The world, Elias had long since reasoned, yielded its choicest fruits to those who understood its architecture. True advantage, like a perfectly balanced scales, required similitude. Similar intellect, similar ambition, similar stations in the vast, glittering hierarchy of the court. Such was the rational path, the paved boulevard to the gilded happiness all courtiers, however secretly, craved. He had been a keen, discerning youth, absorbing this axiom like holy writ. Power attracted power, influence begat influence. A simple, elegant truth, unmarred by sentiment or passion. Yet, the year he turned seventeen, a bewildering current seized him. It was a gravitational pull, sharp and unbidden, toward a force that defied every precept he had honed. An extraordinary fascination, a perilous obsession that clawed at the polished surface of his intellect. He had dismissed it, then, as a fleeting fever of youth, a schoolboy’s infatuation for a distant, dazzling star. An inconsequential folly, easily brushed aside. Still, the intricate coils of that unacknowledged yearning tightened within him. They lodged in his chest, a persistent ache, eventually constricting his throat until he felt, quite literally, choked. "To Lord Valerius's discreet residence, near the Old Observatory." His voice, though low, carried the crisp edge of an unsheathed blade. The city's pre-dawn tapestry, grey and hushed, unwound beyond the carriage window. A message, delivered by a breathless page, had arrived but moments ago, sharp as a sudden jab. It had brutally plundered the fragile quietude of his earliest hours. After reading the sealed parchment, Elias had sat on the edge of his bed, fingers pressing into his temples. A muted curse, a breath escaping like a sigh of spent steam, had then propelled him to his feet. In the hushed wing he occupied, the few slumbering servants would stir for hours yet. No one would mark his absence. He had slipped through the palace's lesser galleries, the chill of dawn seeping through the stone, his slippered feet making no sound on the polished marble. Waiting for his private conveyance by a secluded side gate, his gaze snagged on a sight across the cobbled alley. A mastiff, immense and sleek, lay chained to an ancient hitching post. Its coat, the colour of charcoal, shimmered even in the faint glow of a solitary lantern. The powerful beast, belonging to the new, rarely seen occupant of the adjacent townhouse, strained against its heavy iron chain. Its amber eyes, wild and restless, tracked phantom movements in the gloom. Unkempt, untamed, yet undeniably potent. Its latent fury, its confined strength, resonated with an unwelcome familiarity. He stared for a beat longer, a flicker of something unreadable in his own dark eyes, before turning and stepping into the waiting carriage. During the rattling journey, Elias kept his eyes fixed on the fleeting urban landscape, a grey blur of manses and bare winter trees. Yet, the persistent tremor in his stomach, a familiar ailment he attributed to the carriage's incessant jostling, forced him to close them. A wave of faint nausea washed over him, clammy and cold. For nearly a year, this same disquiet had plagued him. Meals had become a tedious struggle, a knot of unease perpetually lodged beneath his sternum. He sighed, a shallow, controlled release of breath, attempting to loosen the invisible bonds around his chest. Such unsettling emotions, such visceral disruptions, he had long made a habit of ignoring. With immense, painstaking effort, he had perfected a façade of serene composure. Just as he did now, descending from the carriage, his posture ramrod straight, his expression an unblemished mask as he approached the anonymous townhouse. Inside, as the heavy oak door swung shut behind him, Elias bit his lip, a sharp, brief sting. His hand, for a moment, clenched into a tight fist before relaxing, his fingers fanning out in a practiced display of calm. He glanced at the creased parchment in his grasp, its familiar script an unwelcome sight. Locating the specified suite number, he approached the corresponding door. Three light, precise raps echoed in the hushed corridor. Silence answered him from the other side, thick and unbroken. Irritation, a prickle beneath his skin, stirred. Elias stared at the unyielding wood, a dark void, for a long moment before exhaling sharply. He pounded on the door again, this time with a more forceful, less subtle urgency. "Lysander Valerius! Open this cursed door, I command you!" His voice, though still carefully modulated, carried a desperate edge. This situation, honestly, it was abominable. The very thought of what casual debauchery might have transpired within that room overnight made his gorge rise. A chill of disgust crawled over his skin. Yet, he could not stop himself from knocking. Lord Valerius had summoned him, and he endured this repulsive charade because Valerius was the one who had, with such callous disregard, infected him with that first, debilitating 'illness.' "By the Saints, why must you summon me after your dissolute dalliances, you worthless rake?" The words, though whispered, burned on his tongue. Veridia, this wretched dance. The burdens of a man barely past his boyhood.

A Summons at Dawn