From Darrius Cain's Point of View
Darkness came early to the Warwick estate. The velvet dusk slipped through marble corridors and gilded columns like an intruder, draping shadows across the grand portraits of men long dead.
Darrius Cain moved through the hush with feline quiet. He wore black, always black, and the color suited him. In the soft candlelight, his silhouette was more shadow than man, his coat flowing like ink behind him.
Tonight, the duchess held council. Not with kings or warlords, but with nobles and whisperers, those who spoke with forks in their tongues and knives behind their smiles.
He had not been invited. He came anyway.
The long hall before the library was lined with windows, each draped with heavy, plum-colored curtains. The scent of old paper and ash wafted from under the door, mingling with wax and rose oil.
He stopped.
A voice rose within.
"…a military campaign would jeopardize our port alliances, unless you're willing to forfeit coin for steel."
Then another: calm, firm, unmistakable.
"We are not discussing war. We are discussing honor."
Darrius smiled faintly.
There she was.
He pushed open the heavy doors without knocking.
The room stilled. Six nobles sat around the polished table, and they all turned, some startled, others scowling. But only one pair of eyes caught his attention.
Elenora Warwick sat at the head of the table, posture regal, every line of her gown immaculately pressed. Her gloved hands were laced together, chin lifted in icy elegance. She did not blink.
Darrius bowed mockingly. "Forgive the interruption. I heard the sound of strategy echoing through the halls and thought I'd lend a sharper tongue."
Lord Merrick rose from his seat. "This is no place for jesters."
"Good," Darrius replied, moving into the room. "I never tell jokes."
Elenora didn't move. "This meeting is reserved for those whose counsel I value. Kindly leave."
"I merely hoped to witness brilliance in motion. But I see you've surrounded yourself with yes-men."
Merrick's face colored. "You insolent—"
"Enough," Elenora said. "Lord Cain, I will not tolerate disruption. Your presence here is inappropriate."
"Inappropriate," Darrius echoed. "Like a duchess brokering power with cowards and calling it diplomacy?"
Gasps rippled down the table.
Elenora stood.
Her voice did not rise, but it gained a deadly precision.
"You tread on thinning ice, Lord Cain. Pray you can swim."
Darrius took another step forward. "I only wonder how long it'll take before you realize your allies are weighing your crown against their pockets."
"You presume much."
"I observe well."
A taut silence fell. Elenora dismissed her council with a flick of her hand.
"Leave us."
Reluctantly, the nobles filtered out, casting backward glances at the two adversaries. The door shut with a soft, final click.
Alone now, they stood across from each other in the vast room, lit only by a flickering chandelier and the fire crackling in the hearth.
Darrius's expression softened, almost imperceptibly.
"I knew your father," he said. "He didn't fear debate."
She didn't flinch. "You knew him when it was convenient."
"He once told me you'd be the one to rebuild Warwick, or bury it."
Her eyes narrowed. "And which am I doing, in your opinion?"
"You haven't decided yet. That's the problem."
Elenora moved closer, her gown whispering over the floor like silk over stone. "You speak as if you understand legacy. Yet yours is dust and rumor."
Darrius's smile returned. "What's more powerful than rumor?"
"You think this is a game."
"No," he said quietly. "I think this is survival. And I think you're running out of allies."
She studied him carefully, the firelight casting gold across her cheekbones. For a moment, something softened. A memory perhaps. A flicker of familiarity.
He almost hated it.
She turned her back on him.
"You should leave. While you still have your tongue."
He didn't. Instead, he walked to the window, parting the curtain just enough to look at the estate beyond.
Rain had begun to fall, light and persistent. He watched it bead along the iron balconies.
"I remember Warwick before the wars," he murmured. "Before your brothers died. Before your smile vanished."
She froze.
"I was here once," he continued. "A guest. You were maybe sixteen. You threw wine at a suitor who called you 'fragile.'"
"I don't recall."
"Because you pretend not to. Because memory is dangerous when you've trained yourself not to feel."
She faced him again, her voice quieter. "What do you want, Darrius?"
He looked at her.
"An honest court. A real leader. And perhaps… to see if the fire behind your eyes burns for more than vengeance."
"That is none of your concern."
"It should be. Because I'm the only one not here to strip your estate piece by piece."
Silence again.
Then, softly, the door opened.
A servant entered, bowing low. "Your Grace… a message. Urgent."
She took the envelope. Her brow furrowed as she broke the seal.
After a moment, she looked up, eyes like steel.
"What is it?" Darrius asked.
Her fingers curled around the paper. "A ship. From Othrane. Docked this morning. No manifest. No crew seen boarding or disembarking."
His eyes darkened. "A ghost ship?"
"Or a warning."
They stood there, the flickering fire casting long shadows as thunder cracked in the distance.
Outside, the rain turned heavier.
Inside, the war had only just begun.