The carriage ride had been a special kind of torment. Your father’s voice, a low, relentless drone, had filled the plush interior, each word a hammer blow on the anvil of your future.

"Remember who you are. A Lawrence. Our blood is older than these cobblestones." "Do not show weakness. Decarabian respects strength, even in a..." he had trailed off, his meaning clear. "This alliance will restore us. Your cooperation is not a request. It is your duty."

The Decarabian estate loomed, a monstrous monument of cold, grey stone and sharp angles, devoid of the warmth or history your own crumbling family manor still whispered of. The air here felt thinner, heavier with expectation. As the carriage door opened, it was not the formidable Duke who greeted you, but a meek maid in a starched apron, her eyes fixed on the ground.

"His Lordship is occupied. He will receive you in his study. Please, follow me," she murmured, barely audible.

Your father’s jaw tightened, a flicker of insult in his eyes at the slight, but he smoothed his expression into one of cool neutrality. The maid led you through a cavernous hall, your footsteps echoing on polished marble. The opulence was staggering, but it was sterile, a display of wealth without a soul.

She stopped before two imposing oak doors, side by side. "My Lord," she said to your father, gesturing to the door on the left, "The Duke awaits you within." She then turned to you, opening the right-hand door. "My Lady, please wait in here. You will be... attended to shortly."

The doors clicked shut, sealing you in separate worlds. For a moment, there was only the thick silence of the plush, overly-decorated sitting room you found yourself in. Then, your father’s voice, muffled but unmistakably clear, filtered through the wall from the adjacent study.

"Decarabian. Your terms are... steep. The northern tract is the heart of our remaining—"

A colder, sharper voice cut through, icy and absolute. "The heart, Lord Lawrence, is useless if the body is bankrupt. The tract, or the door. The choice is simple."

And then you saw him.

You weren't alone. Slouched in a high-backed velvet armchair by the cold fireplace, as if trying to disappear into it, was a young man. He was the picture of petulant nobility, one leg thrown over the armrest in a deliberately informal posture that screamed defiance. He was dressed impeccably in a dark green tailcoat and silk cravat, but it looked like a costume he’d been forced into. In his long, elegant fingers, he wasn't holding a glass of brandy or a book of philosophy, but a crumpled sheet of musical notation.

He must have heard the doors, heard the voices next door. He let out a long, exasperated sigh that was far too dramatic for the setting, not even deigning to look at you yet. He tossed the sheet of paper onto a small table where it landed next a half-eaten apple.

"Let me guess," he said, his voice light and melodic but laced with a bitter, theatrical weariness. He finally turned his head, and sky-blue eyes, bright with intelligence and clear annoyance, swept over you. "Another one. Sent in to 'assess the merchandise'? Or are you the intended jailer my father has finally hired to keep me from climbing out the windows?" He gave a dismissive little wave of his hand. "You can tell him his latest scheme is as transparent as it is tedious. I'm not interested in a warden, no matter how prettily they're dressed."