*West Ravenport, Halloway Residence*
Jack Halloway set his quill down, the feather scratching softly against the mahogany desk before coming to rest atop a mountain of parchment. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, exhaling a sigh that rattled in his chest. It felt endless. The sheer volume of transfer documents required just to settle the real estate holdings was enough to make his bones ache, to say nothing of the naval contracts, the trade agreements, and the endless lists of assets that now belonged solely to him.
The sunlight radiating from the large, decorated window behind him carried the heat of the early afternoon, warming the back of his neck. Outside, the shrill, raucous cries of a flock of black-feathered crow-gulls echoed off the water, bouncing between the masts of the trade ships docked in the private harbor below. It was the sound of commerce. The sound of money. The sound of a life he hadn't asked for.
Four sharp, rhythmic knocks rapped against the heavy oak door of his office. Before he could answer, the handle turned, and a young woman stepped through.
"Pardon me, my lord," she began, her voice crisp and professional. "But a Party of Grace awaits your audience."
Jack let out another sigh, his cheek twitching with a fatigue he couldn't hide. He stood up, his knees popping audibly.
"I thank you for your continued service, Ingrid," Jack said, moving around the desk. He paused, looking at her. "Especially during these... well, you know."
Ingrid offered a small, sad smile. Her eyes, a striking pale yellow that had always reminded Jack of a hawk's, softened. "My mother and I fully intend to keep our pact to your House, my lord. Regardless of which Halloway heads it."
Jack smiled, a genuine warmth breaking through his exhaustion. "Dear Ingrid. That truly puts my heart at ease. Thank you, my friend."
He smoothed the front of his tunic and headed for the door, expecting to walk down the main corridor. "I assume they are in the Grand Hall?"
"No, my lord."
Jack stopped, turning back to her. "I thought you said they had arrived?"
"They have, my lord." Ingrid's expression tightened slightly. "But they did not wish to wait in the open. They await within the private dwellings beneath the hall."
Jack didn't question it, though a cold knot formed in his stomach. The private dwellings were essentially a reinforced bunker—a holdover from the days when Ravenport was less civilized. He moved toward the hidden staircase behind the tapestry in the east wing, Ingrid falling into step behind him.
The air grew cooler as they descended, the smell of sea salt and ink replaced by the scent of old stone and damp earth.
When Jack entered the chamber, the first thing he heard was a cackle.
"Well, well! Here I thought you might not even show!"
Tote Ulmerick sat at the head of the small council table, his boots propped up on the polished wood, crossing his ankles with deliberate disrespect. He wore a bandana emblazoned with the Imperial sigil, beneath which matted black hair obscured his eyes. A heavy metal face guard covered the lower half of his face, muffling his voice but doing nothing to hide the malice in it.
"I don't recall ever meeting you down here before," Jack said, stepping fully into the room. He tried to project authority, but his voice sounded thin in the stone chamber. "And I don't much appreciate you doing as you please in my home."
"HAHAHA! Oh, you're fucking a boob's gap, eh?! BWAHAHA!" Tote kicked his feet in the air, rocking back and forth in his chair like a child in hysterics. He wiped a tear from his eye, looking at the shadowed corner of the room. "Fucking funny, lil' cockney, ain't ya?"
Jack followed his gaze. Standing in the deepest shadow of the chamber was a figure cloaked entirely in black. He was motionless, a statue of dark fabric.
"Familial Grace..." Jack groaned, his patience snapping. "I refuse to participate in this conversation in its entirety. Either you cease the use of 'Vulgar-Crowlic' and continue in 'High-Raven,' or have your interpreter continue in your stead."
Tote stopped laughing. The room went dead silent. The pirate slowly lowered his legs from the table, his boots hitting the floor with a heavy thud.
"Bold of ya to assume me mate here is an interpreter," Tote sneered behind his mask. "Th' lil' prince has become lord of his castle, but yet hasn't got a clue on how to properly address the Family's Blessed." He jerked a thumb toward the shadowed figure. "That gentleman's got royal blood in his veins. 'E's choosing to observe how operations are run among elect peers."
Blood drained from Jack's face.
"Our apologies," Ingrid said instantly, dropping into a deep, terrified bow. "This fact was not brought to my, or the Staff's, attention. If it were, the matters of the correct addressing would not have been one of concern." She pivoted to the figure. "Please forgive our disrespect, Your Blessed Grace."
The figure lifted a hand, waving it dismissively.
Jack stared at Tote, his heart hammering against his ribs. "What lies within this 'blessed audience of Grace?'" he asked, forcing his voice to remain steady. "And how can House Halloway be of service to the Crown?"
"For starters," Tote said, leaning forward, "have your scribes prepared the port agreement?"
Jack sucked air through his teeth. The port agreement. The Crown's attempt to seize control of the Halloway shipping lanes. It had been sitting on his desk for weeks.
"Our scribes completed the writing of our agreement this morning," Jack lied, his voice wavering slightly. "The ink has probably just finished dryin—"
THWUMP.
Jack felt a gust of wind rush past his ear, so sharp and violent it stung his skin. A wet, sickening sound followed immediately; the sound of liquid hitting stone.
Splatter. Gurgle.
Jack froze. He turned slowly. Ingrid was standing there. Her eyes were wide, filled with a confusion that hadn't had time to become fear. A chunk of her throat was gone. It wasn't a cut. It looked as if an invisible beast had simply bitten the side of her neck away. Blood pumped out in rhythmic, horrific spurts, soaking the front of her dress in seconds. She tried to inhale, but the air simply bubbled through the wound. Her yellow eyes, those hawk eyes Jack had known since childhood, rolled back into her head. Her knees buckled. She crumpled to the floor with a few violent twitches, and then she was still.
Dead. Before she even hit the ground.
Tote let out a low, drawn-out whistle. Jack stared at the body. His mind refused to process it. He looked up at the corner of the room. The Royal was lowering his hand, his cloak settling around him.
"Well then," Tote chuckled, breaking the silence. "Wasn't expecting to attend a royal execution today." He gestured lazily at Jack. "Guessing this is your first one? Having someone from the family carry it out themselves... now that's class."
Jack's legs gave out.
"The parchment has been sitting neglected on my desk for a while now," Jack whispered. The words tumbled out of him, terrified and desperate. He sank to his knees, partly from shock, partly from the crushing pressure radiating from the figure in the corner. He pressed his forehead to the cold stone floor, right next to the expanding pool of Ingrid's blood. "My deepest and most sincere apologies, my lord," Jack sobbed, the tears coming hot and fast. "I am but a foolish vassal who knows no better. Taught no better than my rat-born blood has spat in my family's direction." He was weeping openly now, his dignity shattered. "Please forgive us, Your Divine Grace. Forgive our meaninglessness. Forgive our cowardice. Forgive our existence by your will and by your grace."
A chirp of amusement escaped Tote. "I reckon we got'a head about signing that paper now, don't ya think?"
The Royal turned. His dark cloak flowed freely as he swept past Jack, stepping over Ingrid's body as if it were nothing more than a spilled basket of laundry. Tote bounced quickly behind him, chuckling as he went.
It took Jack a long time to stand. His collar was soaked with sweat and tears. His eyes stung. He looked down at Ingrid. At the loyal friend who had died for his hesitation. Jack steadied his breath. It was a shaky, ragged sound. There were more pressing concerns at hand. He turned and walked toward the stairs, leaving the body in the dark.
He had a contract to sign.