The door slowly creaked open to Alaric’s study. Slowly, an old man with a neatly trimmed goatee stepped through, his gray hair styled with a comb-over. He moved with a smooth confidence that belied his old age, his footsteps soft, so soft, his polished black shoes did not make a single sound against the hardwood floor beneath him. He wore a tailored suit, while similar to the suits worn by the manservants within the Voltaire estate, the quality was higher, pristine, with no signs of use. His distinct tie, stripped with a deep crimson and black, hung stiffly around his neck. It was a tie that Frederick took pride in; it acted as a symbol; it showed everyone his influence and power. Within the Voltaire family, as the head butler, he was the man who was closest to the patriarch, closer than even his own wife or children. He believed his clothes showed his unwavering devotion to the family.

As Frederick Voltaire entered the room, he closed the door behind him. His eyes fell on the man sitting at the grand mahogany desk at the back of the room. A huge panel of glass lay behind him. Alaric Voltaire, the patriarch and undisputed ruler of Sector 5, sat with the poise of a king. His distant gaze dominated the room. Frederick always felt elation whenever he was the bearer of his gaze. His master had grown into one of the most powerful Esper’s in Havana. Frederick held back his smile as his eyes flitted between Alaric and the bookshelves that lined the walls, filled with tomes on philosophy, history, and monster encyclopedias.

“Frederick, it’s good to see you.” Alaric’s voice was low, controlled, yet it carried the weight of command. “What do you have to report?”

Frederick edged closer to the desk before he bent his knees into a deep bow, enamored with respect. “My lord, Elektra has left the estate to retrieve Master Vincent.”

Alaric nodded slowly, his eyes narrowed as he processed the information. Vincent had become a liability far too often, and the time had come to bring him back forcefully and condition him to be a true noble. Elektra’s eagerness to win his approval made her the best choice.

Just as he was about to praise Frederick, and move on, he was cut off. “However,” Frederick continued, his voice tinged with a hint of caution, “she was seen leaving with Warren and his manservant.”

Alaric’s expression darkened instantly, his eyes flashing with anger. He slammed a fist onto the desk; the sound reverberating through the room like a thunderclap. “Damn it! I told her to go alone and discreetly!” he spat, his voice rising with fury. “Taking that useless boy will only draw attention. The collateral families will be watching their every move now!”

Frederick remained unphased, his face a mask of professionalism as he waited for Alaric’s rage to subside. After a moment, Alaric took a deep breath, his anger quelling. “When did Warren ever have a personal servant? He does not deserve such sentiments. Frederick, I hope you’re not babying the boy,” Alaric asked, his eyebrows raised.

Frederick paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “This was an issue I wanted to discuss with you, my lord. The manservant wasn’t hired by me. His name is Sabir Quinn, the brother of Cynthia Quinn. I had the chance to ask Master Noah about it. He had told me Elektra was supposed to kill him, but for whatever reason, ownership of the boy fell to Master Warren. The boy is now his manservant, and it seems he has garnered the respect of the other servants, from what I’ve been told.”

Alaric’s eyes narrowed even further, a deep scowl forming on his face. “Sabir Quinn,” he muttered, almost to himself. “That wretched last name keeps coming up, and yet, he’s still alive. I specifically told both of my children to clean up any loose ends. And yet, here we are.”

He leaned back in his chair; the leather creaking slightly as he did so. His mind was a tornado of thoughts and conspiracies, and now some kid, a gutter rat, threatened to consume everything he had built. He tilted his head to look at the ceiling decorated with ornate engravings. “And Noah? You spoke to him. Has he found any success in his mission?”

Frederick nodded, his posture remaining straight and formal, even with his knee digging into the floor as he kneeled. “Noah and his men are combing through Tetra City. They’ve nearly turned the city upside down in their search. They have leads, my lord, and I believe they will find the bastard soon.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Alaric allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. Noah was relentless, the best hunter of his generation, and perhaps the potential to be the best of his bloodline. If anyone could flush out their target, it was him. The thought eased some of the tension that had been building within Alaric’s mind, and he felt a measure of comfort returning.

“Good,” Alaric said, his voice steady once more. “But I want you to stop monitoring Noah. He can handle this on his own. Instead, your focus should be on finding a clean way to eliminate Sabir Quinn. I don’t want the family’s hands dirtied by this. The last thing we need is for anyone to think we’re soiling ourselves over some servant boy. Do what you need to do. Like last time.”

Frederick bowed his head slightly, acknowledging the command. “As you wish, my lord. I’ll think of something. Sabir won’t be a problem for much longer.” His lips curled into a slight smile, one that Alaric didn’t miss.

Alaric studied Frederick for a moment, his eyes sharp. Frederick had been with him for many years, a trusted advisor and executor of his will. There were few people in this world that he trusted completely, and Frederick was one of them. Although considerably weaker at his age, the old man had a talent for dealing with delicate situations in ways that left no trace, and Alaric needed that talent now more than ever.

“Frederick,” he said, his tone softer, “you’re the man I trust the most. Don’t fail me.”

Frederick met Alaric’s gaze with a sinister smile. “I won’t, my lord. You have my word. I will kill Sabir Quinn, just as I killed his sister.”

“Yes, yes, although you must remember you didn’t succeed completely, the bastard still lives.”

Frederick got up to his feet and looked back at Alaric with a regretful look. “That dirty child will be dead soon, anyway.”

With that, Frederick turned and headed toward the door, his steps as controlled as when he had entered. He paused briefly before exiting, turning back to give Alaric one last respectful nod. Alaric watched as the door closed behind him, the soft click echoing in the quiet room.

Left alone, he closed his eyes. The only sound in the room was the faint ticking of a grandfather clock that stood beside the door that Frederick had just left through. Like a metronome marking time, its rhythmic beats echoed through the quiet. Each tick was deliberate , each second slipping away like grains of sand through an hourglass. He put his thumb and finger between his nose bridge, calming his mind, he then steepled his fingers. Alaric had deliberately set every plan in motion, every move on the board, with a singular purpose: to secure and expand the Voltaire dynasty’s dominance over Sector 5 and beyond.

To the side of his study, a lit fireplace glowed, casting flickering shadows against the walls. The flicker of flames danced in Alaric’s cold eyes, reflecting the fire of ambition that had driven him to the pinnacle of power. With a sigh, he got up from his desk and moved towards the enormous window that lay behind him.

Beyond the estate’s high, wrought-iron gates, Sector 5 stretched out like a glittering jewel in the darkness. The city was a labyrinth of cobblestone streets and grandiose buildings, each one a monument to the Voltaire family’s control. The pale light of the moon bathed the city in a silvery sheen, casting long shadows that danced across the streets below.

He saw the streets writhe with activity, even at this late hour. Sleek cars glided silently through the avenues, their headlights cutting through the night like blades. Pedestrians moved along the sidewalk, driven to whatever party had loudest music.

All of this was his. The streets, the buildings, to even the people living there.

Yet in his periphery he could still see the towering spires of the collateral families’ estates looming like dark sentinels. His jaw tightened in anger. The mere thought of those inferior bloodlines, even thinking of taking his throne, filled him with a desire to burn the entire sector to the ground. If it wasn’t his, no one should have it.

This city, this world, belonged to him. It was his birthright, and he would let nothing, not even his own blood, stand in the way of his ambitions.

Alaric placed his hands behind his back, his posture straight and commanding as he gazed out over his domain. His forefathers built this empire with their own hands, forging alliances and crushing enemies in equal measure. Each one of the patriarch’s children was their legacy, the tools that would extend their influence and secure the future of the Voltaire family. But tools needed to be sharp, precise, and unwavering in their purpose. If they grew dull or became flawed, they were of no use.

Elektra’s constant seeking of attention was concerning, as was Noah’s growing fondness for the thrill of battle. And then there was Warren, his greatest mistake. He couldn’t afford any more. Not now, when the stakes were higher than ever. He looked down at the city, whilst playing out scenarios in his head, each one more ruthless than the next.

He would do whatever it took to protect his legacy, to ensure that people would speak his name with fear and respect for generations to come. A legacy that would even overshadow The First Sovereign. The first Voltaire.

And if that meant spilling more blood, so be it.