The streets of Leonidus still breathed with the aftertaste of dawn—wet cobblestones glimmering like a field of obsidian under the pale light.

The city murmured in its restless rhythm: the blacksmith's first strike, the muffled prayer of a merchant, the low laughter of thieves who had outlasted the night.

Through those alleys walked Aiden, hood drawn low, the faint shimmer of his gaze catching like a knife's reflection beneath it. He had long learned how to walk unseen among those who desired him most.

His face—a curse carved by the gods to undo mortals—was a burden of power. Every glance he allowed was an invitation to ruin, woman after woman trailing his gaze, every smile a confession of dominance.

He kept his head bowed as he moved through the market's edge, his cloak whispering across the stone. A few vendors turned toward him instinctively, sensing that gravitational pull that always followed him, though they could not name why.

Aiden ignored them. His thoughts were elsewhere—on the mansion, on the woman waiting inside, and on the shadows that had begun to gather around his growing ambition.

He walked. The rhythm of his boots kept pace with his heart: calm, deliberate, inexorable. The city had not yet forgiven him, nor forgotten.

The House of Wessex had once stood as a proud emblem of nobility and heritage. Now it was little more than a hollow monument—a carcass of stone draped in ivy and silence.

The banners had been torn down; the crest melted from the gates. What had once been a seat of honor had turned into a refuge for secrets.

Aiden paused at the gate. His hand brushed the iron latticework, rough with rust. The scent of rain lingered—earth and iron and old memory.

Augustus's shadow still lingers here, he thought. But his house… his legacy… now burns in my name.

He entered.

Inside, the mansion was dim but alive. The scent of candle wax and polished wood hung thick. Dust caught the sunbeams that filtered through the arched windows like golden smoke. A single figure waited in the foyer—Tanya, one of the maids.

She stood with her hands clasped before her, eyes low, yet trembling faintly at the edges of her composure. Her dark hair was bound in a ribbon, but a strand had fallen loose against her cheek.

"Aiden," she murmured, stepping forward. "You're early."

He tilted his head, faint surprise threading through his voice. "It's your day off. I told you to rest. Spend the day with your family."

Tanya hesitated. The silence that followed was not of obedience—it was the fragile pause before confession.

"I… have no family to return to anymore....." Her voice wavered but did not break. "He left. My husband. Or rather—he was made to leave. The fault was mine."

Aiden's eyes narrowed, though his heart knew the truth before she spoke it aloud. You mean because of me.

He let the words rest on his tongue but did not speak them. Instead, he crossed the space between them with slow precision.

"Why?" he asked softly, as though he didn't already bear the weight of the answer.

Tanya's lips trembled. "Because I couldn't bear another man's touch. Because I've already given myself… in heart, if not in name. I chose this, Aiden...I....I chose you... Don't make it sound like a wound."

There was a shimmer of something in her tone—defiance wrapped in devotion.

Aiden exhaled. His hand lifted, fingers tracing a line down her arm, a gesture less of affection than acknowledgment. "Then you've chosen the harder path."

Tanya smiled faintly, tears glistening at the edge of her lashes. "I don't regret it. You told me once that all strength is born of sacrifice. This is mine."

She bowed her head then—not as a servant, but as one who had already given something deeper.

Aiden stood there for a long moment, his own thoughts a silent storm. Her devotion stirred something inconvenient in him. He was a man forged in conflict, sharpened by betrayal, and bound to ambition. Yet moments like these—raw, unadorned—threatened to dull his edge.

He forced his focus back to purpose. "Go. Rest in the upper quarters. Don't worry, I'll see that your children are taken care of—education, home, all of it. They'll never know the hunger you once did."

Tanya's tears fell then, soundless against the polished floor. She pressed her forehead to his hand briefly—a gesture of faith—and withdrew into the shadowed hallways.

The silence that followed was heavy, like a heartbeat trapped inside stone.

From the upper corridor, a voice echoed—a lilting, composed tone edged with practiced grace.

"So, the prodigal knight returns," said Countess.

Aiden turned. She descended the grand staircase with deliberate poise, emerald hair cascading in artful curls, the green of her gown mirroring her eyes—eyes that gleamed with calculation beneath a mask of charm. The scent of lilac preceded her, subtle yet commanding.

"You've kept me waiting," she said, pausing on the final step. "Do you make every lady wait this long, or am I the special one?"

Aiden's lips curved faintly. "Patience suits you, Countess. It sharpens your beauty."

Her laugh was soft, measured. "Flattery from you, Sir Aiden, is like gold dust—it dazzles, but one never knows its price."

They stood a moment in silence—two predators circling civility.

The Countess had always known that Aiden's rise meant danger to the old bloodlines. Yet she found herself drawn to him, compelled by the dangerous symmetry of his ambition.

He had once advised her to cede the mansion's ownership to a name beyond reproach, a gesture of survival disguised as generosity. Aethal and her—the family who now held the title on paper—were merely masks. Beneath it all, Aiden's will was the true master here.

And she knew it.

"You've come for the meeting," she said. "The others are ready. Even the elf."

At that word, Aiden's gaze sharpened. "Good. Then let's begin."

He followed her down the hall into the heart of the mansion.

The meeting room had once been a library—its walls lined with shelves of forgotten wisdom. Dust motes spiraled in the dim candlelight, and a single stained-glass window painted fractured colors across the floor. In the center, a round table waited, already set for six.

At its far end sat the Elf mother—tall, slender, her skin luminous even in shadow. Her hair, emrald as the forest, fell around her shoulders like water. Beside her sat her child, a small girl of perhaps ten, studying a book of human script with intense concentration.

Aiden paused at the threshold. The sight drew a flicker of emotion across his composed mask—something between reverence and longing.

Even with their ears bound by spellcraft, their beauty bleeds through.

He entered. The air shifted subtly as the elf rose in greeting.

"My lord," she said softly, her accent carrying the cadence of old forests. "Your home has been most kind. My daughter learns quickly. She will speak your tongue soon."

Aiden inclined his head. "Good. She'll need it in the days to come."

He studied the room, the faces within it—the Countess , the Elf mother, the young child, and in the corner, two more women: veiled and watchful, and Arina, a warrior of the slayer guild, and of course, his lovely amber. Each of them bound to Aiden by different threads—loyalty, debt, desire, or shared rebellion.

He took his seat at the head of the table.

For a moment, no one spoke. The mansion itself seemed to hold its breath.

Then Aiden began.

"You all know why we're here, my future predictions, you all heard it.." he said. His voice was calm, but beneath it pulsed the quiet force of conviction. "The old world is crumbling. The nobles hide behind their banners, the Church prays for power, and the Slayers divide strength among themselves. None see what's coming."

He leaned forward slightly, eyes burning in the candlelight. "But I do."

A murmur passed through the group.

Arina arched a brow. "And what do you see, Aiden?"

"A future that no longer separates sword from scripture, or crown from cause. We've been taught that power must be divided to remain pure. I say it must be united—or it will devour itself."

The countess tilted her head, green strands catching the light. "You wish to forge a union between the guilds, the nobles, and the church? That's a dream poets die for."

"Dreams are for those who can afford them," Aiden replied. "I deal in inevitability."

There was silence again—this time heavier, charged.

I will be the forge that binds their fates, he thought. And if it costs me my soul, so be it.

He stood, pacing slowly around the table. "The Slayer Guild has lost its teeth.

The Church fears what it cannot control. And the nobility rots behind ceremony. But together—" His hand brushed the back of Arina's chair as he passed, the briefest whisper of touch.

"—together, they could rule the shape of the world. And I will see to it that they do."

Amber spoke, her voice cautious. "And you, Sir Aiden? What will you take from this unity?"

He smiled, the expression quiet and dangerous. "Only what is owed."

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