Dantes stepped into the grand hall of the mansion, his body heavy with exhaustion, yet his posture remained composed. The city remained restless through the night, tension thick in every street he passed. He had not been followed—of that, he was certain.
As he neared the council chamber, the scent of burning wood and old parchment filled the air. Beyond the doors, voices rose and fell in measured tones, controlled yet unmistakably sharp. His father was speaking.
Dantes exhaled, pushing the doors open.
The council chamber was a spacious hall, its high ceiling upheld by thick deepsea stone columns with intricate descriptions of merfolks. The flickering candlelight barely reached the vaulted arches above, leaving the upper corners swallowed in darkness.
The long, polished mahogany table stretched beneath the golden glow of chandeliers, its surface reflecting the candlelight.
Inside, the atmosphere was thick with the presence of men who dictated the course of the city's future. Nobles, advisors, merchants who had secured their power through coins rather than blood.
At the head of the room, a chair made of the onyx stone, grander than the rest, commanded authority, its high back adorned with the family's sigil. An ivory fox seashell.
Seated upon the onyx throne was his father—Duke Alistair of House Ondeine, Lord of the Azure Port, Warden of the Eastern Seas.
Silver-haired, eyes sharp as ever, the man barely spared Dantes a glance before continuing, his voice cutting through the low murmurs.
"…which means our hold on the island colonies will tighten. We cannot afford leniency, not when the pirates are already stirring."
The merchants shifted in their seats uncomfortably. A bald man, draped in gold-trimmed robes, cleared his throat delicately. "With respect, my lord, harsher measures could incite further unrest—"
"And doing nothing," the Duke interrupted him, his gaze cold, "would invite anarchy."
The merchant paled, his fingers tightening around the rim of his goblet. The other merchants around him swallowed hard, nodding quickly, more eager to appease than to argue.
Dantes stepped forward, ignoring the eyes that flickered toward him. He moved to his usual place—four seats down from his father. Not too close, not too far. A deliberate position.
The Duke finally turned to him. "You're late."
Dantes only gave a slight nod, his exhaustion carefully masked beneath his usual self. "I was attending to matters outside the estate."
A scoff came from the far end of the table. "Matters of your own, no doubt," Lord Lorcan of House Meryl, one of the older nobles muttered. "You disappear for days, and now you walk in as if nothing has happened?"
The Duke exhaled slowly, then leaned back in his chair, the flickering candlelight casting deep shadows over his face. "For your sake, Dantes, I'd hope that you haven't been playing games outside of this table."
Dantes allowed himself the faintest smile. "I never play games, Father."
His father said nothing. But the way his fingers tapped against the polished wood told Dantes he wasn't convinced.
The discussion shifted to delicate negotiations and trade agreements. Dantes remained quiet for the most part, listening as the nobles and merchants moved onto the finer details of control—where to tighten their grip, where to loosen it just enough to avoid rebellion.
The Duke, as always, commanded the room with measured authority. He made no hasty decisions, no unnecessary concessions. Every word was deliberate with caution behind them, yet strong and commanding.
One of the wealthiest merchants, Cassian of the Velvet, leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. "My lord, the pirates' activities have indeed disrupted trade routes," he said smoothly. "However, some… arrangements can be made. A few of us have connections with them. A controlled alliance might—"
"A waste of time," Lord Lorcan scoffed. "You'd rather pay them than crush them?"
Cassian merely smiled, unbothered. "I prefer profit over war, Lord Lorcan. As do most of us here."
A few of the merchants nodded, their expressions carefully neutral.
Another merchant chuckled, leaning back while swirling his wine lazily. "We'll adapt, as we always do. What's a little bloodshed if the coin keeps coming?"
The nobles shot them disapproving looks, but the merchants hardly seemed to care. Their loyalty was to profit, not the crown.
At last, after what felt like an eternity, his father leaned back in his chair and exhaled. "We'll reconvene for the coming full moon." His gaze swept over the room. "Until then, I expect every one of you to act with discipline. No missteps."
The nobles murmured their agreements, pushing back their chairs. Lord Lorcan exchanged quiet words before making his way toward the exit.
"Ensure the revolutionary factions remain under strict surveillance. The trade agreement with the Eastern Lands of Monsters must be finalized before our next gathering. As for the pirates plaguing our routes—this nuisance will be handled. Unless any of you have a more profitable alternative?"
Dantes knew his father's words were law. Yet, he wondered if these merchants truly believed they had a say in the matter—or if they simply played their part to keep their fortunes intact.
Dantes remained leaning back in his seat as the room emptied. His father hadn't dismissed him yet.
The Duke studied him for a moment before motioning toward a letter with the King's seal on the table. "A runner was murdered two nights ago. The old man from the Great War."
Dantes blinked slowly, his mind sluggishly piecing it together. A Runner. Dead.
Runners were the war prisoners, basically spies who were captured during the wars. Instead of execution, they were stripped of their past names and any allegiance, and were tortured with inhuman means.
Only a very few of them were broken down. But their existence came at a cost. They lived in uncertainty, neither trusted by their captors nor truly belonging to the side they once fought for.
And yet someone had waited decades to settle an old grudge.
Dantes finally spoke, his voice low, rough at the edges. "A Runner. Murdered." He said it was as if testing the weight of his words. Then, slower, "Someone wanted him gone. But why now?"
His father didn't answer immediately. Instead, he tapped a finger against the table, considering. The tension in the room tightened, the air pressing against his lungs.
"The timing is… inconvenient," his father continued. "With war negotiations underway, this coincidence is too precise to ignore."
He stood up from his seat folding the letter back. Without a word, he held it to the flame. The parchment curled at the edges, blackening as fire consumed the ink, reducing it to ashes.
The Duke's voice was quieter now, but no less firm. " You will handle it."