The moonlight spilled through the tall arched windows of the office, silvering the aged wood and gilded trim with a pale, solemn glow. The Blackwood crest, carved into the paneling above the fireplace, flickered with the shifting flames of half-melted candles, their wax pooling onto antique holders that had once belonged to Alexander's grandfather. The scent of old parchment, ink, and hot wax lingered in the air, mingling with the faint traces of ash from the hearth.
Alexander sat hunched at the front of his massive mahogany desk, the brass corners cold beneath his forearms. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing skin worn with age—softly veined and marked with the scars of a man who had never been able to retire from responsibility. The desk was covered in a fortress of paperwork—ledgers, reports, family dossiers, surveillance updates. He flipped through them with mechanical precision, one page at a time, eyes narrowing when a line displeased him, lips tightening when familiar problems resurfaced.
He paused, his hand reaching for a fountain pen resting by his right wrist. He lifted it and dipped the nib into the deep inkwell beside him. The black liquid clung to the pen greedily, climbing higher up the shaft than usual before settling. Alexander frowned faintly. Odd. Ink rarely absorbed that fast. But fatigue had dulled his edge, and he dismissed it with a breath. Perhaps the ink was just thinner. Perhaps the air in the room was a little too warm.
He set the pen down again and leaned back with a low sigh, running a hand through his neatly trimmed grey hair, the strands coarse and thick like wire. The candlelight caught the tiredness in his eyes, a subtle haze that no amount of willpower could hide. He'd led Blackwood Industries for nearly forty-five years—longer than some employees had been alive—and the weight of it never lessened. Every decision, every secret, every alliance forged in fire or shadow, had left a mark on his spine.
And yet, in all that time, he had failed to name a successor.
Johnathan was the obvious candidate—sharp, loyal, groomed for leadership—but Alexander had seen too much of himself in the boy. And Layla… Layla had something rarer. Fire. Foresight. The ability to bend rules without shattering them. But she was untested, emotional, young in ways that still worried him. If only he could forge them into one soul. But such miracles did not exist, not in this family.
The last thing he wanted was a contest for power. That was how dynasties bled from within. That was how his own brother became a stranger. No, he thought bitterly, a throne divided invites ruin. The upcoming ball would offer him time to reflect, observe, perhaps even maneuver a gentler outcome—if only the rest of his bloodline kept their opinions to themselves.
A knock broke the silence.
Soft. Measured. Feminine.
Alexander blinked, momentarily lost in the fog of memory, before turning his attention to the tall oak doors.
"Excuse me, sir," a quiet voice called from behind them, composed and dulcet. "I have some mail to deliver."
Alexander hesitated, glancing once more at the cluttered battlefield of his desk. Then: "Please enter," he said, the edge of disinterest curling around the words like frost.
The handle turned. The door creaked open. The rhythmic click of heels echoed softly against the hardwood floor, each step unhurried, precise. He looked up, eyes narrowing with mild curiosity.
She couldn't have been older than eighteen.
She wore a simple black dress—tasteful, plain, form-fitting without being improper. Her long black hair hung in a curtain down her back, glinting with hints of dark blue under the candlelight. In her arms she carried a modest stack of letters, most bound in wax seals bearing regional emblems, noble sigils, and one with a mark Alexander did not immediately recognize.
But the girl reached only for the envelope at the top—an ivory one, its seal unmarked, closed with plain wax. She stepped forward and placed it gently on his desk.
"Here you are, sir," she said, offering a small bow before turning as if to leave without further word.
Alexander's voice caught her before the door did.
"You're a new hire, aren't you? I don't recall seeing you before."
The girl stopped mid-step. Slowly, her head tilted just enough for him to see her eyes—black as pitch, depthless and dry like obsidian. There was no fear in them, no servility. Only patience.
"Yes," she said after a beat. "I'm new. My name is Malika."
She smiled, just barely—a faint tightening of the lips, more polite than warm.
Alexander offered a tired smile in return. "Well… it's good to meet you, Malika. Welcome aboard."
She inclined her head in silent acknowledgment. Then, without another word, she turned and slipped through the door, closing it with a soft snick that barely echoed against the chamber walls.
Her footsteps continued down the long corridor, fading into the darkness beyond the hall's crystal chandeliers. She passed portraits of dead Blackwoods, eyes watching in silent judgment, and vanished down a lesser-known staircase—one used by servants, one rarely checked.
Alexander, meanwhile, returned to his work, his mind drifting back to inheritance charts and trade disputes. He did not think to question the seal on the envelope. Nor did he watch long enough to notice how deliberately the girl had walked. How she had chosen only that letter. How her smile had vanished the instant she turned her back to him.
He was right about one thing:
She was new.
He was also wrong about one thing:
Her name wasn't Malika.
And what he didn't see—what no one saw—was the tattoo coiled high on her thigh, just beneath the fabric of her dress:
A boy eating ice-cream, with demon surrounding him.
Her name wasn't Malika.
It was Lucille.
And she was already inside.
Seymour Blackwoods Office
Seymour disliked his office—truly, deeply disliked it. Not for lack of comfort; it had every trapping of refinement a man of his age and standing might desire. The armchairs were upholstered in rich leather, worn perfectly to his shape. The hearth, framed in black stone, glowed with a low, steady fire, casting warmth across Persian carpets faded by time. Tall windows lined the far wall, their shutters usually drawn to keep out the wind, but behind them the gardens spread like a memory—gravel paths winding through hedges and broken sundials, their symmetry long since lost to moss.
No, what unsettled Seymour was not the room itself, but what it remembered. The maps pinned along the walls, yellowed and curling at the edges, still traced the great valleys and forgotten isles of a younger man's triumphs. The shelves overflowed with weathered field journals, expedition logs, survey sketches. A topographer's archive—his archive. But where once these things had been tools, now they had become relics. Keepsakes of a former life.
He had crossed mountain passes once, eaten snow beneath the spine of the world, lifted iron keys from crypts no light had touched in centuries. Now, he filed reports and approved permits. Now, the only things he unearthed were memos.
He sighed. The newspaper in his lap folded with a brittle crackle as he set it aside, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose.
That was when the knock came.
Three raps. Precise. Measured. They echoed softly through the chamber, swallowed quickly by the heavy drapes.
Seymour blinked, brows knitting.
"Who is it?" he called, voice firm but not unkind.
"I have a letter for you, sir," came the response.
The voice was male. Unfamiliar. Clear and deliberate in its delivery. It did not stammer or apologize. Odd. Mail was not typically delivered this way—not here, not directly to his door. And certainly not on a Sunday.
Seymour stood, the old ache in his knees reminding him that even annoyance came at a cost. He straightened his waistcoat and approached the desk.
"In that case," he said with mild suspicion, "you may come in."
The door opened—not hastily, but with calm, deliberate ease. The hinges let out a faint groan, like an old throat clearing itself.
A man stepped through.
He was tall. Not just in stature, but in presence—impossibly still, as though carved from something older than flesh. His coat, a deep charcoal, fell nearly to the floor, tailored so finely it suggested wealth or power, but carried no crest, no emblem of house or city. His long hair was jet black, tied loosely at the nape of his neck with a strip of velvet.
And his eyes—gods above—his eyes were a glacial green, too luminous, too precise in their focus. They caught the firelight and bent it like glass.
He approached the desk without a word, each step as silent as falling ash. When he arrived, he extended one gloved hand, offering a neatly folded envelope, sealed in rich blue wax. The seal itself was unfamiliar—two ravens perched on opposite sides of a tower cleaved in two.
"Here you are," the man said softly. His voice was smooth—too smooth. Like silk pulled across sharpened bone.
Seymour took the letter, cautious but composed. The envelope was unnaturally light. He turned it once in his hand, squinting at the seal.
"Thank you," he muttered.
The man gave a shallow nod and turned to leave, movements graceful and unhurried. He was nearly to the door when Seymour found himself speaking again.
"Wait a moment."
The stranger stopped mid-stride, half-turned, head tilting slightly—not like a servant obeying, but like a hawk noticing something in the grass.
Seymour adjusted his glasses. "What's your favorite ice cream flavor?"
The silence that followed was long. Not awkward—but measured, as though the man behind the coat and gloves were consulting some inner logic for an appropriate answer.
Then he said, with the faintest curl of his lip, "Chocolate."
There was something about the way he said it. No sarcasm, no mirth. A plain truth, or something meant to resemble one.
Seymour offered a slight smile of his own. "Good man. You're free to go."
Without further word, the stranger nodded once and stepped out. The door clicked shut behind him.
And silence returned.
But not for long.
From behind the far curtain—drawn tightly across the alcove near the fireplace—came the rustle of fabric. A voice followed, quiet but clear, as though it had been waiting the entire time.
"It's a trap."
Seymour did not flinch.
"I know."
The curtain remained still. The speaker stayed hidden, but his presence filled the room like a shadow stretching with the flame.
"It bears Alexander's seal," Seymour continued, moving slowly back to his desk. He set the letter down with restrained care, eyes fixed on the crest. "I haven't heard from my brother in forty-five years. Not a word. No visit. Not even a goddamn mention in the family fund reports."
He snapped the seal with a knife from his desk drawer, careful not to tear the paper. As his eyes scanned the contents, his brow furrowed deeper with every line.
"A reunion," he said coldly. "In some random bar far outside the city no less. He wants to speak in private. Rekindle old ties. He writes like nothing ever happened."
The figure behind the curtain said nothing.
Seymour's voice rose, growing sharp at the edges. "Why now? What could he possibly want from me after all these years? After what he did?"
A long silence. The fire crackled behind them.
Then the hidden voice spoke again. "He's not reaching out to you. That letter wasn't meant to open a door—it was meant to measure your response. He wants to know if you'll play along."
Seymour's fist clenched over the letter. "Then he's more arrogant than I remember."
Another pause. The voice softened, almost conspiratorial. "The Blackwood Ball draws close. He'll unveil his successor there. All eyes will be watching. And behind the curtains, not all are loyal."
Seymour narrowed his eyes. "You think it can be done. From the inside."
"I think," said the voice, "that once the masks are on and the music begins, no one will see the knife until it's already kissed the throat."
Seymour stepped back from the desk, turning toward the curtain.
"You speak of knives and shadows as if you've been trained by both."
The man behind the curtain said nothing.
But Seymour could hear it now—the breath held too long, the words chosen too carefully. Not just a conspirator. Not just a whisperer in the dark.
Someone with blood in this game.
Seymour turned back to the fire.
"Well then," he said softly. "Let the ball begin."