The calm in my mind lets me sleep longer. My objective is clear and my preparation is complete. It's time for the execution.
On Sunday, I wake late. The city moves without me. By the time I rise, the sun has climbed high, spilling gold across rooftops and streets.
Morning passes in measured pace. A quick bath. Dressing neatly—the frock coat today is green, a color of patience and intent. My hands carry the box of tea from the continent.
The lobby hums with the rhythm of guests. Some leave, some linger over breakfast. I nod to a few; their faces are fixed in routines that do not touch me.
Outside, a carriage waits. It takes me to Market Port, where I move directly toward Rehanza's office.
"Good Sund—" he pauses, eyes scanning me from head to boots. "Monsieur Thadeo—"
"Yeah?"
He circles me, careful, examining coat, trousers, shirt, gloves. "You're going somewhere important today?"
"Well yes. Which is why—"
"Green doesn't suit you."
I glance down at the coat. "I thought it looked exotic. Might catch attention."
He shakes his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. "I've never attended an elite party myself, but if you want to impress… there's a secret."
"What is that?"
"To impress others, you should avoid trying to impress anyone at all."
The words lodge deep. I will carry them.
"Wait here," he says, stepping out. Market sounds drift in—shouts, clanging carts, shuffle of boots over stone.
Moments later, he returns, a new leather hand bag in one hand, a cane in the other. The bag carries a coat, shirt, vest, and trousers.
"Black suits you more, Monsieur."
Guided through the change, I emerge in dark trousers, a purple shirt, and a vest. Over all, a long obsidian coat. Every stitch deliberate, every pattern dark embroidery, subtle but commanding.
A stiff, wide-brimmed fedora casts shadow over my eyes. The cane clicks against the floor—a polished metal handle shaped like a door lever.
Rehanza slides the box of tea into the leather bag and carries it for me.
In the mirror, I see attention commanded. Control radiates from every line, every shadowed angle, every measured gesture.
"Thanks, Rehanza. Time for my personal carriage."
The market opens around us. Crowds shift instinctively, some whisper, others bow slightly, heads lowering almost without thought. A conversation falters as I pass. Someone lowers their voice. Another forgets to pick it back up.
At the Bellingham Office workshop, a single carriage waits among the others.
Charcoal and shadow. Matte obsidian body that drinks light instead of reflecting it. Two black horses with oily midnight-blue sheen, standing perfectly still. Windows of smoked glass, edges reinforced with brushed iron, driver's seat deep leather. Silent wheels promise ghostly glide.
I grasp the steel door lever—cold, precise, echoing my cane.
"Perfect," I murmur.
Conversation thins. A few workers stop pretending not to stare. Someone drops a wrench.
I settle inside, and the jarvy already understands without instructions. The carriage glides out, slicing through the city streets like shadow claiming territory.
The city hums around me, but inside the carriage, there is only control. Only presence. Only the quiet command of a man who intends to bend the world.
From the Western Outskirt to the Northern Outskirt, the streets slide past. My carriage moves through Eldenmere like a shadow claiming its territory.
Long lines of personal carriages stretch ahead, trying to enter the neighborhood. We queue alongside them, horses shifting. The afternoon wanes slowly, stretching patience thin, until the gates finally swing open. Not with a groan of rusted metal, but with a smooth, oiled hiss.
The lines take my carriage to my destination.
I step down, cane clinking against the cobblestones first, feet following with measured precision. The bag hangs from my left, heavy but balanced. Heads turn—some in curiosity, others in muted respect. Whispers ripple through the crowd, quiet but palpable.
I follow the guests toward the mansion. A sprawling three-story structure, its bone-white stone walls glowing under the rising moon. Twin rows of tall, narrow windows flicker amber, like watchful eyes tracking every motion.
As we enter the foyer, the scent hits me—night-blooming jasmine tangled with something metallic, like blood carefully masked by perfume. It's intoxicating.
A servant steps forward, presenting white masks to the guests. Precious gems glint in the dim light, catching the amber glow from the chandeliers.
"Here you go, Monsieur," the servant says, extending one toward me.
I take it, feeling the weight of expectation settle across my face. Tonight, every step, every glance, every movement will speak louder than words.
As I move through the crowd, a tall man steps forward.
"I saw your carriage. It's… really elegant," he says.
"Thanks. It's custom built by one of my companies."
"Oh? I can help you make even better carriages—for you personally, and for your business."
"How?"
"I control three private forest tracts. Ship-grade oak. Ash cured for carriage shafts. Straight-grain heartwood. No warping."
"How much?"
"My company can supply enough to build half a fleet. So… about two hundred phens."
"Two hundred phens for the timber," I repeat.
I study him. Hands rough. Boots worn. Desperate ambition behind polished words. "No. I mean your company. What is the valuation?"
"WH-WHAT? You want to buy the company?" The man flinches, eyes wide.
Nearby guests glance over. Whispers ripple through the crowd like a rising tide. "Is he serious?"
Eyes dart toward me. Heads turn without thinking. Conversations pause mid-word. A man mid-sentence forgets his words. A woman lowers her glass without drinking.
I remain still. "Control yourself."
It's subtle, but the effect is immediate. Men and women shift, some leaning in, others holding back, all drawn to the quiet authority in my posture.
Within moments, the circle grows. Guests pitch business opportunities, offer investments, try to sell companies. Their voices thread together into a soft, low hum of curiosity and ambition. Each person is drawn into orbit—watching, calculating, measuring.
The music continues, but no one listens.
Then, a familiar figure approaches. Blonde hair, pale skin, bone-framed elegance. She wears a blue gown; emerald-green eyes pierce through the mask's eyeholes.
"Good Sunday, Monsieur," she greets.
"You must be Madam Tanya."
"How can you tell?"
"No mask can hide your beauty."
She chuckles softly, pressing her hand lightly against my chest.
The brief touch sends ripples through the social field. Peripheral gazes sharpen. A few glasses pause midair. Someone laughs too loudly. The circle tightens, curiosity thickening the air.
"Masks hide faces, not instincts. Yours betray a certain… curiosity," I say.
Her head tilts slightly. The lantern light dances in her eyes.
"And what does your instinct say, Monsieur?" Her tone shifts—less intrigue now, more amusement.
"That you prefer what is uncommon."
Slowly, deliberately, I open my leather bag just enough. Inside, the carved wooden box rests in shadow. Birds and flowering branches etched across its surface catch the amber chandelier light.
"I happened to bring something uncommon."
I lift the box and place it in her hands.
She studies it before opening. The lid lifts.
"Oh! It's tea."
"From the continent," I add calmly.
The scent escapes first—earthy, floral, distant. Not merely a drink, but a journey folded into leaves.
She closes the box gently and chuckles.
"Monsieur, this is sweet… but I'm not a fan of tea. My fiancé, however, loves tea very much."
She leans closer, her voice lowering into a whisper only I can hear.
"He's addicted to tea."
Our laughter blends softly, controlled.
"Then let this be our secret, Madam," I murmur.
Her fingers hook around my left arm. The tea box rests in her right. Together, we begin to move through the crowd.
The guests part for us—not dramatically, but instinctively. Conversations bend. Eyes follow. A pairing like this does not go unnoticed.
She leads. I allow it.
Through clusters of silk and shadow. Through murmured speculation. Through glances sharpened by envy, curiosity, or calculation.
"To Xandar?" I almost ask.
No.
Hopefully…
To my Ashlynn.