Blackwood Isle — Present Day
[1/4]
The dream always ended the same way.
Fire, smoke, the slam of a hidden door. His mother's hand pushing him into darkness. His father's voice: Live. Learn. Take back what's ours.
Theo woke before the imagined crash of ceiling beams could bury him again. He lay still in the grey predawn light, heart hammering, the smell of smoke lingering where it had never truly been. He forced a breath, then another, until the rhythm of a soldier replaced the panic of a child.
The bedroom around him was austere but beautiful — high ceilings of oak, pale stone walls, tall windows curtained against the sea gale. This was not the room he had fled twenty years ago. This was the new Blackwood Manor, rebuilt from its ashes: a perfect replica of the medieval exterior fused with quiet modern strength — steel hidden under carved wood, bulletproof glass behind stained windows. He had overseen every decision, an engineer's precision shaping a home that was also a fortress.
He rose in one smooth motion, scars shifting under his skin. The dawn air was cold against olive-bronze shoulders marked by years of war and training: pale lines of shrapnel, thin slices from blades, a puckered circle low on his ribs. Across his back ink lay in patterns that seemed both ancient and personal — ravens, runes, the sigil of his house. Only he knew which marks were art and which were memory.
A silver cross hung on a chain at his chest. He touched it briefly, the gesture quiet and habitual. Then he dressed with the economy of a man who had spent a decade living out of rucksacks and safehouses: dark trousers, crisp white shirt, a black waistcoat tailored to his long frame. Over it he pulled a long, military-cut coat of black wool — no medals, but the weight of service in every line. The Blackwood signet slid onto his right hand; his father's restored pocket watch into an inner pocket.
A soft knock came at the door.
"Enter," he called.
Sir Alaric Vance stepped in. Even in his fifties, Alaric moved like the Para officer he had once been — trim, alert, an old friend in a perfectly cut suit. He carried a tablet and the expression of someone who had spent a lifetime balancing logistics and loyalty.
"You're awake early," Alaric said. His keen eyes read Theo's face. "Nightmares?"
Theo didn't bother to deny it. "Same one."
Alaric's gaze flicked over him — posture, hands, breathing — the silent assessment of a soldier checking a comrade for cracks. Satisfied, he nodded and moved on to business. "Car's ready for ten. Security is doubled. Marcus is running point in town."
"Good." Theo adjusted his cuffs. "Sophie?"
"In the ops room. She's triple-checked the perimeter and social media feeds. Nothing unusual except the usual society gossip — everyone seems fascinated that the 'ghost duke' is about to reappear."
Theo's mouth twitched at the nickname. "They needed a myth."
"Tonight you'll give them a man instead." Alaric hesitated. "It's been twenty years, Theo. Some will expect you to be broken. Some will expect you to be arrogant. You'll have enemies in the room."
Theo's dark eyes, unreadable, turned toward the window where dawn burned copper across the Atlantic. "Let them expect. I didn't rebuild this place to hide in it. The company needs allies, and it's time certain debts were remembered."
Alaric studied him for a long moment, then gave the smallest nod — a soldier accepting an order.
When the older man left, Theo remained by the window. Far below, waves pounded the cliff base and the rebuilt sea dock gleamed with rain. Boats rode their moorings like restless horses. In the study behind him, walls hid a vault far deeper than the one his parents had died defending. Some things he had recovered; some remained lost. But every day he hunted.
The little golden raven from the puzzle box sat on the desk. He picked it up, turned it between scarred fingers, then slipped it into his pocket. Guardian of the Mind. Tonight he would step back into the world that had written him off as dead or reclusive. And somewhere in that crowd of aristocrats and opportunists might be eyes that served the Veil.
He would be ready.
Theo left the bedroom and moved through the quiet manor. At this hour only the night staff stirred: a butler setting fresh logs, a maid polishing the oak balustrade. They nodded silently as he passed. He returned the nods with a soldier's brevity but never the coldness of a snob; his manners were precise but warm.
The rebuilt house was a testament to two decades of obsession. From the outside it looked like the same medieval seat that had stood for seven hundred years: turrets against the sea, slate roofs, gargoyles slick with rain. Inside, though, he had fused history with technology. Every hallway held hidden cameras behind carved rosettes. Panelled walls could seal into blast doors. The old ballroom now doubled as a command centre when needed.
His first stop was the chapel. The original had been gutted by fire; he had rebuilt it stone by stone, keeping the Blackwood saints and Crusader frescoes but adding his own touch — a simple wooden cross on the altar, a space free of gold and heraldry. He stepped inside, the door closing softly behind.
Morning light spilled through stained glass and painted his face in ruby and blue. He knelt at the worn rail. The soldier and the nobleman gave way here to the boy who had lost everything. He bowed his head and prayed in silence — not for revenge but for strength to choose wisely when vengeance tempted him.
When he rose, the calm returned.
Down in the modernised west wing, the smell of coffee and electronics replaced incense. This was the headquarters of Blackwood Enterprises: glass walls, servers humming, map boards showing projects worldwide. He had built the company while still a prodigy at Oxford — civil engineering first, then medical technology, energy, disaster relief. Unlike many dynasties, his empire existed to build, not strip-mine. It was his counter-curse to the destruction the Veil had sown.
Sophie Devereux sat at a desk covered in monitors, barefoot and in a hoodie that declared CODE OR DIE. Her hair was a streaked tumble of blonde and copper; she had been a hacker prodigy Theo recruited after MI6 tried to jail her.
"You're trending," she said without looking up. "#BlackwoodReturns. Half the peers are betting what you'll wear, the other half whether you'll actually show."
Theo gave a dry smile. "Keep watching for more dangerous bets."
"Already on it. Usual chatter: paparazzi blocked, drones banned, some Russian botnet pinging for facial matches — probably Veil or just gossip rags." She glanced back at him. "You nervous?"
"No."
She snorted. "Of course not. Try to at least fake it, makes the rest of us feel better."
He almost smiled, then moved on. In the adjoining armoury-turned-security room, Marcus Kane was checking gear. Marcus was a slab of ex-SAS muscle with a calm soldier's eyes; he'd served with Theo and left the Regiment when Theo called.
"You're not going armed?" Marcus asked without looking up from a comms check.
"I'm going to a gala, not a raid."
Marcus clipped a comm bud to Theo's inner pocket anyway. "Humour me. First time out in two decades — I don't like it."
"That's why you're here."
Marcus grunted, satisfied but still watchful. "Crowd control's done. We've mapped the hall. Alaric's escorting, I'm lead on security. Sophie's running overwatch. We'll get you in and out clean."
Theo nodded. He trusted Marcus with his life; the man had saved it more than once.
By midmorning, preparations hummed across the manor. Tailors arrived to make final adjustments to the evening's attire. Theo submitted patiently to the quiet whirl of measuring tapes and steaming irons: a black suit of superb cut, waistcoat trimmed with subtle braid, and the long coat lined in sable that evoked a duke of old yet moved with the practicality of a soldier. It was the balance he always sought — heritage and function.
Lady Alexandra arrived just before noon. Age had only sharpened her: silver hair swept back, eyes like polished steel, dressed in understated black. She dismissed the tailors with a glance and studied her nephew.
"You look every inch the Blackwood," she said at last. "And every inch something they won't expect."
"Good." Theo kissed her cheek. It was the rare show of affection between two people forged by loss. "Thank you for coming."
"I wouldn't miss it." She lowered her voice. "Be watchful. These circles haven't forgotten the night you vanished. Not all are friends."
"They'll learn quickly enough."
She searched his face for a long moment — pride and worry mingled — then nodded. "You're ready."
Theo wasn't sure anyone could be ready to step back into the world that had whispered about his death for twenty years. But he was prepared. And that would have to do.
By early afternoon the manor had shifted from quiet refuge to command post. Security teams swept the grounds, checking cameras, jamming unauthorized drone signals, and scanning incoming communications. The sea was rough but calmer than dawn; rain streaked the high windows.
In his study — the heart of the rebuilt house — Theo reviewed reports on a massive touch screen set into the old oak desk. Maps of ongoing Blackwood Enterprises projects flickered: bridges in flood-struck Asia, trauma-care drones trialled in Africa, renewable power grids across the UK. The company had grown vast but lean, designed to do tangible good while masking the private network he needed for his other hunt.
Alaric returned with updates. "Metropolitan Police have our detail request. MI6 liaison confirmed attendance — Agent Daniel Hart. He'll pose as security 'observer.'" Alaric's tone carried a hint of disdain.
Theo didn't look up. "Hart?"
"Newer generation. Smiles too easily."
Theo's jaw flexed. MI6 had been both ally and obstacle during his years in intelligence. He'd left them without fanfare, but he still had friends — and watchers — there. "Keep him close but not trusted."
Alaric inclined his head. "Reginald Price sends regards. Advises caution."
A ghost of a smile touched Theo's mouth. Sir Reginald Price had been his MI6 handler and occasional conscience. "He would."
Another file opened on the screen — intelligence reports on the Veil. No photos, only sketches, symbols, rumours: a cloaked order older than the Templars, obsessed with controlling thought and belief through ancient artefacts. Theo's own recon, army contacts, and company resources had filled these files. The people who had murdered his parents were still out there — scattered, secret, but moving.
He closed the file with a decisive swipe. Tonight was about stepping back into visibility, testing waters, and perhaps drawing them into the open.
Marcus knocked and entered with Sophie on his heels. She was holding a slim laptop, smirking.
"You're officially a social media cryptid," she reported. "Half of aristocrat Twitter is convinced you're a vampire. The other half says secret MI6 experiment. Only a few bet on 'normal eccentric billionaire.'"
Theo arched a brow. "Good. Confusion is armor."
Marcus grinned faintly, the expression transforming his scarred face. "We'll have you in and out. Limo convoy, backup SUV, alternate routes."
"Anyone interesting attending?" Theo asked.
Sophie scrolled her feed. "Lot of dukes, earls, venture vultures, museum curators… oh, and a certain Lara Croft just RSVP'd this morning."
Theo's head lifted slightly. "Croft?"
"Yeah. Archaeologist-adventurer tabloid darling. Been quiet lately; rumour says she's chasing Nazi occult loot."
Theo had heard the name during his own covert searches: brilliant, reckless, survivor of several lost expeditions. The idea of crossing paths with her tonight tugged at something — curiosity more than caution.
"She'll draw attention," Alaric observed. "Which might help."
"Or complicate," Marcus muttered.
Theo only said, "Noted."
Later, while tailors finished and staff readied vehicles, Theo retreated alone to the roof terrace — a stone parapet overlooking the Atlantic. The storm had broken; clouds streaked violet and gold across the horizon, the sea calmer now, glittering like steel. He rested hands on cold stone and let the salt wind wash over him.
Twenty years ago he had fled this cliff in a child's panic. Tonight he would return to society not as a boy, not as prey, but as Duke of Blackwood and soldier forged in wars the public knew nothing about. Every scar on his skin was a lesson; every language, skill, and contact another weapon.
He thought of his parents — their last stand in the library, their faith and defiance. He touched the silver cross at his chest. Quiet words rose, part prayer, part vow: "I am still here."
The door behind him opened. Alexandra stepped out, elegant in a dark shawl, hair caught by the wind. She joined him without a word, standing shoulder to shoulder.
"They'll all be watching tonight," she said finally.
"I know."
"They'll gossip, test you, judge every move."
"I know."
She turned her gaze on him — cool, proud, the faintest tremor of affection. "Then give them nothing but strength."
He inclined his head. "Always."
For a time they simply watched the sea, two survivors bound by fire and blood. Then Alexandra turned and left, satisfied.
Theo remained until the sun slid behind clouds and lights began to glow across the mainland. His heart was steady now. Fear had burned away long ago, leaving only resolve.
By evening the manor hummed with quiet purpose. Staff moved like clockwork: drivers loading cases into the motorcade, security men testing comms, kitchen sending trays of food to feed the team staying behind. Spotlights lit the long gravel drive where three black vehicles waited — one limousine for the Duke, a second for Alexandra, and a lead SUV full of Marcus's operators.
Theo stood in the great hall while a valet adjusted the final line of his coat. The black wool fell to his calves, lined in dark sable; the cut was clean, military, yet undeniably ducal. His waistcoat gleamed subtly at the seams with embroidered ravens. The overall effect was regal but not ostentatious — a man who carried both history and war in the same shoulders.
Sophie appeared from the control room, trading her hoodie for an elegant black jumpsuit that could hide body armour. She tossed him a tiny earpiece. "Channel three. I'll be in your pocket all night."
Theo fitted it without comment.
Marcus entered last, already in a discreet tux that didn't quite hide the soldier beneath. "Routes are clear. Convoy secure. Snipers will have no clean angles at the venue; we checked rooftops."
"Good," Theo said.
Alexandra descended the main stair in a gown of midnight silk, jewellery minimal but unmistakably old money. She surveyed the team with a commander's eye, then gave her nephew the faintest approving nod. "You'll do."
He smiled — a small, genuine flicker. "Let's not be late."
They walked out beneath the carved ravens of the great door. Rain had ended, leaving the night cool and gleaming. The smell of wet stone and sea salt rose as he crossed the courtyard. Cameras would be forbidden tonight by royal decree — the first step in Theo's careful return — but gossip would still carry every detail. He wanted them to see the man he had become: tall, scarred, calm, perfectly at ease in both silk and war.
The convoy rolled down the long drive, gates swinging wide to let them into the dark countryside roads. Theo sat with Alexandra in the rear of the limousine while Marcus's SUV led the way and Sophie rode shotgun with the driver, eyes on a bank of screens. The car's interior was quiet save for the hum of the engine and the occasional soft crackle of comms.
London grew brighter ahead, its lights a scattered constellation on the horizon.
"First time out in two decades," Alexandra said at last, voice mild but watching him.
Theo rested one scarred hand on his knee, the other turning his father's pocket watch. "It's time."
"You'll cause a stir."
"Good."
"They will ask about the fire."
"I'll give them nothing they can use."
She studied him a long moment. "You're ready."
He didn't answer. Readiness was not a thing one declared; it was a thing one lived. He had been living it every day since the night of smoke and rain.
Sophie's voice murmured in his ear. "Traffic clear. Drones down. Social feed buzzing — no leaks of your face yet."
Marcus: "Venue perimeter set. My men inside in civvies."
Theo looked out at the approaching city: towers gleaming, wet streets catching light like molten gold. Somewhere beyond the glass and steel was the gala — peers and power brokers gathering to gossip about the ghost duke's return. Somewhere among them, maybe watching, were the eyes of the Veil.
He touched the little golden raven hidden in his coat pocket.
Twenty years ago he had fled in terror. Tonight he would walk back into their world — soldier, scholar, heir. A man sharpened by loss and built for the long war.
The convoy slipped onto the Embankment, lights reflecting in the Thames. Theo leaned back against the leather seat, expression unreadable, heartbeat calm.
"Showtime," Sophie's voice said softly in his ear.
The car turned toward the glittering facade of the historic hall where the gala was being held. Guests in gowns and black tie were spilling across the red-carpeted steps. Security moved aside as the Blackwood crest on the car door came into view for the first time in two decades.
Theo stepped out into the London night, tall and scarred and perfectly composed. Conversations faltered. Heads turned. The ghost duke had returned.