The scent clinging to the torn cloth guides us westward through winding streets until we reach a towering iron gate. Its black bars gleam ominously under the sunlight, standing as a silent barrier between us and the estate beyond.
Guards—no fewer than ten—stand rigidly around the entrance, their sharp eyes scanning for any sign of disturbance. Beyond the gate, a grand mansion looms atop the sloping hills, its imposing silhouette casting long shadows over manicured grounds. The estate radiates wealth and authority.
Emblazoned on the gate's crest is the image of an eagle frozen mid-flight, talons extended. Beneath the regal symbol, bold letters spell out:
Hawksmoor Estate — Residence of Duke Eldridge.
"What?" I mutter under my breath, narrowing my eyes. "Eldridge Hawksmoor? Damn it, this man…"
I can't believe it. My enemy right now is a duke—and not just any duke.
