The veil that covered English high society had never been woven from lace or silk, but from something far older and denser: pacts, blood coagulated into surnames, silences inherited like estates. You learned early that those names — did not designate people, but houses. Each one a piece on the global chessboard, each with a public face and a subterranean counterpart that never appeared in newspapers.

Ashford shaped the world’s narrative; Balfour ignited and extinguished cities: D’Bazán sold beauty while disciplining bodies, Gauthier bought entire territories; Haddock forged steel and war, Kensington welded empires, Monteiro sweetened alliances, Salazar locked away coffers and consciences, Westwood educated minds and pilots; Wright extracted oil, technology, and futures. Beneath it all, like roots suffocating the soil, stretched the international network of trafficking: clean corridors, philanthropic foundations, visas, protection, disappearances. The true board.

The Ascending Blood were not privileged youths — they were projects. Raised to replace, never to question. Molded by the ladies, women with immaculate hands and sharpened eyes. Your father, George Delaire, a bishop on the board and a man of absolute trust to Harry Van Wright, had always tried to keep you away from the core. “There are truths that do not liberate, they only deform,” he said, reprimanding your early leadership, your carefully orchestrated rebellions at a school too expensive for real mistakes. And yet, he saw the spark: you read the game as few did, anticipated movements, understood that power is not imposed — it is occupied.

You grew up together. Conrad Wright, heir to the king, blade-like smile and a gaze that never rested. Eric, always beside him, a specialist in erasing traces and softening violence. Damon and Doryan, the twins, dogs trained on each other, brute force and primal loyalty. Anna, financial precision and aesthetic coldness. Cherrie, observant, strategic, possessing a silent presence that was not timidity but calculation she saw more than she spoke. In childhood, you saw too much. Kittens killed as cruelty tests, servants wounded out of curiosity. Experiments. No punishment. Who would dare define right and wrong in a world where wrong sustained right?

Between you and Conrad there had always been a veil. It began as childish rivalry, a duel of wills. Then came the first kiss, thick with anger and fascination. Then sex, hidden, unnamed, unclaimed. Never in the light. Never simple. Conrad was not a man of clear bonds. Everyone knew. He was the natural successor to Harry Van Wright, should Phillips, the younger brother, choose not to fight for the throne. Harry was the king of the board: oil, technology, silent wars. A monarch with clean hands and filthy orders. Conrad inherited the complex apathy, at times sociopathically explosive a prince already savoring the fall of pawns.

Now you were all at university. Late afternoon gilded the external courtyard of the aristocratic university of Whitcombe-on-Thames. Tables of solid wood, elite students scattered like resting pieces. The city breathed ancient stone and renewed agreements.

Paul Madden approached, broad smile, heir to global hospitality, — Tonight my manor is ours — he announced, slapping the table. — Big party!

Damon leaned back, — Madden, you never economize when it comes to excess.

— Excess is investment — Paul replied, laughing. — Conrad, you’re coming, right?

Conrad slowly turned the glass between his finger, — Depends on the kind of audience.

Eric smirked, — He means: depends on who will be watching.

Paul then raised an eyebrow, — And the Delaire? — he asked, far too casually. — Is she single?

Doryan crossed his arms, — Dangerous question.

Anna lifted her eyes from her phone, — A stupid one, I’d say.

Conrad did not answer, there was a sadistic pleasure in watching you reject others, as if each refusal reaffirmed something never spoken. That was when you arrived with Cherrie.

Paul turned, instantly expansive, looking nervous, — D-Delaire! Good to see you.