Alistair Finch believed similarity was the bedrock of all true affection. Harmony, he reasoned, could only flourish between individuals of congruent aspirations, kindred lineage, and aligned intellectual acumen. This was the undisputed path to the serene contentment so fervently sought by the ancient houses of Aethelgard. His own discerning mind, sharpened by years of observing courtly dances and scholarly rivalries at Solstice, had cemented this conviction from his youth. Then, in his seventeenth year, a perplexing disquiet stirred within him. A peculiar, extraordinary sentiment, entirely at odds with his meticulously cataloged understanding of human connection, began to bloom. Perhaps it had been a seed planted long ago, a sudden blossoming he now, belatedly, recognized. Yet, Alistair prided himself on rigorous logic. He rationalized the anomaly away, dismissing it as a fleeting distraction, a mere adolescent infatuation, unworthy of deeper consideration. Still, the burgeoning feelings, vibrant and untamed, coiled themselves within his throat. They constricted his breath, a slow, inexorable choke. "To the Silver Quarter, if you please. The Crimson Keep." Dawn bled across the eastern sky, painting the city's spires in hues of bruised violet and pale gold. Its silent, tranquil sprawl unrolled beyond the carriage window, a stark contrast to the abrupt missive that had shattered his pre-dawn peace. Discovering the sealed vellum scroll nestled upon his bedside table, a silent messenger having breached his slumber, Alistair had sat motionless for a prolonged moment. A soft curse escaped his lips. His family's ancestral estate, though diminished, still held a small complement of staff. But the venerable house-mistress and the few retainers were soundly asleep in their quarters below, oblivious to his clandestine departure. He rose, a phantom silhouette in the pre-dawn gloom, and made his way to the stables. Awaiting the carriage he had summoned through a hushed instruction to a groom, his gaze snagged on a sight across the cobbled lane. Parked against the high stone wall of the neighboring estate, recently acquired by a notoriously arriviste merchant family, rested a runic cycle. Its frame, a sleek curve of polished etherium, gleamed dully in the nascent light. Sometimes, he had observed, it was casually left propped against the gate, an emblem of careless opulence. Other times, it was meticulously chained and secured, almost shoved into the shadows. Alistair found its dual nature oddly familiar, a reflection of his own carefully maintained veneer of docility masking a chained ambition. He studied it a moment longer, then averted his eyes, stepping into the waiting carriage. Throughout the journey, Alistair kept his attention fixed on the passing scenery. The winding streets of Aethelgard, usually bustling, were quiet now. But his constitution, ever sensitive to motion, soon rebelled. A faint nausea bloomed in his stomach, a familiar prelude to his peculiar travel sickness. With a faint sigh, he surrendered, closing his eyes against the unwelcome sensation. For nearly a year, his body had been a recalcitrant guest, refusing to properly digest his meals. A persistent tightness, a knot of unease, had taken root in his chest. Alistair made a practice of dissecting unsettling emotions, of filing them away into neat, ignorable categories. With immense discipline, he had sustained a facade of serene composure, a meticulous performance of calm, even now. As the carriage drew to a halt before the discreet, ivy-clad entrance of the Crimson Keep, he stepped out, his spine rigid. Inside the hushed, velvet-lined foyer, he bit down hard on his lip, a silent, almost imperceptible tremor running through him. He clenched his fist, the knuckles briefly stark white, before consciously relaxing it. Alistair’s eyes found the small, folded parchment clutched in his palm. The scrawled room number, a stark black cipher against the cream vellum, seemed to pulse. He moved towards the corresponding door, a heavy slab of dark, polished oak. Slow, deliberate, he raised his hand and knocked three times. Silence answered him, a profound, almost mocking void from beyond the door. Irritation pricked him. He stared at the unyielding surface, his jaw tightening. Then, a sharp exhale escaped his lips. He hammered on the door again, this time with a brutal, visceral force. "Lysander Vane! Open the damn door!" This entire situation was, frankly, revolting. The very notion of what clandestine indulgences might have transpired within that room overnight made Alistair’s skin crawl with repugnance. Yet, he could not, would not, stop knocking. Lysander Vane had summoned him. And Alistair, against all his logical convictions, was enduring this repulsive scene because Lysander was the singular architect of this first, profound "illness" that had corrupted his carefully ordered world. "Why in the abyssal hells do you summon me at dawn, Vane, when you've been consorting with some frivolous courtesan, you worthless bastard?" Gods, this was unbearable. This was the eighteenth year of his life. ---

A Bitter Dawn in the Silver Quarter