribed the service door guards. Everyone has a price, Aldric. Even Torren's guards."
Kael stood up and walked toward Aldric.
"Tomorrow is the day. You have to be ready. When Thorne speaks, everything is going to explode. Your job is not to fight everyone. It's to get Elara and Nia out when I give the signal."
"And you?" Aldric asked, looking at him with genuine concern. "Who watches out for you?"
Kael smiled.
"No one looks at me, Aldric. I'm a boy. I'm invisible."
Aldric scoffed.
"You're the most dangerous thing in that room, and no one knows it. That's what worries me. That you get too confident."
"Confidence is fine," Kael said. "Arrogance is not. I know the difference. Daemon does not."
Kael returned to the main room.
Elara had finished the fitting. She stood, the white dress gleaming under the afternoon light. Donal looked at her with tearful eyes, torn apart by guilt. Martha nervously adjusted her veil with trembling hands.
It was a perfect scene of domestic tragedy.
Kael paused in the doorway, observing.
'Tomorrow,' he thought. 'Tomorrow we break everything.'
He approached Donal.
"Mister Voss," he said respectfully. "The ledgers you asked for. I need them again. I want to review the northern figures."
Donal wiped his eyes and nodded.
"Yes... of course. They're in the office. What do you need them for now? It... it doesn't matter anymore, does it? Tomorrow everything will pass into Kladis's hands."
"Knowledge always matters," Kael replied. "I like to know how much what I'm going to destroy is worth."
Donal didn't understand, but he didn't ask. He was too tired.
Kael went to the office. He closed the door.
He didn't need to review the figures. He already knew them by heart.
He needed a moment of silence. A moment to put on his own mask.
He looked at his reflection in the dark window. A ten-year-old boy in a gray tunic. Black hair, gray eyes. Nothing special. Nothing threatening.
He smiled at his reflection. The smile was innocent, sweet.
'Hello, I'm Kael. I just want to help.' The smile disappeared, replaced by a cold, empty gaze. 'Hello, I'm Kael. I'm going to burn it all down.'
He was ready.
Night fell over Arven.
In the Torren mansion, Boros drank vintage wine and looked at his maps, dreaming of monopolies.
In the Kladis mansion, Nikolas shouted at his servants, making sure every goblet was polished, every guard in place, the fear of Torren driving his perfectionism.
In the Ash District, Thorne sheathed his knife and looked at the moon, bidding farewell to his miserable life.
And at the Voss residence, Elara looked at her wedding dress hanging in the closet like a shroud, praying to gods she no longer believed in for the monstrous boy's plan to work.
The stage was set. The actors were in their marks.
All that remained was for the curtain to rise.