EVELINA
The bells of the capital rang at dawn.
Not for worship, nor for celebration. Their sound was deep and deliberate, carrying across the rooftops and down the stone streets. It was the kind of ringing that marked the beginning of judgment.
In the palace courtyard, soldiers assembled in perfect lines. Their red cloaks caught the early sun as they moved with quiet precision, each holding sealed orders bearing the royal crest. By midmorning, those orders would reach the gates of the noble families who had long hidden behind Montclair's shadow.
No one spoke openly of a purge. It was not announced, nor proclaimed. Yet every noble in the capital understood what was happening. The Crown was cleaning the house.
One by one, carriages rolled through the marble arches of the royal court. The faces inside were pale, their titles stripped by silence rather than decree. Some were known for their arrogance, others for the quiet corruption that had fed Montclair's wealth. Each was called before the Crown Prince's council. Each left diminished, their lands confiscated or their influence gone.
The city began to whisper again, as it always did.
But this time the whispers had no clear direction.
It seemed to happen by coincidence, by timing, by fate itself, as though the kingdom had decided it had tolerated enough sin. No one dared suspect that the hand guiding this storm belonged to Lucian Ravenscroft and the Crown Prince.
Their plan was simple and cruel in its precision: weaken Montclair by cutting away his supports, one noble at a time.
The court believed these arrests to be the Crown's act of moral reform. They were not wrong, but they did not see the truth beneath it. The careful, invisible pattern drawn to isolate a man without ever naming him.
Far from the capital, at the Everleigh Estate, the morning light broke softly through the east windows of the study.
Marquess Everleigh sat at his desk, the day's letters spread before him. He had not yet touched the tea that was cooled by his hand. His eyes moved slowly across the sealed parchment bearing the royal crest.
The summons was brief. A formal request for information regarding trade accounts shared with Montclair's associates during the previous decade.
He had done nothing wrong, yet the words carried weight.
The door opened quietly. His steward, a thin man with worry creasing his brow, stepped inside. "My lord," he began, "the news from the capital is grim. They say Lord Trenwell has been arrested."
The Marquess did not look up. "Trenwell's greed was his undoing. It is no surprise."
"They say the Crown means to make an example of him," the steward continued. "And others, too. Houses once favored by the Grand Duke. Some already face inquiry. The servants are frightened. They ask if our name will be called."
Marquess Everleigh leaned back in his chair, folding the letter. His movements were slow, deliberate. "Tell them they have no cause for fear. The Everleigh name has no stain upon it."
"Yes, my lord. But they also say the investigations are not about guilt anymore. They say it is about who stood nearest to the fire."
The Marquess gave a tired smile. "Then we can only hope the smoke remembers who lit it."
The steward bowed and withdrew, leaving him alone.
Silence settled in the room, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the mantel. The Marquess rose and crossed to the window. The gardens below were bright with spring color. The tulips had begun to bloom near the fountain, and the air carried the soft scent of earth and water.
He had lived long enough to know that peace was only ever the space between storms.
He thought of the late Queen, whom he had served faithfully. Her memory still lingered in these halls like perfume. She had trusted him when few others did, and though he had never shared her secrets, that trust now felt like a mark upon his name.
He could still hear her voice, soft but steady, as she once said to him, "Loyalty is never without cost, my friend. One day, the same devotion that protects you will condemn you."
He had not understood her then. He did now.
The knock on the door was firm. The butler entered, followed by a young courier in the royal uniform.
"My lord," the butler said, "a message from the capital."
The courier stepped forward, bowing quickly. "By order of His Highness, the Crown Prince, your household is requested to present your ledgers and correspondence regarding the western trade contracts. His Highness extends his trust that you will cooperate fully."
The Marquess accepted the scroll. "Tell your superiors I have nothing to hide."
"Yes, my lord." The courier bowed again and departed.
When the door closed, the butler remained hesitant. "My lord… should we be concerned?"
The Marquess looked at him, his gaze calm. "Concern accomplishes nothing. We will do as we are asked. Truth has its own defense."
The butler bowed and withdrew.
Left alone again, the Marquess walked back to his desk. He placed the scroll beside the letter and sat in silence for a long moment.
He knew what this was. The purge had reached beyond corruption now; it was testing loyalty. The Crown was not only cleansing sin but measuring trust.
He did not blame them. If he were in the Crown Prince's position, he might have done the same.
Yet part of him could not help but feel the faint sting of irony. He had lived a lifetime in service to the throne, and now, in his old age, that same throne cast its shadow over his name.
Outside, the sound of carriage wheels echoed faintly across the estate. A group of riders appeared beyond the gate, their armor glinting in the light. They bore the colors of the Crown, not of war but of inspection.
The Marquess watched them through the window. He felt neither fear nor anger, only the quiet fatigue of a man who had seen too many seasons of politics turn on themselves.
He whispered, almost to himself, "So it begins."
LUCIAN
In the capital, the cleansing continued.
By nightfall, three noble houses had fallen. Their titles stripped, their estates seized, their influence dissolved into silence. Yet no one spoke Montclair's name. His faction still existed in shadow, but its roots were being cut without sound.
To the outside world, it appeared that justice had finally found those who had abused their power. Only a few suspected that the true purpose ran deeper.
Lucian watched from the edge of the council balcony as the arrests were read aloud below. He stood beside Whitcombe, his expression unreadable.
"They will not trace this back to us," Leopold murmured. "The Crown Prince has played his hand perfectly. No one even whispers his name in this."
Lucian nodded. "That is how it must remain. Montclair must fall by his own weight. If we move too soon, we risk sympathy turning toward him."
Leopold smirked. "Sympathy? For that serpent?"
"Power breeds pity when it begins to break," Lucian said quietly. "People forget what a man has done and only remember what he has lost."
Leopold regarded him for a moment, then laughed softly. "You sound as though you pity him yourself."
Lucian's gaze stayed on the chamber below. "No. But I understand him."
The sound of the bell rang again, signaling another verdict. Lucian's eyes hardened. "He has built his life on false alliances. Let them collapse one by one. By the time he looks around, he will realize he has no one left to defend him."
He turned and left the balcony, his cloak trailing softly behind him.
At Everleigh Estate, night had fallen.
Marquess Everleigh sat once more at his desk, candlelight flickering across his features. The inspection had been polite but thorough. Every ledger, every document reviewed and sealed. The soldiers who had arrived earlier now rode back toward the capital with their report.
The house was quiet again. Too quiet.
He poured himself a glass of wine, though his hand trembled slightly. He was not afraid of guilt, but of misunderstanding. In the court, innocence was not always protection, sometimes it was invitation.
He looked toward the portrait of his late wife above the fireplace. "We have done no wrong," he said softly. "Yet I cannot help but feel that righteousness has never mattered less."
Outside, the wind carried the faint echo of distant bells from the city. He listened, knowing what they meant.
Justice, the court called it.
But to him, it sounded like the slow unraveling of an old world.
He closed his eyes and prayed that when morning came, the Everleigh name would still stand untouched.