Knock. Knock.
The sound echoed through the polished hallway outside Alexander Blackwood's office—two deliberate raps against the oak door, crisp and unapologetic.
Inside, behind the grand mahogany desk adorned with perfectly stacked documents, antique pens, and a half-drunk cup of Earl Grey, Alexander barely glanced up.
"Please enter," he called, his voice smooth, cultured, faintly amused.
The door creaked open on slow, deliberate hinges. Caspian stepped into the room, his frame cutting a lean silhouette against the warm afternoon light bleeding through the tall windows. His expression was unreadable as always, eyes steady, gait unhurried. He moved like someone who had never needed to raise his voice or rush a step to be heard.
"Ah, Caspian!" Alexander's tone brightened. He stood and gestured toward the seat across from him. "Come in, come in. Sit, sit."
The boy crossed the expanse of ornate rugs and polished floorboards, only briefly casting a glance at the black-and-white portraits that lined the walls—ghosts of past patriarchs, their eyes solemn, their presence heavy. He took the offered seat with a quiet nod.
Alexander studied him a moment longer, lips tugging into a smile.
"So," he said, settling back into his leather chair, fingertips steepled, "what brings you here today? Something you need? Not that I mind the visit, but it's been a long day of... less agreeable company."
Caspian folded his hands in his lap, speaking with polite neutrality. "That's what I came to ask about."
Alexander raised a brow. "Oh?"
"How you ended up this busy. Or rather... how you came to run all of this." His eyes flicked briefly to the vast shelves, the gilded wall sconces, the lacquered emblem behind the desk—the sigil of the Blackwood family embossed in gold.
There was a pause, a brief flicker of amusement in Alexander's gaze. "Hm?"
"I mean," Caspian clarified, more gently now, "how did you come to lead the Blackwood Corporation?"
Alexander leaned back, a soft chuckle escaping him. "Ah. Now there's a question I haven't heard in years." He smiled fondly, fingers drumming lightly on the desk. "Curious, are you?"
Caspian offered a faint shrug. "Andrew mentioned something about your family's role in the city. And honestly... I was bored."
The admission was casual, a touch mischievous, though Caspian's posture remained composed, eyes locked on Alexander's. He wasn't here for a history lesson. He was probing—searching for weakness, watching the way Alexander's mouth moved when he recalled pain, how his eyes sharpened or faltered under pressure. Every moment was a blade being sharpened, even if the older man didn't yet know it.
Alexander laughed again, this time more heartily. "Bored, were you? Well, far be it from me to deny a curious mind its entertainment."
He pushed back from his desk and stood, walking toward a framed photograph near the bookshelves. "The Blackwood family has sponsored Nimerath for over two centuries. That's the elegant term for it. 'Sponsor.' What it really means is governance—quiet, firm, and largely unquestioned."
He pointed to the photograph—a black-and-white portrait of a man with cold, aristocratic eyes and a long woolen coat. "That's Augustine Blackwood, my great-great-great-grandfather. He built the first tower here in Nimerath, paved the foundation of what you now walk on."
Caspian's gaze lingered on the photo. There was something vaguely familiar in the angle of Augustine's jaw, in the weight of his stare.
Alexander continued, his voice dropping into a rhythm of practiced storytelling. "The leadership of this family is not passed down by birthright. It is claimed. When the head dies, those eligible to succeed him or her must fight. It's not metaphorical. It's an actual duel—no weapons, no interference. Just raw, personal strength."
Caspian's brow rose slightly. "You fought for your position?"
Alexander turned, eyes narrowing faintly. "Yes. Against my younger brother. Seymour."
The name hung heavy in the air, like dust unsettled by wind.
"And?" Caspian asked, his tone light but curious.
"I won," Alexander said simply.
He moved toward the liquor cabinet in the corner, his back half-turned. There was a brief, telling silence before he continued.
"He left the same night. Didn't take any clothes. No farewell. No letter."
Caspian said nothing at first. He let the silence draw out, long enough that Alexander had to look over his shoulder.
"You haven't heard from him?" Caspian finally asked.
Alexander shook his head once, pouring himself a drink. "Not once in twelve years."
There was something final in that sentence—like a door closing.
Caspian nodded, quiet, then smiled faintly. "So... you must be pretty strong, huh?"
The shift was deliberate—easy banter to defuse the tension. But it served another purpose too: he wanted to see how Alexander reacted to praise. To being challenged.
The older man smirked, setting his glass down with a clink. "Would you like a demonstration? A little preview of what the Champion of the Blackwood Family is capable of?"
Without waiting for a reply, he strode toward one of the tall bookshelves and pulled out a thick blue volume. With a hidden click, the shelf groaned inward and then rotated outward, revealing a passage wrapped in warm stone and cool shadow.
"A hidden training room behind a bookshelf?" Caspian asked, standing slowly. "You do realize how cartoonishly wealthy that is."
Alexander laughed as he disappeared into the chamber. "Some clichés endure for a reason."
Caspian followed him into the training space, his eyes scanning the room with quiet calculation. The floor was padded and lined with charcoal-gray mats, the walls reinforced with metal struts and lined with weapons—some traditional, others clearly customized. On the far end, framed in soft light, hung a series of oil portraits.
Nine portraits hung on the wall.
Each one bearing the familiar Blackwood jawline. Each one a ghost in tailored black.
Caspian walked past them, pausing at the last one—Augustine, again. His eyes felt colder up close, the paint too exact in its shadows.
"Nine generations," Caspian murmured.
Alexander stood near the sparring mat, already removing his coat.
"Nine who succeeded. Many others tried."
He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders back as he stepped into the center of the mat. "You've had some exposure to magic, haven't you? Andrew wouldn't let you grow up without it."
"A little," Caspian replied. "He said magic reflects who you are."
"A decent summary," Alexander said, beginning to pace slowly in a circle. "But the truth is more layered. Magic blooms through action. Through obsession. A child who swims every day, who breathes through water more than air, may one day manipulate the sea itself. But a man who merely stares at waves? He'll never command a tide."
Caspian offered a slow, contemplative nod, his fingers idly brushing the edge of his sleeve.
"Let me show you."
Alexander inhaled, then closed his eyes. A strange stillness fell across the space. The air thickened—just slightly—like the pressure before a storm.
Then it happened.
A faint, orange glow rippled over his skin. It curled around his left arm like living flame, crawling up from his wrist to his shoulder. Flesh swelled. Muscle thickened. The limb darkened, scales rising where skin once was. His fingers became claws, knuckles knotted with monstrous force.
He raised the arm and flicked it forward.
The sound split the air like thunder. One of the steel dummies across the room exploded—scattered in molten fragments that hissed and cooled against the stone floor.
Alexander lowered his arm, flexing it once as the scales dissolved, revealing unmarred skin beneath.
"Fortification," he said, as if announcing the name of a song. "I can reinforce any part of my body. Amplify its strength, its resistance, even its speed—though not without limits."
Caspian stood still, processing.
"You got that from fighting?" he asked quietly.
"From discipline," Alexander corrected. "I trained obsessively. Martial arts. Lifting. Endurance. That drive shaped me. My ability came at seventeen—far earlier than it should have."
Caspian's eyes flicked to the remnants of the dummy. "Seventeen," he echoed.
He let the moment stretch, then exhaled, schooling his features into something sheepish.
"I like playing the violin," he offered. "Maybe I'll develop something with sound."
Alexander chuckled. "Possible. I once knew a girl who weaponized her humming. Disarmed five men with a single note."
He glanced sideways, something more serious entering his tone. "Sound can be beautiful. Or it can be catastrophic."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Alexander regarded him for a moment longer. Then, with a final nod, he retrieved his coat.
"Come. Dinner will be ready soon. You're welcome to join us."
Caspian offered a shallow bow of the head. "I'll be down shortly. I have something to take care of first."
Alexander raised an eyebrow, mildly curious, but said nothing. "Very well."
They stepped out into the corridor together, the walls humming faintly with electric current. The lights overhead flickered once before stabilizing. The stillness that followed felt deeper somehow—more watchful.
As they reached the elevator, Caspian spoke again, his tone quieter now.
"Your brother. Seymour."
Alexander glanced over, the name weighing heavier than before.
"You said you still loved him. Is that true?"
There was a long pause before he responded.
"Yes," he said. "I do."
Caspian stepped a little closer, eyes sharpening.
"And if he came back? If he threatened Layla? Your people? Would you kill him?"
The silence that followed was colder than any magic. It did not rush—it settled.
Alexander didn't answer at once. But when he did, his voice was stripped of ceremony.
"Yes," he said. "Without question."
Caspian gave a slow nod.
"I see."
The elevator arrived with a gentle chime. Alexander stepped inside, pressing the button for the ground floor. He offered a half-smile as the doors began to close.
"Don't be long."
Caspian nodded once.
As soon as the elevator vanished behind its steel veil, his expression faded. The polite smile dropped. He stood motionless in the quiet hall, bathed in sterile light.
From the pocket of his coat, he drew out a crumpled piece of paper—the note Julius had left him. He smoothed it absently, fingers lingering on the edges.
"I do agree with you, Alexander," he murmured into the silence.
Then he folded the note carefully and tucked it away.
"But unfortunately... you can't kill family."