The stranger staggered in, trailing the storm behind him. His breathing came in ragged bursts, every inhale sharp with panic, and water cascaded from his coat in dark rivulets, pooling on the polished floorboards. The lamplight etched harsh hollows onto his face, cheeks sunken, jaw shadowed with fresh bruises, eyes ringed in sleepless purple. For a heartbeat, Ken thought he was seeing a ghost.
But recognition thudded inside him, steadying his pulse even as his senses sharpened to a razor's edge. He knew this man. He had seen him in photographs and glimpsed him at distant gatherings: always lurking behind Ophelia Welhaven, standing at the periphery, never the subject of attention. Just a pale shadow, always present but never acknowledged.
"Edward?" Ken's voice was a thread, barely audible over the hiss of rain.
Edward's gaze lifted at the sound, a muscle stuttering in his cheek as he attempted a smile. "So you do remember me, stableboy."
