The moment my grandfather's voice cut through the low hum of the bar, I knew the true conversation had begun.
"How much time will it take to get my drink?"
His tone was steady, unremarkable to any casual listener. A simple question, one that could have meant nothing more than idle impatience. But I knew better.
The woman behind the counter paused for only a fraction of a second, her fingers stilling over the wine glass she had been polishing. It was subtle, barely perceptible, but in a place like this, where words held double meanings and silence was a language of its own, even the smallest hesitation spoke volumes.
She resumed her work, her movements smooth and unhurried.
"It'll be done in two minutes."
A response that meant far more than what it seemed.
It would be completed in two weeks.
I kept my expression neutral, my fingers resting lightly on the counter. If I hadn't known any better, I might have let the exchange pass as nothing more than a mundane interaction. But here, beneath the dim glow of oil lamps and the scent of aged whiskey, the air was thick with the weight of secrets.
Her gaze flickered toward me for the first time, assessing.
"Which drink shall I serve this young man?"
The words were casual, wrapped in the veneer of polite hospitality, but I could hear the true question woven beneath them.
Who is this young man, and what information does he seek?
My grandfather's expression did not waver.
"A new drink, perhaps?"
A declaration.
I was the new head. And like any head of the Ashbourne family, I would require information. Something new.
The woman's expression didn't shift, but something in her posture did—a subtle realignment, as though re-evaluating her approach. Her fingers trailed along the rim of the glass she was holding before she finally responded.
"I understand. But we don't have any new drinks. How about an old wine?"
No new information. But something from the past, something worth revisiting.
My grandfather inclined his head slightly.
"Sure."
Without another word, the woman reached for a wine glass, setting it down in front of me with practiced ease. The faintest clink of glass meeting wood was swallowed by the quiet murmur of the bar.
Beneath the glass, barely visible, was a neatly folded piece of paper.
I didn't rush. To an outsider, I was simply reaching for my drink, my movements unhurried, natural. The moment my fingers curled around the stem, I subtly slid the paper free, palming it with ease before unfolding it under the cover of my sleeve.
A single word stared back at me.
Harrington.
A name bound to County, a family steeped in naval tradition.
A slow realization settled in my chest, cold and unrelenting. The ship my father had been on—the one that had disappeared without a trace, lost to the unforgiving depths of the sea—hadn't simply been an unfortunate casualty of fate.
The Harringtons were involved.
The glass in my hand felt heavier than before.
I exhaled slowly, setting the paper down as though it meant nothing.
"Thank you…"
A simple phrase, one that could mean anything. But here, it was an acknowledgment, a quiet acceptance of the truth that had been laid before me.
The woman only inclined her head before turning away, resuming her work as though nothing had passed between us.
My grandfather leaned back slightly, his sharp gaze flickering toward me, his expression unreadable yet weighted with quiet scrutiny.
"You haven't been here before, have you?"
The question, though simple, carried an undercurrent of something else—an assessment, perhaps. A test.
"No, I haven't," I answered, my gaze drifting toward the window.
Outside, the city of Westmere pulsed with life, its ceaseless rhythm unfazed by the shroud of night. People moved through the streets in an unbroken current, their lives dictated by ambition, by hunger, by the unrelenting drive to carve out a place for themselves.
The sharp contrast struck me—not with the cold, regimented order of Ashbourne, where every movement was dictated by duty and expectation, but with something raw, something untamed. This city breathed differently.
"Hmm."
A thoughtful hum. A flicker of something in my grandfather's eyes—approval? Amusement? It was impossible to tell. His fingers tapped idly against the counter, measured, unhurried.
"Take a look outside," he instructed, his tone carrying the ease of someone who already knew what answer he expected.
I did as he said, letting my gaze sweep over the streets beyond the fogged windowpane.
"And tell me the difference in behavior between the people of Westmere and Ashbourne," he continued, his voice calm, yet expectant.
I frowned slightly, watching the scene unfold before me.
The noblemen passed by in their carriages, their faces obscured behind lace-draped windows, their presence fleeting, indifferent. The common folk navigated the streets with a different kind of grace—one honed by necessity rather than breeding. They moved like a current, weaving through the labyrinth of cobblestone roads with an unhesitating rhythm. Merchants called out in sharp, rehearsed voices, their cries rising above the din of clattering hooves and hurried footsteps.
Westmere was not ruled by titles alone. It thrived on movement, on calculated ambition. It belonged to those who understood that to slow down was to be left behind.
And yet… something felt off. A whisper of unease settled at the edge of my awareness.
"Once you succeed," my grandfather said, breaking the silence, "I will grant you a wish. Anything you require."
The promise, spoken so lightly, carried a weight beyond its words. There was no warmth to it—no indulgence, no sentimentality. A detached offering, as if the fulfillment of my desires were nothing more than a transaction to be upheld.
I did not respond immediately, my fingers tightening slightly around the cool surface of the bar. There was something here, something just beyond reach, brushing against the edges of my thoughts.
"Here is your drink, Sir."
The bartender's voice slipped into the quiet space between us, smooth and practiced.
A crystal glass was placed before my grandfather with meticulous care, the amber liquid catching the low, flickering glow of the lanterns. The soft clink of glass against wood rang louder than it should have, reverberating in the hush between us.
My grandfather acknowledged the server with a slight nod, his movements deliberate, as if time itself bent to his pace. He lifted the glass, swirling the whiskey in slow, controlled motions before bringing it to his lips. His gaze, keen and unreadable, did not linger on me but shifted—subtly—to the far side of the bar.
Instinctively, I followed his line of sight.
And that was when I noticed them.
A group of young men occupied a secluded table in the corner, their polished boots resting lazily against the wooden floorboards. Their laughter was quiet yet rich with arrogance, their hushed words threading through the space between clinking glasses. They moved with the ease of those untouched by hardship, their privilege draped over them as naturally as the fine fabric of their tailored coats.
But it was one among them who caught my attention.
A young man, his platinum blonde hair cropped in the latest noble fashion, his piercing gray eyes gleaming with an air of practiced self-assurance. There was an unmistakable sharpness to him, a kind of controlled arrogance that marked those accustomed to standing above others.
Familiar.
Not in a way that I could immediately place, but something about the shape of his presence gnawed at the edges of my memory, demanding recognition.
"Don't make it too obvious, boy."
My grandfather's voice slid in, quiet yet firm, an unspoken command threading beneath the words.
He took another measured sip of whiskey, his expression betraying nothing.
I forced myself to lower my gaze, fingers curling against the glass in front of me. Yet, despite my best efforts, my attention remained anchored to that group in the corner.
My grandfather, as always, noticed.
"If you must observe," he murmured, setting his glass down with a deliberate clink, "use the tools at your disposal. The glass, the bottles behind the counter—anything but direct observation."
A lesson, not just for this moment, but for a lifetime.
I adjusted my focus, letting my eyes drift toward the bottles lined along the bar's back wall. Their polished surfaces caught the dim glow of the lanterns, bending and distorting the world around them. And there, warped by the curve of glass, I found them once more.
Their mouths moved—laughter spilling between words too quiet to reach me.
"Did you hear? Ashbourne's new head has arrived in the capital."
The voice, light and amused, carried an edge sharper than the polished silver at their table.
"Yes. However, he still hasn't made his first appearance in high society, has he? What do you think? Is it because he isn't good enough to be presented?"
A quiet snicker followed, muffled yet deliberate—a blade pressed just enough to break skin.
The air in the room shifted.
It wasn't the words themselves that stung. I had expected this. Of course they would talk. Of course, they would whisper behind lace and crystal, behind titles and careful pleasantries. That was the nature of nobility.
It wasn't the words. It was the way they spoke.
So casual. So effortless.
As if I were nothing more than a passing thought, an insignificant curiosity—neither worthy of fear nor respect.
Laughter curled around the space between us, filling the silence like the slow spread of ink across parchment.
I felt the heat simmer beneath my skin—not a sudden flare, but something quieter. Something steadier. Like embers waiting for the right gust of wind.
Before the flames could catch, my grandfather spoke.
"Don't let them rattle you."
His voice was level, unwavering. He reached for his whiskey once more, the movement as measured as his words.
"This is what it means to be an Ashbourne. Gossip and envy will follow you wherever you go."
I inhaled, slow and deep, letting the breath settle something within me.
"I understand," I said.
And I did.
But the weight of it did not sit as mere acceptance.
No. It settled as something else entirely.