At precisely six o'clock in the morning, Duke Sebastiano Decharis opened his eyes with the calm dignity of a man who had never once lost an argument to his own alarm clock. The heavy velvet curtains of his chamber remained perfectly drawn, allowing only a modest blade of dawn to cut across the marble floor like a respectful visitor who knew better than to intrude without permission.
This was not coincidence. Sebastiano had ordered the curtains to be adjusted to that exact width three years prior, after concluding that excessive sunlight before breakfast encouraged emotional instability, while insufficient light suggested moral laziness. Balance, after all, was the cornerstone of civilization.
He sat up slowly, his posture immaculate even in solitude, and placed his feet upon the floor with deliberate care. It was important, he believed, to begin each day as one intended to continue it—upright, controlled, and free of unnecessary impulses, including but not limited to yawning too loudly or contemplating the urge to stretch in a manner unbecoming of a Duke.
The morning routine of Duke Decharis was a thing of legend among the servants, though none dared to speak of it too openly. At six minutes past six, he washed his hands. At nine minutes past six, he washed his face. At precisely a quarter past six, he stood before the mirror, adjusting his expression until it conveyed a mild, tasteful neutrality—neither warm nor cold, neither welcoming nor threatening.
This expression, he had learned, was extremely useful. It discouraged fools, unsettled liars, and convinced politicians that he already knew whatever they were about to say, which was usually true.
Sebastiano dressed himself without assistance, not out of pride, but out of necessity. Allowing another person too close during the early hours of the day occasionally resulted in… complications. Sleeves had been torn. Buttons had been lost. Once, regrettably, a valet had screamed.
Such incidents were best avoided.
Once properly attired in a dark coat tailored with almost militaristic precision, Sebastiano exited his chamber and proceeded down the corridor of Decharis Manor. The halls were silent, the portraits of long-dead ancestors watching him with oil-painted judgment. Many of them had been warriors, conquerors, rulers of lands that no longer existed.
Sebastiano inclined his head slightly as he passed them, a gesture of respect and a reminder—to himself—that whatever else he was, he was still a Decharis. And Decharis men did not lose control.
Breakfast was served in the eastern salon, as it always was. The long table was laid with perfect symmetry: porcelain, silverware, folded linen napkins aligned with almost military discipline. The scent of freshly brewed tea lingered in the air, delicate and civil, doing its best to dominate the far less polite aromas that drifted in from the gardens beyond.
Sebastiano paused at the threshold.
His nostrils flared—very slightly, almost imperceptibly—and his jaw tightened. The scent of earth was stronger than usual this morning, damp soil mingled with crushed leaves and something sharp, something animal. He identified it immediately, catalogued it mentally, and dismissed it with professional efficiency.
A fox, he concluded. Or perhaps a very rude hedgehog.
Satisfied with this explanation, he took his seat.
He poured his tea with careful restraint, lifting the teapot only far enough to avoid the sound of clinking porcelain. The act required concentration. Tea, he had discovered, was an excellent test of self-control. Pour too quickly, and one revealed impatience. Too slowly, and one appeared theatrical.
Sebastiano poured it perfectly.
As he sipped, he opened the book placed beside his plate—a leather-bound volume of classical philosophy, its margins filled with his own precise notes. He read as he ate, consuming both knowledge and toast with equal moderation.
The book argued, at great length, that virtue was born from reason rather than instinct. Sebastiano agreed wholeheartedly, though he found himself rereading the same paragraph three times as his attention drifted to the faint scratching sound outside the window.
His hand tightened around the teacup.
The scratching grew louder, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of something climbing. Sebastiano inhaled sharply, then exhaled just as deliberately, counting under his breath in an ancient dialect that had once been used to calm warriors before battle.
When the scratching stopped, he relaxed his grip, noting with mild annoyance that the porcelain remained intact. This was progress. Five years ago, the cup would have shattered.
"Good morning, Your Grace."
The voice belonged to Raffaele Paccorion, his secretary and longtime associate, who entered the salon with a stack of documents balanced expertly in his arms. Raffaele was a man of considerable composure himself, though his eyebrows rose slightly as he observed the tension in Sebastiano's shoulders.
"Good morning," Sebastiano replied, his tone smooth. "You are precisely on time."
"I make it a point to be," Raffaele said carefully. "It is safer that way."
Sebastiano chose not to comment on that.
Raffaele placed the documents on the table and began summarizing the morning's political correspondence. Trade negotiations. A minor border dispute. An invitation to a charity gala that Sebastiano had no intention of attending but would decline politely, in writing, with three compliments and one regret.
Throughout it all, Sebastiano listened attentively, occasionally offering a succinct observation or correction. His mind was sharp, his focus impeccable, his responses measured.
Only once did he interrupt.
"Did you hear that?" he asked.
Raffaele froze. "Hear what, Your Grace?"
Sebastiano frowned slightly, his gaze shifting toward the window. The sound was gone now, replaced by the gentle rustling of leaves.
"Nothing," he said after a moment. "Continue."
Raffaele did so, though his tone was now tinged with caution.
By the time breakfast concluded, Sebastiano had resolved three political disputes, annotated twelve pages of philosophy, and successfully refrained from growling at an overly enthusiastic sparrow. It was, by all accounts, a productive morning.
He rose from the table and adjusted his gloves, the leather fitting snugly around his fingers. Gloves were important. Gloves prevented… accidents.
As he made his way toward his study, Giovanna Bobdaria intercepted him in the corridor. Giovanna was many things—efficient, intelligent, terrifyingly perceptive—but discreet was perhaps her greatest talent.
"You slept well, Your Grace?" she asked pleasantly.
"Exceptionally," Sebastiano replied, which was technically true. He had slept deeply, though the dream involving moonlight, running, and the inexplicable desire to chase a carriage wheel was best left unexamined.
Giovanna nodded, then hesitated. "There was an incident in the south garden."
Sebastiano stopped walking.
"What kind of incident?" he asked calmly.
"A gardener fainted," Giovanna said. "He claimed he felt… watched."
Sebastiano closed his eyes for a brief, controlled moment.
"Please reassure him," he said. "And increase his wages."
"Of course," Giovanna replied, not missing a beat.
Once alone, Sebastiano entered his study and closed the door behind him, securing it with a subtle mechanism that had been installed for reasons entirely unrelated to privacy and entirely related to structural integrity.
He leaned against the desk and exhaled.
"Control," he murmured to himself. "Dignity. Civilization."
The words had been drilled into him from childhood, passed down through generations of Decharis men who had learned—often the hard way—that power without restraint was barbarism.
His reflection in the polished wood stared back at him, composed and immaculate. No one looking at him now would suspect that his senses were currently cataloguing the entire estate: the mice in the walls, the birds on the roof, the distant horses in the stables.
He ignored them all.
There was, however, something new.
A faint scent lingered at the edge of his awareness, unfamiliar and oddly compelling. It was not present, not yet, but its absence was… noticeable.
Sebastiano straightened, unsettled.
He moved to his desk, shuffling papers to distract himself, when a sealed envelope caught his attention. It bore the crest of the Valenzan High Archives.
He opened it carefully, scanning the contents.
An invitation.
The Forbidden Library requests the presence of Duke Sebastiano Decharis for scholarly consultation regarding restricted materials.
His fingers stilled.
The Forbidden Library was not a place one visited casually. It was where secrets were kept, histories buried, and truths considered too inconvenient for polite society.
Sebastiano felt a strange tightening in his chest—not fear, but anticipation.
He folded the letter and placed it carefully in his coat pocket.
"Well," he said aloud, to no one in particular, "that should be interesting."
Outside, somewhere beyond the manicured hedges of Decharis Manor, the wind shifted. And with it, carried on the air, was the promise of something sharp, intelligent, and dangerously disruptive—though Sebastiano, being a man of reason and refinement, had not yet allowed himself to notice.