London's rain has weight. Lead-grey clouds, like waterlogged cotton, pressed down over the River Thames, blurring the glass facades of the financial district. In a top-floor office on Berkeley Square, warm yellow lamplight struggled to pierce the gloom outside. William Thorne stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, an unlit Cuban cigar held between his fingers, his gaze fixed on the stream of taxi lights crawling below. Raindrops slanted against the glass, leaving winding trails, much like the intricate map of shipping routes unfolding in his mind.
"Sir, an encrypted cable from New York Harbor." His assistant, Ian, pushed the door open, his voice hushed, betraying a hint of tension. He placed a neatly folded piece of vellum on the redwood desk. The ink on the paper still carried a damp scent—the smell of Atlantic sea spray and rain.
William turned. His tailored grey suit accentuated his tall frame; the platinum cufflinks, engraved with the Thorne family's anchor crest, caught the light. He picked up the cable, his eyes scanning the brief message: Nightingale deviated from scheduled route. Intercepted by Southampton Customs. Cargo pending inspection.
"The Nightingale?" William's voice was low, devoid of any fluctuation. "Carrying the rosewood from South America?"
"Yes, sir. It was supposed to take the North Sea covert route to avoid random checks, but it altered course this morning—the captain claimed engine trouble, a temporary stop in Southampton for repairs. No sooner had they docked than a patrol boat was on them." A fine sweat beaded on Ian's forehead. "Customs says they received an anonymous tip. Suspect undeclared antiquities on board."
William walked to his desk and sat down, his fingers tapping lightly on the polished surface. The rosewood was a decoy. The real cargo was hidden in a false bottom in the hold—thirty crates of Inca gold artifacts from Peru, part of a clandestine deal with a South American antiquities dealer. Each crate was worth over a million pounds. He had used this route for three years without a single misstep.
"Who knew about the Nightingale's covert route?" He looked up at Ian, his eyes as cold as ice.
"Only the dispatch manager, the captain, you, and I," Ian replied immediately. "Old Brown runs dispatch. He's been with the Thorne family for twenty years…"
"Twenty years?" William gave a cold laugh. "Twenty years is long enough for some men to forget their place." He pressed the intercom on his desk. "Send Brown to my office. Now. Also, get me Sir Charles at Customs Headquarters—inform him the Nightingale carries diplomatic pouches for the Spanish embassy. Under the Vienna Convention, they are not subject to inspection."
Ian nodded and withdrew, leaving William alone with the sound of rain against the window. William opened a drawer and took out a faded nautical chart, marked in red with secret routes across the Atlantic—his father's legacy, the "Empire's Game." It was through these uncharted paths that the Thorne family's shipping empire had monopolized the trade in rare goods between South America and Europe for half a century.
Ten minutes later, Brown entered, his face pale. His shirt was crisply ironed, but his tie was askew, and his hands fidgeted incessantly with his coat. "Sir…"
"Sit." William gestured to the chair opposite his desk. "Did you leak the Nightingale's route?"
Brown's head jerked up, his eyes wide with fear. "No! Sir, how could I—"
"Last Wednesday. You met with one of Richard Harris's men at a café near London Bridge." William slid a bank statement across the desk. "Your account received a deposit of five hundred thousand pounds. From an anonymous account in the Cayman Islands. Harris is being generous."
Brown's body seemed to deflate. He slumped in the chair, his lips trembling. "I… I have gambling debts… Harris said he'd clear them all if I gave him one route… Sir, I was wrong…"
"Wrong?" William finally lit his cigar, the smoke clouding his expression. "The Thorne family has kept you for twenty years, and you sold my ship to a rival." He stood and walked around the desk to stand before Brown. "Do you have any idea what the cargo on the Nightingale is worth? Thirty million pounds. You sold the Thorne family's credibility for five hundred thousand."
Brown began to plead, kowtowing in his seat. "Sir, I beg you… Have mercy… I'll return the money…"
"Unnecessary." William's voice held no warmth. "Ian will arrange your passage to Australia. You are not to return. Your family will receive a settlement—provided you remain silent." He paused. "If I hear even a whisper concerning the Thorne family…"
Brown trembled violently, unable to form words, only nodding frantically.
Just then, Ian re-entered, holding a mobile phone. "Sir, Sir Charles has replied—Customs has halted the inspection. The Nightingale is cleared for immediate departure. Also, Richard Harris is on the line. He wishes to speak with you."
William took the phone and pressed the speaker button. Richard's voice held a taunting edge. "William, this business with the Nightingale… it's all a misunderstanding."
"A misunderstanding?" William scoffed. "Richard, your three coal carriers in Liverpool harbor will be detained tomorrow due to 'safety concerns.' You have my word."
Silence lingered for a few seconds on the other end before Richard's tone softened. "Alright, my mistake… I merely intended to send a warning—the South American market is not the exclusive domain of the Thorne family."
"A warning?" William tapped his finger on the desk. "You would do well to remember, the game in London has always been played by the Thorne family's rules." He ended the call and turned to Ian. "Have the Nightingale set sail immediately. Reroute her around the Cape of Good Hope. Avoid all European ports. And see that Brown is sent away—tonight."
Ian acknowledged the orders and left. Silence reclaimed the office. William returned to the window, watching the rain fall. The crisis with the Nightingale was averted, but he knew this was only the beginning. Richard Harris would not let this rest. And in South America, more complex forces seemed to be stirring.
Suddenly, a light knock came at the door. His secretary entered, holding an envelope. "Sir, this was just left at the front desk. No sender indicated."
William took the envelope. It felt peculiar to the touch—made from a type of palm paper from the South American rainforests, carrying a faint, herbal fragrance. He opened it. Inside was a single photograph.
It showed the profile of a woman. She stood on a dock in some South American port, the wind whipping through her long hair. In the background was a freighter flying the Thorne family flag. Her eyes looked toward the horizon, their expression holding a trace of bewilderment, yet also a thread of resolve. William's heart skipped a beat—this woman… where had he seen her before?
On the back of the photo was a line of writing in red ink, the script elegant and precise: The meeting in the ashes is only just beginning.
William clenched the photo, his gaze shifting back to the rainy night outside. The navigation lights on the Thames flickered like pieces on a chessboard. He knew this imperial game had just entered a new phase—and this woman was the next crucial piece.
The rain continued to fall. The London night showed no sign of ever breaking into dawn.
(End of Chapter)