London was a mirror of rain and light.
Theo's convoy slid through the city like a shadow: three black vehicles, discreet but unmistakably aristocratic. The streets gleamed under wet lamps, slick with evening drizzle; the Thames ran dark and glassy beside them. Every so often Sophie's calm voice sounded in his ear: Traffic good… no drones overhead… we're ghosting cameras.
Their destination loomed ahead — Somerset House, floodlit and magnificent. Banners of the Royal Heritage Trust snapped above its arches. Tonight's gala was both a fundraiser and a showcase of power: Britain's old families, museum elites, and the new-money tech giants who courted them. The organisers had promised discretion — no press photography, only vetted guests — but that hadn't stopped the hum of gossip. The "ghost duke" was coming.
Inside the limousine, Theo sat beside Lady Alexandra. Across from them Marcus checked his phone, calm but watchful. Theo looked outward, expression unreadable.
Alexandra broke the silence. "You know the game. Half of them will fawn, half will test you."
"I'll answer neither."
She gave a small approving smile. "Good."
Marcus glanced up. "Perimeter set. MI6's man is inside, posing as security. Sophie's eyes on feeds."
Theo nodded, nothing more.
The car rolled into the courtyard. Even behind the velvet ropes, clusters of paparazzi tried to catch illicit shots. Their lenses were foiled by jamming tech Sophie had seeded in the motorcade, but the buzz of speculation was a living thing.
As the first limousine door opened, conversations on the steps faltered. The Blackwood raven crest gleamed wetly under floodlights.
Theo stepped out.
For a heartbeat the courtyard hushed. He was tall — impossibly tall — in a black suit cut with subtle braid, the long sable-lined coat falling like a shadow behind him. His bearing was exact: not theatrical but flawlessly poised, shoulders of a soldier, nod of a duke. The years of war and scholarship showed in the way he scanned the crowd once, lightly, and then dismissed it.
Gasps, murmurs:
"That's him…"
"Alive after all…"
"God, he's built like a Guards officer…"
He didn't break stride. Alexandra joined him, regal, and together they ascended the steps.
Security parted instantly. The Master of Ceremonies bowed low. "Your Grace. Lady Blackwood. Welcome."
Theo gave a courteous nod, his voice deep and smooth when he replied: "Thank you."
They entered the great doors to a swell of music.
The ballroom blazed with chandelier light. Parquet gleamed beneath a sea of gowns and tuxedos. Conversation faltered then resumed in a susurrus as people angled to glimpse the return of Blackwood. Theo moved with Alexandra at his side, Marcus and a pair of operators ghosting the edge of the room.
He felt the weight of eyes but ignored it. MI6 tradecraft hid beneath perfect etiquette; his face betrayed nothing.
Old money came first. Dukes, earls, marquesses — men and women with names older than empire. Some were genuinely curious, some wary, a few faintly hostile. Theo shook hands with polite precision, accepted measured condolences for his parents, deflected prying questions with charm and brevity.
One lord leaned in, smirking. "We'd heard you'd… retired from the world, Blackwood."
"I was busy building it," Theo replied mildly, and moved on, leaving the man blinking.
Then came the new aristocracy — tech magnates, investors, venture barons. They wanted access to Blackwood Enterprises, to the brilliant recluse who had turned old family wealth into a modern empire. Theo listened, made no promises, offered a wry smile or a quiet statistic about humanitarian engineering that left them reeling. Alaric shadowed him, quietly making introductions and filing names for later.
Sophie's whisper came now and then in his ear: Drone down. Russian camera blogger escorted out. Social feed crazy but no hostile chatter.
Through it all Theo kept one part of his awareness loose and hunting — a soldier's sweep of exits, weapons, faces that didn't fit. Years in the SAS and MI6 had burned it into him.
At the far end of the room a raised dais displayed some of the night's auction prizes: a recovered Aztec gold disk, a pair of jewelled Fabergé eggs, a newly uncovered Templar sword. Theo's gaze lingered a moment. Treasures and ghosts — his life's shadow.
But it wasn't the artefacts that shifted the air.
It was her.
The crowd at the base of the dais parted almost unconsciously as Lara Croft entered.
She arrived without escort, cutting a path through silk and medals as if she belonged in any room — or any ruin. The gown she wore was simple black satin, sleeveless, almost severe except for the open back where an old scar traced a pale line across muscle. Her dark hair was swept up in a loose knot that let a few rebellious strands fall against her neck. There was no tiara, no glitter; she didn't need it. Confidence was her jewel.
Theo watched her take the space. Not flaunting, not hiding. Moving like someone who had outrun death more than once. She greeted a few museum curators, a venture philanthropist, a royal cousin; each conversation brief, amused, but controlled. When she laughed, it was warm and quick, then gone — the laugh of someone who'd learned to keep her real self hidden.
Sophie's voice crackled in his ear: Target acquired. Lara Croft. Archaeologist, survivalist, trouble magnet. She's clean tonight — no visible tail, no open weapons. You're interested?
Theo didn't answer. His eyes stayed on Lara, measuring. He'd read files — MI6 had tried to recruit her once, she'd slipped free. She'd survived Yucatán cults, Siberian mercenaries, and lost Nazi expeditions. If anyone understood the kind of secret war he was in, it might be her.
Alexandra noticed his glance and, with the tactical precision of a duchess who had moved pieces on society's board her whole life, guided him toward Lara's circle.
The small knot of academics and donors quieted a little as the Blackwood coat appeared among them. A curator — flushed with excitement — began a breathless introduction, but Alexandra's low, cool voice cut in:
"Dr. Croft," she said. "May I present my nephew, His Grace, Theodore Blackwood."
Lara turned. For a heartbeat the noise of the room dulled.
Up close, she was even more arresting: sharp-boned, sun-browned, eyes a clear grey-green that caught every detail. She held out her hand with calm assurance. "Your Grace. Finally decided to leave the shadows?"
Theo took the hand. Firm, warm. "Dr. Croft. The pleasure is mine."
"Lara, please."
"Theo."
That single breach of formality was tiny but deliberate — and she caught it, a quick amused lift of one brow. So the ghost duke isn't just a stuffed shirt, her look seemed to say.
"You don't attend many of these," she said.
"First in twenty years."
"Making an entrance, then."
"Not my intent."
"Yet here you are, drawing every eye."
Theo's mouth moved in the faintest almost-smile. "And you? Still chasing legends?"
"Always," she said, tone half-joke but with something steelier underneath.
The curator beside them tried to include Theo in talk about the auction, but the two kept flicking small glances at each other — measuring stance, calm, scars half-hidden. Theo saw the way Lara's gaze tracked exits and unusual guests; she saw the quiet readiness beneath his flawless manners.
Alexandra smoothly diverted the rest of the circle, leaving them a thin bubble of privacy. "Your company funds some digs," Lara said, sipping champagne. "Humanitarian angle, but clever cover. Keeps you near history."
"History has teeth," Theo replied. "Someone should mind where it bites."
Her eyes sharpened at that. "You speak from experience?"
He didn't answer directly. "I'm careful what I inherit."
That earned him the first real smile — brief, but approving. She was used to bluster; he gave her none.
Before the moment could deepen, a hush spread through the room as the auction began. A Christie's director took the dais, announcing treasures one by one: the Aztec disk, the Fabergé eggs, an amber Templar reliquary. Bids rippled from billionaires and dukes.
Theo stayed silent until the reliquary appeared — a small golden box etched with crusader crosses, rumoured to contain a fragment of the True Cross. The starting bid was already obscene. When a Russian oligarch's agent raised a hand, Theo lifted one finger.
Gasps. The room craned to watch the ghost duke spend.
The bidding war climbed. Theo stayed impassive, raising by small precise increments until the oligarch conceded. The hammer fell: sold to Blackwood. A ripple of murmurs swept the room — the recluse not only alive but a player.
Lara's gaze on him was new now: curious and slightly impressed. "First time back in society and you're already stealing relics from under their noses."
"Retrieving," Theo said softly.
"For?"
"Custody."
She tilted her head. "Guarding history. I can respect that."
He held her eyes a moment. "I thought you chased it."
"I chase truth. The treasure's just the excuse."
That made him smile — quick, real, then gone.
Applause for the auction's finale washed across the hall. The relics were secured and whisked behind velvet ropes. Conversation swelled again, more animated now that the mysterious Duke of Blackwood had openly thrown wealth and intent onto the table.
Theo let the buzz work for him. He moved through clusters of peers with Alexandra guiding the social dance. Every step was precise: acknowledge condolences, speak knowledgeably of history and technology, make allies by listening rather than boasting. Years in diplomacy and covert work gave him an ease these rooms rarely saw.
Sophie whispered updates through his earpiece: No new chatter. MI6 guy Hart's hanging back by the bar. Cameras clean. A few guests are fishing for dirt but nothing hostile yet.
Marcus checked in once: Perimeter holding. Only odd thing — unknown courier made it past inner cordon. Watching.
Theo's hand slipped into his coat pocket where the little golden raven sat. A silent reminder: trust, but verify.
Alexandra drifted back to him with two glasses of champagne. "You're doing well," she murmured. "They're intrigued, a few threatened. Good."
"They'll try to test me before the night's out."
"They already are." Her glance flicked across the room toward a knot of venture capitalists whispering behind their hands. "But you've unnerved them more than you know."
Before Theo could answer, a waiter approached — young, slim, eyes cast down. On his silver tray sat a single black envelope sealed with crimson wax.
"Message for you, Your Grace," the waiter said quietly.
Theo took it. The wax bore a raven — but stylised, cruel, with a hooded figure in the lines. He knew it before he even broke the seal.
Inside: a single card, ivory and hand-lettered in Latin.
Custos Mentis — We Remember.
Theo's stomach went cold, though his face stayed a mask. It had been two decades since he'd seen the sigil of the Veil. To have it here, in this safe, screened event, meant they'd breached his first wall.
In his ear Sophie's voice snapped: Theo — camera had a blind spot for three seconds. Whoever dropped that moved like a pro. I've got nothing but a shadow.
Marcus: I'm moving to intercept—
"No," Theo said quietly, keeping his lips barely moving. "Stay covert. Don't spook them."
Alexandra's eyes narrowed as she read his expression. He passed her the card under cover of their champagne toast. She glanced once, her face becoming marble. "So soon," she murmured.
"They want me to know they're watching," Theo said softly.
"They'll regret it."
Across the hall, Lara Croft was mid-conversation with a curator when she glanced over and caught the faint stiffness in Theo's stance. Her gaze sharpened — the hunter recognising prey and predator at once. She saw the envelope, the quick passing of it, the stillness that followed. She said nothing but her eyes followed every move.
Theo straightened, slid the card away, and smiled faintly as if nothing had happened. He refused to give the Veil the satisfaction of reaction.
"Shall we mingle?" he asked Alexandra, voice smooth again.
"Of course." She looped her arm through his with regal calm. Quietly she added, "We'll talk when eyes aren't on us."
They moved back into the current of the party. Conversations resumed — investments, artefact law, whispered rivalries. Theo answered with courtesy, but inside his mind was already working: breach in security, unknown courier, proof the Veil could reach him even here.
At the edge of the room Marcus shadowed subtly closer, his body language loose but watchful. Sophie's voice came low: We're running facial rec now. If they were masked, nothing. But we'll know if they stay.
Theo's reply was calm. Good. Don't burn cover.
He turned back to a duke asking about renewable projects and answered with perfect poise, while his other half — the soldier — catalogued exits, angles, vulnerabilities.
And from across the floor, Lara Croft kept watching.
Near midnight the formal program ended. The quartet shifted to softer jazz, and guests relaxed into smaller knots of gossip and deals. Theo moved with practiced grace until he could peel away into a quieter gallery off the main ballroom — one of the historic wings lined with portraits and antique globes. Alexandra and Marcus followed. A discreet guard blocked the corridor entrance.
Sophie appeared a minute later, tablet under one arm, face grim. "Replayed every feed. Whoever dropped that letter knew our blind spots. One camera looped for three seconds — clean hack. They were in and gone."
Theo took the envelope from his coat and set it on a small side table. The crimson wax glimmered under the sconce light. "They wanted to be seen."
Alexandra's eyes were flint. "To remind you of the night you lost your parents."
"And to tell me they can reach me anywhere," Theo said quietly.
Marcus leaned against the wall, arms folded. "If they can plant a messenger here, they've penetrated at least one event staff layer. Could be bigger."
"We'll find the leak," Sophie promised.
Theo didn't look rattled, but a new edge sat in his voice. "Double-check all manor protocols. Trace that hack if you can. And flag any names tied to the Trust — board, curators, donors."
Alexandra studied her nephew, then said softly, "You've built walls for twenty years. Tonight they slipped a hand through. Don't let fear drive you."
"It isn't fear," Theo said. "It's invitation."
Marcus frowned. "Trap."
"Yes," Theo agreed. "And bait." He let out a long, slow breath and looked back toward the glittering ballroom where laughter rolled. "They want me back in the game. They'll regret it."
Sophie smirked faintly. "Now that sounds like the Theo I know."
Alexandra reached and touched his arm briefly — rare, maternal. "Be careful. Revenge is hungry."
"I'm not here for revenge," he said, though a ghost of fire flickered behind the calm. "I'm here to finish what Father started: guard what must be guarded."
Footsteps clicked in the hall. All three turned smoothly as Lara Croft stepped into the gallery.
She held a half-empty glass of champagne and an expression that was part amusement, part steel. "Funny place for a strategy meeting," she said.
Alexandra's smile was polite but faintly protective. "Dr. Croft. Enjoying the evening?"
"Immensely." Lara's eyes stayed on Theo. "Though I couldn't help noticing the little black envelope."
Theo regarded her levelly. "You see a lot."
"I've made a career of it." She walked closer, unhurried. "Those weren't party invitations."
"No."
"Someone trying to rattle the ghost duke?"
He studied her a moment. "You know the sort of people who play with relics."
"I've met a few," she said dryly. "They don't usually bother with subtlety unless they're afraid."
Alexandra watched the exchange, silent but assessing.
Lara tilted her head. "You're not afraid."
"Not anymore."
That seemed to please her. She took a sip, eyes never leaving his. "Well. If whoever they are thinks you're an easy mark, they're in for a surprise."
A small smile touched Theo's mouth. "And you, Dr. Croft — are you here as hunter, or prey?"
"Depends who asks." She set her glass on a side table, the faintest challenge in her voice. "Maybe we should compare notes sometime."
Theo inclined his head — courtly but edged. "Maybe we should."
Lara's answering smile was quick and sharp. Then she turned and strolled back toward the light and music, leaving a faint scent of rain and perfume.
Sophie let out a low whistle. "She's trouble."
"Potential ally," Alexandra corrected.
"Same thing," Marcus muttered.
Theo looked at the doorway where Lara had vanished, thoughtful. The Veil had reached into his first night back; fate, or perhaps strategy, had also placed one of the world's most resourceful adventurers in his path. Useful. Dangerous. Maybe both.
He picked up the black card once more, studying the elegant Latin hand: Custos Mentis — We Remember.
"Let them remember," he said quietly. "I'm not the boy they burned out of his home."
Outside the ballroom music swelled again, and laughter floated in from the world of wealth and power he'd just rejoined. Inside the quiet gallery, Theodore Blackwood stood at the edge of his return — soldier, duke, and survivor — ready to hunt the ghosts that had dared to send him a calling card.