Westmere City, the capital of the Crowndale Kingdom, was an orchestra of motion and ambition painted in shades of shadow and power. It never truly rested; its cobblestone streets thrummed with ceaseless life.
The air was thick with the mingling scents of coal smoke, the metallic tang of steam-powered engines, and the faint earthy sweetness of fallen leaves. The city itself seemed alive, a vast machine turning ever onward, driven by the aspirations and machinations of its inhabitants.
Velmar Dockside.
The lifeblood of the empire, was where the city's pulse beat most vividly.
Merchant ships bobbed gently in the harbor, their sails adorned with the crests of distant lands. Goods of every kind poured forth, spices that promised new worlds, silks that shimmered like liquid light, and metals hardened in the crucibles of ancient mountains.
Dockworkers, their voices hoarse from years of shouting over the din, barked orders as they moved with practiced precision. Travelers of all kinds, traders, nobles, laborers, navigated the chaos with a familiarity born of necessity, their steps swift and certain.
Among them, a boy on a well-worn bicycle darted through the crowd. His clothes, simple yet neat, spoke of quiet dignity: a brown flat cap perched askew, a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a waistcoat that suggested a modest but careful upbringing.
His trousers, cropped just above sturdy leather shoes worn smooth by years of pedaling, were an unspoken testament to his resilience. A satchel, brimming with folded newspapers, hung over his shoulder. The brass chain clasp glinted with each turn of the pedals, catching the light in the busy morning.
He paused at the edge of the docks, taking in the lively scene. The cries of seagulls above melded with the sounds of the district, creating a soundscape uniquely Westmere.
With a low whistle, he pushed forward, his gaze set on the imposing silhouette of the Ashbourne estate on the horizon.
When he reached his destination, he dismounted and retrieved a folded newspaper from his satchel.
With effortless ease, he sent it sailing through the bars, its landing marked by a soft rustle. Tipping his cap, he mounted his bicycle once more and vanished into the whirl of the city.
Inside, the gravel path crunched faintly beneath the footfalls of a lone servant retrieving the morning paper. Robert, the ever-composed butler, moved with measured precision, his expression betraying nothing as he carried the neatly folded newspaper inside.
On the other hand, the sunlight poured through the tall windows, casting a soft glow over the space, illuminating the figures seated at the long dining table.
At its head sat Demetrius Ashbourne, his presence as imposing as the very house he once ruled over. He carried the quiet dignity of a man who had weathered countless storms, his every movement deliberate, unrushed.
His breakfast plate, untouched by haste, bore the remains of a carefully arranged meal, a soft-boiled egg, a slice of toast gleaming with dark jam, and a steaming cup of tea, which he sipped with an air of practiced patience.
"Hmm… Is that all, or is there something more you wish to tell me?"
Arthur met his gaze, a mixture of caution and curiosity settling within him.
"No. That's all you need to know for now, Grandfather."
His own plate remained largely untouched, the ornate cutlery gleaming in the morning light.
"I see."
'I will have to think over a hundred times before telling him everything.'
Step, step.
Robert entered, his footsteps soft against the marble floor, and with a subtle clearing of his throat, he broke the silence.
"Lord Demetrius, these invitations arrived this morning."
Demetrius' gaze drifted to the silver tray a servant carried, laden with envelopes sealed by noble families. His expression betrayed nothing, an impassive mask, honed through years of experience, concealing every thought and intent.
The invitations came from families either wary of the Ashbournes' power or seeking favor, hoping to extract some imagined benefit from the union.
"Either they fear us, or they covet our name. What other motive could there possibly be? If not fear, then envy?"
Demetrius plucked the envelope at the top of the stack. The wax seal, marked with the unmistakable insignia of the Royal Family, a crown, glinted in the morning light.
He broke the seal with a swift flick of his thumb, the sound crisp, and unfolded the letter within as he read it aloud:
"'The presence of the Ashbourne family is requested at the Grand Banquet in celebration of Fourth Prince Elliot Crowndale's birthday.'"
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Requested…? How courteous of them to disguise a command as a mere request."
With a flick of his wrist, he cast the letter aside, where it landed on the table with a soft rustle.
"Summon the tailor, the boy will need something fitting for this occasion."
"Understood."
Robert cleared his throat once more, this time producing the folded newspaper from earlier.
"Ahem. And this, Lordship."
Demetrius unfolded the paper, his gaze skimming the bold headlines with practiced ease. He lingered momentarily on one:
A Festival for the Fourth Prince's Birthday: The Emperor Declares a Grand Celebration!
A soft scoff escaped him.
"A festival? I see. Just another pretense for the vultures of the capital to gather."
But Arthur's attention was drawn to a smaller column near the bottom of the page. Unremarkable to the untrained eye, but he knew better.
This was no ordinary newspaper. It was the publication of the Obsidian Quill, a subtle but invaluable source of intelligence for those who knew how to read between the lines.
Demetrius folded the paper and rose from his seat as he said:
"Be sure to clear your schedule for the evening. We have to visit somewhere."
Arthur looked at Demetrius, who showed him his side profile and asked:
"May I ask where we'll be going?"
"You will know when the time comes."
With this, he stepped forward, his polished boots clicking softly against the marble floor as he strode toward the garden doors, his mind already far ahead of the present moment.
Once Arthur had finished his meal, he returned to his study. The light filtered through tall windows, casting sharp patterns upon the wooden floor.
He settled into the leather chair, the scent of polished wood and aged parchment filling the room.
Just then, a knock at the door came.
Knock, knock.
"Come in."
The door eased open, revealing Robert, his composure as unshakable as ever.
He stepped inside with his usual efficiency, a stack of neatly arranged documents in hand. Without a single misstep, he placed them upon the desk.
"These are the records of the noble families in the capital. Names, histories, alliances, weaknesses, every dealing of note."
Arthur spared the papers a glance, their presence a tangible weight before him. A trove of knowledge, a weapon in its own right.
"I see. You may leave."
Robert inclined his head, retreating with the same quiet precision that defined him. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing him in with a mountain of information that could shape his path or undo him entirely.
The capital awaited, a labyrinth of power and secrets, where alliances were currency and betrayal a whisper away. And whether he desired it or not, he was to be thrust into its very heart.
"Haa... now how am I supposed to go through these documents in just a week?"
***
It was in the late afternoon that the renowned tailor of the capital arrived at the Ashbourne manor.
Gilbert.
He might be a commoner, but he had gained the approval of the king himself. And thus, he was well-respected in high society.
His dark, discerning eyes swept across the grand hall, carrying the cool detachment of a man long accustomed to navigating only among the elite.
He carried himself with an air of quiet authority, neither fawning nor deferential, his every step measured with the confidence of one who understood the weight of his reputation.
He was no mere tailor.
To the capital's elite, he was a master craftsman, whispered about in drawing rooms and banquet halls.
The Crowndale royal family, the esteemed Granvilles, the Ashbournes, these were among the few who could claim to wear his designs.
To wear a piece tailored by him was not simply a matter of fashion; it was a declaration of status.
"I would like a suit of midnight blue for the upcoming royal banquet and a few more outfits for the outside stroll, a horse riding suit would be good, and some other stuff to wear at home."
Gilbert inclined his head a little as he replied.
"I understand. Then, if you would please choose the designs from the catalog, I will take your measurements right away."
Arthur reached out, his fingers brushing over the samples, weighing their significance. Some were too ostentatious, others too plain. But then, his gaze settled on a particular design.
It wasn't too outrageous nor too plain to the eye. It was just the right fit for him. Alongside that, he also chose some other designs for outside and evening wear.
"I see. You have a good eye for these things, young lord."
Arthur crossed his legs as he replied.
"I can understand. You must've had a fair share of experience with the outrageous demands of the aristocrats."
"Yes, of course."
Gilbert took out a measuring tape as he asked.
"Alright then, may I take your measurements?"
"Sure."
After a moment, he was done with Arthur's measurements.
"The suit for the banquet will be delivered before the end of this week, and as for the other outfits, I'll take some time."
"I see. Thank you, Mr. Gilbert."
"No worries."
He did not linger any further and departed right away.
A moment later, the steady rhythm of measured footsteps echoed through the hall, each step crisp, deliberate.
"Are you done with the measurements?"