?? The Shape of Authority ??
The Algraves’ palace rested above the city, distant enough that the noise reached it only as a suggestion. The living room was wide and measured in its proportions, built for assemblies that never raised their voices. Lamps burned steadily along the walls, their light caught in gilt frames and polished surfaces.
The guards remained at their posts—dark wool coats, collars buttoned high, brass buttons catching the light. Short sabres rested at their sides, hands relaxed but never idle. They were not decoration. No one in the room mistook them for such.
Lucien and Camilla Algraves sat at the center of the arrangement, side by side.
Casper sat to Lucien’s right.
Emily to Camilla’s left.
Like wings folded neatly at their sides. They were the only children in the room, just like their parents were the youngest in the gathering.
The room held several nobles, men and women of standing, their coats cut well, their movements economical. Conversation moved in low tones.
“Open gatherings in the square,” said a Count, voice clipped, “and the magistrates are indecisive. This will not settle itself.”
A Baroness, her fan lifted just enough to catch the light, inclined her head.
“One hears only desperation, not courage. Crowds exaggerate themselves, always.”
A Marquess adjusted his gloves, the subtle click echoing in the salon.
“The Commissioner will attend the Winter Estate Banquet. Better to speak in the room than by letter or phone.”
Camilla’s gaze flicked to Emily.
“He is not on this year’s list. Some lessons are taught in silence.”
The Marquess leaned forward slightly, voice calm but sharp.
“And the patronage committee? Reassignments are noted. Reputation is swift to judge absence.”
A tense pause. The city’s unrest whispered in from below, distant but palpable.
“Destruction of property,” said the Count, “my windows this morning… the phrase scrawled across glass: ‘Death to the idlers.’”
Casper’s shoulders tensed, but he remained still, eyes absorbing each voice, each careful intonation.
“The crowds are not being calmed,” The Baroness added. “And visibility is spreading.”
Camilla’s voice was even, precise.
“Criminals seldom draw crowds. Only desperation can muster such numbers.”
Another hush fell over the salon. The private guards at the walls, immaculate and silent, caught every small movement. Every noble present understood the weight behind the words and gestures; a glance, a seat at the table, a quietly omitted name—all were instruments sharper than any sword.
Silvano’s boots echoed across the polished wood floor as he walked inside to the telephone. That was all it took. The maid paused, bowed her head slightly, and left the room without a word.
He lifted the receiver.
“Central, connect me to Mr. Dominick Marviano,” he said, his voice even, precise. The operator’s faint clicks answered him.
A soft, mechanical click. Almost instantly.
“Yes?” Dominick’s voice, calm, unflinching.
Silvano raised an eyebrow.
"That was quick. Is he sitting in front of his telephone?" he thought to himself.
“It’s me, Dom. Silvano.”
A faint sigh, half disappointment, half amusement, drifted across the line.
“Unusual from you. Couldn’t wait until we met in person?”
“This one is urgent.”
“You’re finally dying, old man? I thought you were immortal.”
Silvano chuckled, low and dangerous.
“Listen. Keep in touch with Sal and Tessio. Get an address from them. And tell Alex and Dante to stay clear of that place. This one is happening at daylight, so I thought you'd warn them.”
Silvano paused, waiting for an answer, but nothing came.
“Also," he kept going, "Since you're free, keep an eye on things for us. Payment’s a little late on both cops' payrolls and our men—Carlo’s straightening the books. Business is suffering. We're short on muscle and I don't want any more trouble while we're almost done with the Marcetti bastards. We're almost there.”
Silvano paused again, but nothing came for a second. Two. Three.
Finally, Dominick's voice came back.
“Silvano…”
“What?”
“You do know the operator is listening, right?”
Silvano’s jaw tightened. A flicker of disgust passed through his eyes.
“What is it with you geezers?" Dominick's voice grew louder and a little impatient. "One slip after another. Get it together. This is becoming a circus.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“Age, Dominick. Age. It will happen to you. Someday it will."
"We will see about that."
"And curse these infernal inventions. This is not the stone age anymore. When will one get some privacy?”
Dominick’s chuckle was soft, almost intimate.
“Never.”
The line was still, heavy with implied threat. Silvano’s voice dropped, lethal yet controlled.
“Hey, operator. This call never happened. A single word reaches the authorities… I will know you listened.”
He let the silence stretch, letting it sink. Then:
“And when I know that… I won’t come for you first. Good night.”
Silvano hung up. The mansion returned to shadow and quiet, the faint smell of cooked meat lingering, untouched.
The operator, a young lady, swallowed, sweat all over her face, decided to quit the very next day.
Dominick remained seated, finishing his smoke in his own empty house. An ashtray full before him, he lit another, eyes cold behind his glasses.
“Not the call I was expecting,” he said. “Nothing is getting them to budge.”
He let the word linger, heavy with meaning. The call he truly waited for—the one from above, from the silent hands—had not yet come.
The gathering in the Algraves palace had thinned at last.
Carriages rolled down the gravel drive below, their lanterns bobbing as the guests were seen off through the garden doors. Lucien and Camilla Algrave stood together beneath the archway, their children flanking them—Casper to Lucien’s right, Emily to Camilla’s left—silent, composed, practiced.
When the final farewells were exchanged and the doors closed, the house seemed to exhale.
Lucien broke the quiet. “That will be enough for tonight.”
The words were not directed at anyone in particular, yet they settled where they were meant to.
Emily hesitated. She looked down and up, wondering if it's the right time to ask a question that has been on her mind for hours, maybe days.
“Father… Mother.”
She clasped her hands before her. “I’ve been thinking about the boys. Alex and Dante. The ones who helped us.”
Lucien’s gaze remained forward for a moment longer than necessary.
“I remember,” he said at last. “If they have not presented themselves, they have their reasons.”
Emily’s eyes dropped.
“They said they would come and visit,” she murmured. “They promised. Maybe something happened to them with all what's going on?”
Camilla spoke without turning her head. “I'm sure they are safe, sweetheart. They are capable boys."
"Can't we—"
"You were distracted this evening.” her voice cut in, colder.
Emily stiffened. She knew better than to argue. “It will not happen again, Mother.”
The girl bent her knee, lifted her skirts with care. “Good night.”
Casper bowed more simply, then followed his sister down the corridor. Lucien watched them go, a faint, fleeting softness touching his expression. Since the kidnapping, Casper had not let Emily out of arm’s reach if he could help it.
When they were gone, Lucien turned to Camilia, studying her face, looking into her eyes, searching for answers he wished he'd ask for like a normal man would ask his wife.
“You press them hard after what they endured. I understand they must learn politics but they have been kidnapped not so long ago, Camilia. ”
Camilla’s eyes remained on the corridor.
“I am not hardening them. I am preparing them. For the people who smile at this house while sharpening knives behind it.”
He nodded once, then turned to one of the guards.
“The messenger?”
“He remains,” the guard answered.
“Then we will not keep him waiting.”
Lucien moved toward the stairs. Camilla followed.
Far down the corridor, Casper and Emily walked side by side.
Emily broke the silence first.
“Did you understand everything they were saying tonight?”
Casper huffed softly.
“Not everything. But enough. To sum it up, the city citizens are angry. At the police. At us. At anyone who is either powerful or rich.”
Emily frowned.
“That's what I understood too. But we didn’t do anything.”
“Yes,” Casper replied. “Commoners mentality.”
She slowed her steps.
“That’s not what I meant.”
Casper stopped, as his sister's voice got quieter.
“I meant we didn't do anything... to help."
She swallowed.
"Alex and Dante didn’t hesitate... They helped us without being asked. Without being paid. I will never forget that sight. Alex calming me down while I was staring at that man's dead body. Dante refusing gold from Father."
“And them and other people are out there… in all this. While we are just sitting here... when we can do something, with all the wealth our parents have.”
Casper took in the words, remembering the scenes Emily talked about.
“It’s more complicated than you think.”
The twins walked on in silence.
Casper said nothing more—but the thought stayed with him, unwelcome and persistent.
As foolish as it sounded, he admitted to himself,
she isn’t wrong.
A private room sat atop the palace, just off Lucien and Camilla Algrave’s bedroom. Heavy velvet drapes muffled the city beyond.
Lucien and Camilla entered together, slow, deliberate, each step measured, their breaths steady. Behind them, the two palace guards remained at their posts.
The door opened, though no sound came from it.
Inside sat a figure, cross-legged as if the room belonged to them. A plague-doctor style leather half-mask concealed the face entirely, its beak long and smooth, blackened with age. A broad-brimmed hat shadowed the brow. A long black cloak fell in soft folds over the shoulders. Gloves covered their hands; the edges of the sleeves were buttoned precisely, almost ceremoniously. Whether man or woman—young or old—remained a question left unanswered. A letter rested lightly between gloved fingers.
Lucien walked forward and took a seat. Camilla remained standing, her back straight, eyes unwavering, studying the figure as if piercing its shadowed identity.
No words. No sound. No gesture. Only the presence, heavy and absolute.
Minutes passed. Then, with deliberate slowness, the figure extended a gloved hand. Two fingers touched the envelope, and it was offered.
Lucien reached out and took it, opening the flap with precision, revealing the carefully folded sheet inside. The guards did not dare glance at its contents. They did not need to. They knew who this visitor represented, even if the visitor remained unknowable.
Lucien scanned the letter quickly, eyes narrowing.
“I will peruse this correspondence thoroughly and deliver our reply at the appointed audience. The hour grows late, and the night has been long.”
The figure did not flinch. Again, that same gloved hand rose, finger extended, pointing sharply toward the polished floor.
Here.
Now.
The meaning was clear.
Lucien exhaled, a low, measured breath, as if tolerating a minor indignity for the sake of peace.
Camilla’s lips pressed together, eyes narrowing. “A mere messenger,” she said, her voice quiet but sharp, “should never presume to address the Algraves in such a manner. I keep getting disappointed in the courtesy—or lack of it—extended by your house.”
Lucien’s eyes remained on the letter, turning each line with careful precision. Not fear, but strategy dictated his obedience. He finished reading, paused for a moment, then passed the letter to Camilla.
“Our stance remains unchanged, even in light of recent developments in the city. Your house acts with haste, yet it alters nothing. The Algraves have never sought power through aggression. We trade, we mediate, we counsel. We remain loyal to the Crown, yet independent in judgment. We shall not involve ourselves in wars, nor in the financing of rebellions, nor in the engineering of colonial expansion that we have been opposing for decades.”
That was enough of an answer.
The figure rose smoothly, unhurried, every motion deliberate, then moved toward the door. The guards stepped aside, their posture rigid, their sabres glinting faintly, creating a silent corridor for the messenger.
As the door closed behind them, the tension in the room did not immediately dissipate. The lamps flickered slightly in the silence; shadows pooled in the corners. Even the guards, who had seen every conceivable breach of decorum, felt the weight of the unknown recede only slowly. It was a reminder that power often wore no face, and obedience could be demanded by absence as much as presence.
Camilla set the letter on the table, smoothing it flat, and drew a long breath.
Lucien leaned back in his chair, running a hand along the polished armrest.
"So persistent..."
Outside, the first faint glow of dawn brushed the palace walls. In the quiet aftermath, the letter lay between them, a symbol of threat, caution, and the unspoken presence of a power that would never show itself, yet always watched.
Ask. The archive might answer back.
What to Expect:
- Sci-fi mystery
- Character-driven plot
- Slow-burn investigation
- Brothers on opposite sides
- Cool powers!
- Optional meta layers
- Multi-POV cast
- Emotional gut punches & sarcasm
Hear from Lev below. These artifacts are your first clue!
[Lev’s Note]: Am I a terrible person for being relieved this tabloid is about Isi and not me?