I shove the last of the mental clutter aside, because there's no use dwellin' on it now. I’d had a thought, yeah, maybe even a daft idea that this was it, my chance to go straight. No more dodgy deals, no more running from the law, no more living off the back of my old man’s mess. Just me, starting fresh. But no. This world, this so-called Grand System? It’s got other plans for me. No matter how much I’d like to pretend I could escape the life, it seems it’s embedded in my bones, right alongside all that other nonsense I can’t shake off.

  I throw a look at the door, giving it one last glance before I head out. Wouldn’t look too normal, me just standin’ there, staring into thin air, mumbling to myself about some bloody system I don’t even fully understand. So, I grab my coat, pull it tight around me, and make my way out the door. The streets of Applewood are quiet this time of morning, and as I step out, I start making my way towards the posh end of town. Might as well take a look. Can’t hurt, right?

  The sigh comes out before I even realise. I’d thought I was done with all that criminal nonsense, but now here I am, walking through this strange town, caught up in some magical mess, unable to escape the life. I shake my head, not sure whether I’m frustrated or just resigned to the idea. This was supposed to be my new start, but I can’t shake the feeling that the universe — or whatever force runs this place — is laughin’ at me.

  I start to notice the buildings as I walk, the stonework sharper, cleaner. A few more trees, a couple of flowers planted here and there. Things look a little more refined as I move through, and I can’t help but smirk. High-end for a place that hasn’t got a lick of electricity, or the fancy bits and bobs you get back home. Still, it’s a nicer part of town, even if it’s all made up of fantasy and whimsy. So, I keep walkin’, not sure what I’m lookin’ for, but pretty damn certain I’m not gonna find it in any of these fancy houses. Might as well be a tourist for a bit. Just look around, take it all in. What else is there to do?

  I wander a bit further, taking in the oddball mix of old-school charm and shiny new bits, when I stumble across what can only be described as a tea house. Nestled in the back of a narrow alley, it’s tucked between some fancy-looking shops, like a little secret the town’s tryin’ to keep from the tourists. I can smell the tea before I even get inside, that warm, earthy scent. The door’s got a little bell that jingles when I walk in, and the woman behind the counter gives me a look like I’m some kind of oddity. I nod, order a pot of tea, and take a seat outside, under an awning that smells faintly of lavender.

  I pour the tea slowly, watching the folk in the posh end of town start their day. Proper suits, polished shoes, they’re all up and at it, mindin’ their business like they’ve got a purpose. Me? I’m just another bloke with a mug, watching the world go by.

  ***

  Louise sat at the bar of the Ox and Ember Inn, trying not to show it, but the weight of the unwanted eyes bore down on her like a bloody hammer. Every bloke in the place—drunk on whiskey and stupid with their ow desires—couldn’t keep their gaze off her. It made her skin crawl, but she didn’t flinch. She’d learned a long time ago that showing any weakness meant they'd chew you up and spit you out. So, she put on a show. A bloody good one. Like it was a suit of armour, and if she played the part right, no one could touch her.

  Finbar Strand, leaning against the bar with his usual cocky grin, was no better. He thought he owned her, thought his stare was a claim on what was his, but Louise wasn’t having any of it. Oh, he knew she’d come over when she was good and ready—she always did. She hated the way he looked at her, the way the other men in the room watched her like she was something to possess, but she could use it. She could use it to her advantage. They all wanted something, and she’d make sure they didn’t get it.

  When she finally stood, the dress she wore clung to her like it was painted on, leaving little to the imagination. She hated it, but she didn’t care. She’d let them think what they wanted, make them stare if that was what it took. Every step she took toward Finbar, her heels clicking on the floor like the sound of a ticking clock, was a declaration. She was in control. She draped her arm over Finbar’s shoulder like it was a chain, a reminder that he didn’t hold her—no one did. She leaned in close, her breath a whisper against his ear, but it wasn’t a confession. It was a challenge. Let them look. Let them want. They’d never get close. Not while she wore this mask.

  Strand pulled her in tight, the force of it almost knocking her off her feet. His hands, rough and eager, strayed, trying to have his way in front of all the bloody eyes in the room. She could feel his breath on her neck, the heat of his body pressing against hers, and for a moment, all she could think about was how badly she hated this—how much she hated him in that moment. But, Louise wasn’t stupid. She knew the game. So, she slapped on the fake smile, the one that came as easily as breathing, and played along. She tossed her head back, giving him a teasing glance, her body pretending to sway into him like it was all part of the plan.

  She pushed him away with just enough force to make him pause, but that’s when she felt the change. The smirk that had been lingering on his lips twisted into something far darker. His stare went from wanting to angry. Louise could see it in his eyes. His temper was a short fuse—quick to ignite, but never enough to burn. He’d never lay a hand on her. That wasn’t his style. But his words? They could sting like a blade to the gut. And that’s what she was bracing for.

  Sure enough, just as she was about to step back, the words were already hanging in the air, ready to cut through the tension. The venom was there, just on the tip of his tongue. He was about to spit out another horrid remark, loud enough for her to hear, when it happened.

  A figure—massive, lumbering—pushed through the crowd with a barely restrained grunt. Tiny. The rotund lackey who’d been with Finbar longer than anyone cared to remember. A proper giant of a man, all muscle and bad news wrapped in a suit too small for his frame. The kind of man you didn’t want to cross, even if his name was ironic as hell. Tiny was anything but. He reached Finbar in a few long strides and leaned in, whispering something into his ear. Whatever he said, it hit like a punch to the gut, because Finbar’s face went blank, his anger smothered in an instant.

  Strand’s posture stiffened, his gaze flicking from Tiny back to Louise, then to the back room, as though the whole incident had been wiped clean from his mind. He didn’t say another word. Without even a glance in her direction, he turned and stalked towards the back room, Tiny close behind him like a shadow. Louise stood there, catching her breath, unsure whether to be relieved or suspicious. It wasn’t often someone could knock Finbar off balance—not even Tiny. She waited a beat, watching the back door swing closed behind them, her fingers still tingling from where Strand’s grip had burned into her skin.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  She didn’t trust it. Not for a second. Whatever had just happened, it was too clean, too sudden. Something was off. She wasn’t about to let Finbar and his big brute of a lackey get the upper hand—not without seeing what the hell they were up to. So, she followed. Quietly, like a shadow in the night, weaving her way through the dim light of the inn, past patrons who barely noticed her slip by. Her heart was still racing, but it was a different kind of rush now. She rounded the corner just in time to catch a glimpse of a large chest being dragged across the floor in the back room. Finbar was about to open it. She didn’t need to see more. Then the door closed. Even through the thick wooden door, Louise could hear it—the unmistakable sound of money bags rustling softly, followed by the creaking of the chest being opened.

  She stepped closer, her ear pressed against the door, blocking out everything else. She knew that sound. It was the sound of gold—heavy, unmistakable.

  One.

  The first bag dropped into the chest with a dull thud, coins shifting inside, a slight rattle.

  Two.

  Another bag, heavier this time, the jingle of gold louder, more pronounced.

  Three….Four.

  The rhythm quickened, one bag after another, dropping into the chest like clockwork. Louise counted, her mind racing with every sound.

  Five….Six.

  She could hear the weight now—the bags filled with the inn’s earnings for the month. Not just a few coins here and there—this was serious money.

  Seven….Eight.

  The bags kept coming, landing with a thud that seemed to echo through the room. Eight bags. Eight bags of gold. Her heart skipped a beat. That was more than a night’s haul. It was a month’s worth of takings—enough to make anyone sweat.

  This wasn’t something small. This wasn’t just Finbar being cautious or tight-fisted. This was big. She had to bite her lip to stop herself from rushing in. Her mind worked overtime. Finbar was moving the cash—keeping it somewhere far away from prying eyes. He wouldn’t risk such a haul unless there was more at play. Something was off.

  Louise stood frozen for a moment, listening. The pieces were clicking into place. Finbar wasn’t just being paranoid. This was something bigger. Something he didn’t want anyone to know about

  ***

  Charlie sat at the grand oak table, his fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup. The room was bathed in light, everything around him pristine—too pristine, almost.

  The servants moved silently, their every action precise and practiced, their eyes never once meeting his. Not a single one of them acknowledged his presence. His old man, sitting at the head of the table, had his nose buried in a conversation about the upcoming horse race with his brother, both of them grinning like they knew the inside scoop. Charlie, privileged but out of place, sat quietly at the table, trying to slip into the conversation with the casual ease they all seemed to have. He cleared his throat and leaned in, trying to make his voice heard. “You think the favorite’s a sure thing this year, or is there something new in the mix?”

  The conversation came to an abrupt stop, but no one looked at him. His sister didn’t even bother glancing up from her phone, scrolling as if she was the only one who mattered. His brother, too busy with his own world of bets and boasts, barely acknowledged Charlie’s words. His father? He didn’t even register Charlie’s presence—just muttered distractedly, “We’ll see, Charlie,” before diving back into the race talk with his brother, like he hadn’t even spoken.

  Charlie tried again, leaning in a little more, his voice tinged with a hint of frustration. “I was thinking of putting a bet down myself. Reckon it’s worth a punt.” He flashed a grin, hoping to break through, but the response was the same—nothing. Not even a glance.

  The table buzzed on without him. The race. The bets. The bloody horses. All of it was a world Charlie wanted to be part of, but no matter how hard he tried, he always ended up feeling like an outsider. A ghost in his own home. The servants, ever the backdrop, continued to serve without a word. His family, the ones he’d fought his whole life to impress, carried on without him, like he wasn’t even there.

  With a soft sigh, Charlie picked up his fork and dug into his breakfast. He ate, not out of hunger, but out of routine—because what else was there to do? It wasn’t worth fighting anymore.

  An hour later, Charlie Thornby was striding through the cobbled streets of Applewood, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his tailored coat, the morning sun brushing against the rooftops like an artist’s final touch. The clatter of carts, chatter of townsfolk, and occasional bark of a dog filled the air—this was a world that moved without giving a toss about last names or family estates. And that’s exactly why he was heading to The Spout & Steam, his favourite little tearoom tucked between a bakery and a dusty old bookshop. The owner, Nora, had never once batted an eyelid at his surname or the mess that often followed it.

  She didn’t care that the Thornby name carried a certain... weight. To her, Charlie was just another punter with a taste for strong tea and quiet corners. As he approached, he noticed a figure sitting alone at one of the small wrought-iron tables outside. A man, black hair neatly slicked back, a tailored coat draped effortlessly over his shoulders. His features were sharp, almost carved—handsome in that dangerous, too-slick sort of way. Charlie clocked him instantly: the kind of bloke who could charm a miser out of his last coin or sell icicles to the snow-dwellers of the Aurora Realm with a smile and a wink. He didn’t belong here, not really. Something about him was too polished for Applewood, too deliberate.

  Charlie’s eyes lingered for a moment, curiosity piqued, but he shrugged the thought away. Not my circus, he thought. He stepped inside, gave Nora a nod, and ordered his usual. A few minutes later, he sat at the table opposite the stranger, settling into his seat as the town drifted by, waiting for his pot of tea and letting the rhythm of Applewood calm the mess in his head.

  Minutes later, the tea arrived—hot, fragrant, served in a chipped porcelain pot that had seen better days but poured like a dream. Charlie Thornby poured himself a cup, watching the golden-brown liquid swirl. He took a sip and muttered under his breath, “Whole bloody house full of people, and I’m still the invisible one…” He shook his head, the warmth of the tea doing little to settle the sting left by breakfast.

  Just then, from the corner of his eye, he saw movement. The sharp-looking stranger stood up, brushing down his coat with a lazy elegance. He stepped away from his table but caught the edge of a loose paving stone. In a flash, the man stumbled, arms flailing, and collided straight into Charlie’s table. The tea pot wobbled, sloshing its contents, and a few hot drops splashed across the wood.

  “Bloody hell—!” Charlie jumped, jerking his chair back.

  “Oh, damn—my fault, mate,” the stranger said, steadying himself. “Didn’t see that stone.”

  Charlie looked up at him, brow raised. “You alright? Bit early to be throwing yourself into people.”

  The man chuckled, brushing down his coat again. “Least I picked someone with good taste in tea. Apologies for the mess.”