Miles away, the wheels of the royal carriage crunched over the gravel roads of Velloria. The city was just as Colden remembered—opulent, suffocating, and smelling of expensive perfumes meant to mask the stench of rot.
The carriage rolled to a halt. Colden straightened his tunic, adjusting the heavy crest of Windmere on his chest. He glanced out the window, half-expecting to see the familiar gates of the Velloria palace where Elaine might be staying. He felt a pang of guilt; he wanted to visit her, to see if she was holding up against the tides of her own family. But he knew better. She wouldn't be merry. She wouldn't welcome him with open arms. Not after he had left Marco behind. Not after the mess he had made of his own house.
He pulled out the crumpled piece of parchment Francis had given him—the address requisition. He scanned the scrawled coordinates, then looked up at the building looming over them.
It wasn't a palace. It was a grand, imposing manor house, three stories high with sharp, angular architecture that seemed to slice the sky. The windows were tinted, reflecting the world in dark, distorted mirrors.
"This is it?" Colden asked, frowning. "This is the 'sketchy fellow's' residence?"
Francis, sitting across from him, had gone rigid. His usual composure was cracking. He was fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve, his eyes fixed on the front door with a mixture of dread and recognition. He looked restless, his jaw tight, shifting in his seat as if the velvet cushions were made of thorns.
Colden watched him, a frown creasing his brow. He had seen Francis handle assassins, political scandals, and the death of kings without batting an eye. What could possibly frighten him this much?
"We are here," Francis said, his voice tight. He took a deep breath, composing his face into a mask of indifference, but his eyes betrayed him.
Colden opened the carriage door and stepped out. The air was cool, smelling of ozone and damp earth. He turned to help Francis down, but Francis was already descending, his movements stiff.
Before they could take a step toward the door, it swung open.
A man stood on the porch, framed by the golden light of the chandelier inside. He was tall, with slicked-back hair and a velvet waistcoat that looked expensive but tastefully worn. He had a smirk playing on his lips, a look of calculated amusement that seemed to dissect them where they stood.
It was Charles.
Colden tensed. He remembered the name, the face, the way this man had tormented Francis in the Velloria palace during the infiltration.
Charles smirked, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming old friends to a party.
"Welcome aboard, Francis," Charles purred, his voice smooth as silk and just as slippery. "And of course... the newly renowned King of Windmere. The Everhart himself."
Colden didn't flinch, keeping his expression neutral. "Charles."
Francis coughed—a harsh, dry sound that rattled in his chest. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his footing. He saw Charles looking at him, his gaze lingering a little too long, stripping away the years of composure Francis had built.
"We are here for the meeting," Francis said, his voice strained.
"Of course, of course," Charles said, stepping aside with a grand gesture. "Do come in. The wine is breathing, and I do so hate to let good wine suffocate."
They walked inside. The interior was a maze of dark wood and plush rugs. Charles led them to a drawing room where a fire crackled in the hearth. He gestured for them to sit, but he didn't offer tea or pleasantries. He simply sank into an armchair across from them, crossing his legs, his eyes never leaving Francis.
"So," Charles began, tilting his head. "How are you, Francis?"
The question hung in the air. It was simple, yet the way Charles asked it—low, intimate, almost mocking—made it sound obscene.
Francis cleared his throat again, his hand gripping the armrest of his chair. "I am great," he said, his voice clipped. "As you may have assumed."
Charles grinned, a flash of white teeth. He didn't believe it. He enjoyed the discomfort.
Francis leaned forward, deciding to cut through the tension. He didn't have time for games. "Well. Can you help us through this? With what we talked about?"
Charles's grin softened into a genuine, dangerous smile. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Well, yeah," Charles said softly. "Of course I can help you. I have the connections. I have the leverage. And frankly, I owe you one, Francis."
He picked up a glass of wine from the side table, swirling the red liquid.
"You want to kill the so-named Clamptous, right?" Charles asked casually, taking a sip.
The silence that followed was heavy. Francis and Colden exchanged a glance. The stakes were laid bare on the table.
"That is the plan," Colden said, his voice low.
"Then let's get to work," Charles smiled, the firelight dancing in his eyes. "But first... tell me how much you are willing to lose, Your Majesty. Because in Velloria, nothing comes for free."
To be continued.