Tristan
My father summoned me to his estate.
Not the corporate towers where he made his deals, no—this was the old family manor, the one we never touched unless something needed reminding. Guilt, control, legacy. He believed in those things more than gods.
I stepped through the wrought-iron gates just before dusk. The air here was always colder. Too many memories buried under the stone. Too many ghosts in the halls.
The butler didn't speak when he opened the door. Just gave a respectful nod and led me down the marble corridor that still smelled like lavender and death. She used to keep it that way—my mother.
The drawing room hadn't changed. Ornate moldings, velvet drapes, furniture made to intimidate rather than comfort. And him—seated in the high-backed chair by the fire, a glass of aged scotch in his hand, wearing authority like a second skin.
"Tristan."
He didn't rise. Of course not.
"Father," I replied, flat.
He gestured to the chair across from him. I didn't sit.
"I won't take much of your time," he said, swirling the amber liquid. "But as you know, the Consul Summit is in a month. Your name will be floated for succession. It's time you had a wife."
There it was. No warmth. No inquiry into my life or state of mind. Just a transaction. Like always.
"I'm not interested in marriage," I said.
He chuckled, deep and humorless. "You weren't interested in the Tower either. And now you run half the East Quarter like it was born from your spine."
He didn't know the half of it.
"Marriage," he continued, "isn't about interest. It's about obligation. Legacy. Control. Especially for someone like you."
I stared at the flames. My mother had once sat in that very chair, reading poetry with soft lips and softer eyes. This room didn't belong to her anymore. Nothing did.
"I'll review the files," I lied.
He raised a brow. "Files?"
"I assume you've shortlisted candidates."
He smirked, pleased. "I have. You'll find them acceptable."
"I doubt that."
"Make it work, Tristan." His tone turned to steel. "You're not just my son. You're my legacy. I won't let your emotional indulgences cost us the future."
I bit back the urge to laugh. Emotional indulgences. As if he hadn't bled this family dry of all humanity.
The meeting ended as it always did—unfinished, unsaid, unbearable.
I didn't go home after.
Instead, I drove to a club in the Lower Arc—the kind of place where walls had ears and shadows had teeth.
The bartender passed me a black envelope under a glass of whiskey. No words. Just routine. I waited until the back room emptied before I opened it.
A message from the syndicate. Not to me directly, of course. Not to Tristan Williams. Just to the unnamed intermediary I let the underworld believe I was.
"Relics confirmed. Incoming shipment from the Western Gate. Three crates. Cursed. Leader's orders: No leaks."
I read it twice, then burned it in an ashtray.
The leader. That was the name they used for me. The ghost behind every move, every order, every disappearance. Not a face. Just a rumor stitched into the city's underbelly. That's how I kept it powerful. That's how I kept it mine.
I downed the whiskey in one swallow and stepped back into the night.
The wind hit my face hard, cutting through the layers of my suit. I didn't flinch. I never did.
But inside, I remembered the softness of my mother's voice. The lavender. The only warmth that had ever meant anything.
I missed her. God, I missed her.
And if marriage was the price to keep my father off my throat, I'd pay it. But I'd do it my way.
No love. No weakness. Just strategy.
Let them come with their proposals. Let them parade their daughters.
They wanted a pawn.
They'd get a king.