Order, Lucien Vane understood, governed all. Prosperity, true happiness, truly flourished between those of similar mind and station. A harmonious congruence of values, of lineage, of education, of coffers. Like recognized like, then settled into a predictable, pleasant current. He, a clever child, had grasped this immutable truth early, embracing it as the singular highway to the enviable tranquility sought by all within the Grand Conclave’s ancient walls.
Then, the year he turned seventeen, a tremor shook his carefully constructed world. He found himself ensnared in an extraordinary devotion, a fierce, consuming flame that defied every rational principle he held sacred. Perhaps it had been an insidious poison from their first exchange, only now fully manifesting. A logical mind, he dismissed it as mere youthful fancy, a passing fever of the blood. Ignored it.
Unbidden, the feelings coiled tighter, a viper within his chest. They stole his breath, lodged themselves in his throat. Eventually, they choked him.
“Take me to the Obsidian Quarter.”
Dawn, an unwelcome guest, painted the city in shades of bruised amethyst and sickly grey. A missive, sharp and intrusive as a thrown stone, had shattered his meticulous pre-morning quiet. Its summons, unexpected, demanded immediate audience.
Rising from his bed, a soft curse barely stirred the chill air. His automatons, gears silent, stood sentinel in the shadowed corners of his chambers. Only the Conclave’s sleeping gargoyles would note his absence. He would go.
Outside the iron gates of his ancestral manse, awaiting his hired carriage, his gaze drifted. A midnight-hued phaeton, remarkably sleek, sat carelessly against the wall of the neighbouring estate. A year past, that family had vanished without a trace, new gentry installing themselves behind the high, privacy-guarding walls. He had never encountered them. No surprise there; such anonymity was prized in this quarter. The phaeton, a brazen splash of defiance, spoke of a temperament quite unlike his own, perhaps an older child.
Sometimes, the carriage was left askew, as if recently abandoned. Other times, it was tethered with an almost brutal efficiency, its polished leather gleam held fast. Both states, he mused, mirrored something in himself: his own carefully maintained composure, stretched taut over a turbulent, chained spirit. He tore his gaze away, stepping into the waiting brougham.
During the slow, clattering journey through the awakening streets, his eyes fixed on the receding gothic spires, on the skeletal trees lining the avenues. A subtle sway of the carriage, however, always unsettled his stomach. Eventually, he pressed a gloved hand to his lips, closing his eyes against the nausea.
Something had been amiss for a year now, a persistent, gnawing unease in his gut. A sigh escaped him, a barely audible puff of air. He pressed his knuckles against the persistent tightness in his chest, a futile attempt to ease the ache. He had cultivated the art of ignoring unsettling emotions, burying them beneath layers of meticulous decorum. Always, he maintained a composed facade. Even now, stepping from the carriage into the hushed lane, he presented a picture of unruffled calm.
Before the discreet, unadorned door, he bit the inside of his lip until a metallic tang bloomed. His hand, momentarily clenched, released its tension. A small, crested card, its heavy vellum bearing a hastily scribbled numeral, guided him. He raised his fist, knocking three precise, measured beats against the polished oak.
Silence. From within, nothing answered.
Irritation, a thin, sharp spike, pierced his composure. He exhaled slowly, a controlled release of air. Then, his fist slammed against the timber, a harder, less precise rap that resonated through the quiet morning.
“Julian! Open the damn door!”
This entire scenario—a bitter bile rose in his throat. The mere imagining of what dalliance might have transpired behind this closed door overnight made his skin crawl, a reptilian shiver. Yet, he could not stop himself from striking the wood again. Lord Julian Thorne had summoned him. He endured this repulsive tableau because Julian, damn him, had infected him with that first, insidious malady.
“Why call for me,” he hissed, voice barely a whisper, “when you’re occupied with some useless strumpet, you worthless bastard?”
Gods, this was insufferable.
The crushing weight of eighteen years.