SLAM.
Gregory's palm struck the oak tabletop, rattling the inkpots and teacups.
"And so," he declared, eyes gleaming behind round spectacles, "the whole infernal apparatus is laid bare."
Gabriel and Ragnar exchanged a glance, arms crossed like sentinels. The candlelight flickered over their faces—Gabriel's composed, Ragnar's taut as wire.
"Good," Gabriel said, his voice clipped. "Let's recite it once more. Thoroughly."
Ragnar leaned forward, his voice low and deliberate, as if each word were being carved into stone.
"A strategic consignment—meant to reinforce Albion's border regiments—was intercepted by the Cymrian pirates. Eighty percent of it belonged to us. That loss forced the Crown to seek emergency funding from the Commerce Hall, which in turn is maneuvering to award the new manufacturing contract to Beaumont Corporation."
Gabriel nodded, adding,
"Which, conveniently, is run by Ragnar's father. A man with fewer scruples than a snake oil peddler in a plague."
Gregory snorted.
"And more slime, too."
Ragnar continued,
"The Beaumonts, through Vice-Minister Harland's backing, are orchestrating the manufacture of weapons—on paper, for Albion. In reality, they're also sending disassembled parts through the church's relief convoys, under the guise of charitable aid."
Gabriel grimaced.
"Clever corruption. Hidden under cassocks and incense."
Gregory adjusted his slipping spectacles, his grin sharp as a scalpel.
"Once the pieces reach Marinth, Cornelia—your father's charming little concubine—rebrands them as domestic goods. The Ardenmark government, none the wiser or perhaps wilfully blind, purchases Albion's own firepower."
Gabriel's fingers drummed once against the polished wood.
"So, they're fuelling both sides. Making coin while blood drains into the soil."
"And the Crown," Ragnar muttered bitterly,
"Is bound in debt to the very merchants who've orchestrated the theft."
"Harland," Gregory said darkly,
"Gets political immortality if he secures the war contract. The Commerce Hall gains leverage over the monarchy. And your father—" he looked pointedly at Ragnar "—profits no matter who wins."
Ragnar exhaled, slow and heavy.
"They intend to collapse both nations into dependency. And when the embers settle, the Board will rule from behind velvet curtains and iron coffers."
"And what do we do?"
Gabriel asked softly.
Gregory leaned back and folded his hands, expression smug and dangerous.
"Why, we flip the table."
He flashed a grin like a fox in the henhouse.
"We're going to burn their scheme down to the foundation. Those fuckers wouldn't even know what hit them."
Gabriel sighed, running a hand through his tousled ginger hair.
"Language, Gregory."
Gregory waved a dismissive hand.
"Then let me rephrase, O Holy Paladin—we're going to ruin these sanctimonious parasites with such elegance, the devil himself will take notes."
Ragnar gave the smallest smirk.
"Let's just make sure they don't see it coming."
Gabriel stood, pushing back the chair with a creak.
"We'll need allies. And proof. And care."
Gregory tapped the stack of stolen ledgers beside him.
"Leave the proof to me."
Ragnar stood too, eyes like flint.
"Tomorrow," he said.
"We start with the Registrar's Black Archives. If there's a crack in the law, we'll find it."
"And if there isn't?"
Gabriel asked.
Ragnar's voice turned cold.
"Then we break it."
Gregory stood from his seat,
"Okay then, lets wrap up."
Ragnar and Gabriel nodded, standing up.
As they exited the tavern, night sky had already dawned on them.
"The chat took some time, it seems."
Gabriel smirked.
THUD.
The impact struck like a storm wind. Ragnar staggered half a step, but Gabriel caught the figure before she collapsed.
"Anna?"
Gabriel's voice cut through the din like a blade. His brows furrowed as he looked down at the girl in his arms—her chest rising with ragged breath, soot smudging the hem of her black dress.
"Brother?!"
Annabelle gasped, pulling away to steady herself, her hands brushing down her gown as if to sweep away more than just dust—fear, maybe.
From the misted mouth of the alley behind them, two more silhouettes emerged, gasping for breath. Halina's eyes were wild with terror, her hair dishevelled beneath her bonnet.
Elizabeth followed close, her coat half-unbuttoned, boots muddied from flight.
"Brother!"
Halina's voice cracked. She stumbled into Ragnar, clutching his wrist with both hands.
"You need to leave—now. Mercenaries… they— they're from the Silver Veil Syndicate."
Gabriel's eyes darkened. "You're certain?"
Elizabeth answered, her voice tight with panic,
"Three of them. They tried to corner us near Crosswell Lane. We escaped, but they weren't chasing us. They're hunting you. You and Halina."
Behind them, the wind swept down the alley like a whispering omen. Bells tolled far away—the hour of decision.
Ragnar's eyes flicked to Gabriel. To Gregory. Then back to his sister. He nodded once.
"Gab… Ragna,"
Gregory said tersely, already pulling his sleeves up.
"If they're from the Veil, they won't stop at words."
Gabriel gave a crooked grin, lips cracked and gleaming with stubborn valour.
"Then we'll give them something to remember."
"Ragna, go,"
Gregory muttered under his breath.
"Take the ladies. Get to the Brooke grounds."
Without hesitation, Ragnar swept Halina behind him and moved toward the narrow street where a waiting carriage, crested in black lacquer and brass rivets, stood under the gaslight, its horses anxious and pawing the cobblestones.
Annabelle hesitated, glancing back over her shoulder, worry crumpling her brow.
"Brother… will you be alright?"
Gabriel turned, his coat flaring slightly as he faced her, eyes warm despite the steel in his posture.
"I am Gabriel Faye," he said, brushing a curl from his face,
"Paladin of the Order of Anatham. God does not forsake His swords."
A breath escaped her lips—half a sob, half a smile.
"Still arrogant, I see."
"Righteousness and arrogance are often cousins," he replied with a wink.
Annabelle stepped into the carriage. Elizabeth lingered a moment longer, hands trembling. Then, as if deciding something, she nodded to Gabriel.
Ragnar shut the carriage door with a final thud.
"Driver," he barked, climbing in last,
"To Brooke Mansion—through the canal lane. Avoid the main roads."
The driver whipped the reins. Hooves struck cobblestone like a war drum. The carriage lurched forward into the city mist, vanishing into the narrowing lanes.
Left behind in the alley's mouth, Gabriel and Gregory turned slowly.
Three shadows emerged from the fog—cloaked figures, their silver-threaded sashes fluttering. Each bore the insignia of a circular silver crest with a downward dagger wrapped in a flowing grey veil. Two raven wings flanked the dagger.
A sentence was inscribed on the logo,
[Umbra et Argentum]
"Let me guess,"
Gabriel muttered, cracking his knuckles.
"You're the polite welcoming committee?"
Gregory adjusted his coat. "Don't hold back."
"I wasn't planning to."
And the alley swallowed the light.
In the carriage Ragnar looked at Halina with concern,
"How did this happen?"
He asked with worry.
Halina gazed at Elizabeth, then at Annabelle.
A FEW MOMENTS BEFORE-
KNOCK!
A sharp rap echoed through the room.
Annabelle stepped in gently; her fingers still curled from the knock. Behind her, Elizabeth followed, a parcel tucked under one arm, her hair still slightly windswept from the ride.
Halina didn't move. Her knees remained drawn to her chest, the black mourning frock cascading like liquid dusk around her. Her cheek pressed to her knees, eyes red, distant.
Annabelle crossed the room in silence, lowering herself to the floor beside the bed. She didn't speak. She simply placed a hand—gentle and certain—on Halina's arm.
Elizabeth set the parcel on the nearby table, sighing.
"I brought those cinnamon loaves from Madame Rowe's."
Her voice was light, breezy, as though coaxing the morning sun to peek out.
Halina blinked, but didn't lift her head.
"Halina,"
Annabelle said, soft as linen drying in a summer breeze,
"Would you like to get some air?"
"No," came the reply. Muffled. Fragile.
Elizabeth stepped forward, crouching just enough to meet Halina's line of sight.
"You know… when my father died, my mother didn't let me sit still. Said grief, like stagnant water, turns to poison."
Elizabeth added,
"We don't want to drag you from your mourning, Halina. But just for a short while—we thought perhaps you'd come with us. I'm returning to work tomorrow."
Halina looked up slightly.
"Work?"
Elizabeth smiled.
"Yes. The Firelily Press. All-female office, loud voices, strong ink. It's run by Miss Mirabel Stroud—former suffragist, now a journalist with a dagger for a pen."
Halina's brows twitched, mildly intrigued.
"She says women's words can rattle Parliament harder than cannons,"
Elizabeth continued, smiling faintly.
"And the tea there is abysmal,"
Elizabeth added with a smirk.
"But the company… is electric. Sometimes you need electricity to remember your own pulse."
Halina finally lifted her face. Her voice cracked like frost melting.
"Do you think Mother would want me to… move on so soon?"
Annabelle took her hand.
"I think… she'd want you to move. Not on. Just move. So, your heart doesn't fall asleep."
Halina looked at them both, silence reigning in the space between breaths. Then slowly, she nodded.
"Alright,"
She whispered.
Elizabeth clapped once, delighted.
"Good! Now we must dress like women who've tamed dragons, not sobbed into pillows."
"And no crying at the office,"
Annabelle added gently, rising.
"Or do," Elizabeth shrugged.
"Half the women there cry before lunch. But then again, we also write manifestos before dinner."
Halina cracked a frail smile. It was enough.
INT. THE FIRELILY PRESS — NIGHT.
The door creaked open.
The Firelily Press was dark, the only light bleeding from the desk-lamps Elizabeth flicked on one by one. The scent of old ink and lavender paper filled the air, mingling with dust and drying paint.
They entered slowly—Halina between them, draped in mourning black, her eyes like eclipses. Annabelle lit the hearth in the back, its orange glow flickering across the brass-rimmed placards bearing names of women who'd fought in courts, marched on palaces, or leaked scandalous documents to the press.
Elizabeth uncorked a bottle of deep red wine from a cabinet that also held typewriter ribbon and brass-knuckled letter-openers.
"To fire,"
She said, raising the bottle.
Annabelle raised an eyebrow.
"To fire?"
"To the fire that made Althaea Althaea. And to the ones she lit inside us."
She poured three glasses, the wine dark as blood in the low light.
They sat—Halina on the velvet chaise, eyes half-lidded, Annabelle cross-legged by the fire, and Elizabeth perched against the desk.
Annabelle swirled her glass.
"It's odd, isn't it? That we were never taught how to mourn. Only how to be silent."
"Speak for yourself,"
Elizabeth quipped, tipping her glass.
Halina smiled faintly.
"She would've liked you."
Elizabeth smiled back.
"Your mother liked dangerous women. You should've seen the way she humiliated that bishop in front of the Trade Assembly. I was ten. It was poetry."
They drank in silence for a while. A warmth kindled between them, the wine easing their throats, untying the knots in their chests.
Annabelle looked out the rain-slicked window.
"It's nearly midnight. We should head home."
EXT. HONEYWELL STREETS — NIGHT.
They stepped into the cobblestone street. The city was quiet, lanterns glowing behind fogged glass, chimneys puffing the last breaths of night.
Their footsteps echoed.
"Wait,"
Annabelle said, voice sharp. She turned.
Three shadows moved at the end of the alley.
Steel glinted.
The largest of the three men stepped forward, his face wrapped in a scarf of silver thread—emblem of the Silver Veil Syndicate. Cold eyes met Halina's.
"You're not supposed to be wandering, lady," he hissed.
"We don't want trouble," Elizabeth said calmly, sliding in front of Halina.
One of the smaller mercenaries lunged.
CLANG!
Elizabeth swung a steel-letter opener from her coat pocket, slashing across his forearm.
Annabelle was faster—she pulled a concealed baton from her corset belt and cracked it against the temple of another man.
"Halina, RUN!" she shouted.
The girls darted toward the square as the mercs regrouped. Elizabeth threw a half-broken bottle to distract them, then bolted after her friends.
PRESENT
The breeze stirred the gaslights. The smell of soot and lilac wine clung to the stones. Silence coiled like a serpent between them.
Gabriel rolled his shoulder once more, rotating the joint with a soft crackle.
Gregory was already a few steps away, calmly removing his coat and tossing it over the tavern's iron railing. Beneath the waistcoat, he wore a vest with a Beaumont-Addams Revolver.
[
Double action revolver, .442 calibre, a capacity of 5 shots…. Issued to officers and civil agents.
]
"Will you be alright, Greg?"
Gabriel murmured, his gaze still on the three mercenaries tightening their grip around the hilts of their knives.
"They're no street thugs."
Gregory popped his knuckles, adjusted his collar, and smiled faintly.
"Gabriel, I am Gregory Wells. Former registrar, sometime drunk, and four-time champion of the Alder Underground Arena—where men fought with rage, and nothing else."
Gabriel snorted.
"They didn't permit blades there, I believe."
Gregory rolled his eyes.
"A shame, really. But a man learns how to weaponize elbows."
Across the square, the leader of the Silver Veil stepped forward. A bear of a man—neck like a column, coat stitched with bone-coloured thread in the pattern of scales. His voice was low and measured, with the politeness of someone used to being obeyed.
"Good sirs. With respect, we were not paid to spill your blood. Let us do our work. Walk away."
Gregory, now rolling up his sleeves, offered a genial shrug and turned away—as if heading back to the tavern.
Gabriel smiled, hand hovering near the insignia on his chest plate.
"I appreciate your civility, friend. But it seems," he said softly, "the Lord has sent us precisely not to let you do your work."
The mercenary dipped his head.
"Then I pray you'll forgive me for this."
He lunged.