Charles sighed as he rubbed his forehead, the weight of endless responsibilities pressing down on his weary shoulders. His desk was littered with papers—bank statements, coded messages, and missives from allies and enemies alike. Some were written in ink; others bore invisible spells, requiring subtle magical touch to reveal their contents.
He reached for a thick ledger detailing the family's legitimate business dealings: vineyards in Louisiana, shipping routes, and real estate holdings across the Colonies. All above-board, respectable investments that kept the family in high society's good graces. But beneath that polished veneer lay the darker records—illegal dealings, smuggling networks, and blackmail schemes carefully hidden in another, more secret ledger.
Balancing both worlds was an art. Too much honesty, and their wealth would falter. Too much underhandedness, and the wrong attention would fall on the family name.
Charles flipped open a sealed letter with a flick of his wand, the wax melting away neatly. It was from an old associate, proposing a new business venture—a front for laundering cursed artifacts through a chain of auction houses. He rubbed his aching chest and considered the implications, weighing the profit against the risk.
Before he could finish reading, a raven tapped against the window. Charles sighed, rising with a groan. The bird bore a message tied to its leg, sealed with red wax—a rival's emblem. He opened the window with a wave of his hand, allowing the raven to hop inside.
"Persistent bastard."
Charles muttered as he retrieved the letter.
It was a warning. Something about shifting alliances and the subtle suggestion that his enemies were growing bolder. Charles sneered at the veiled threat. He was too old to be intimidated by cowards hiding behind carefully worded letters. With a flick of his wrist, he incinerated the message, the ashes scattering across his desk.
He returned to his chair, wincing as his hip reminded him of its presence. There were still allies to reassure, enemies to mislead, and distant relatives to keep in check. The younger generation—Alain, Louis, and now this newfound grandson—each posed their own challenges and opportunities.
Charles dipped his quill into a bottle of ink and began drafting replies. Some letters were polite and measured, designed to keep allies close. Others were sharp and laced with barbed promises, crafted to warn off those sniffing too closely around Bourbon affairs.
In the margins of one document, he made a mental note to keep tabs on his estranged grandsons. Alain's vow to never marry except for a man was annoying but tolerable.
Louis's insolence, however, needed to be curtailed. The boy was trouble—reckless, arrogant, and entirely too proud. His actions to side with the light faction made him a blood-traitor to the family. Charles would deal with him soon enough.
Then there was this newfound grandson. The boy's arrival could shift the entire family dynamic, but it remained to be seen whether he would align himself with Charles or carve his own path. That was the gamble. Charles needed to decide whether he could be molded—or if he'd need to be broken.
He sighed again, rubbing his face. If only the old wars had truly ended, he thought bitterly. But family matters were just another kind of war. One fought not with swords or spells, but with words, manipulation, and carefully chosen alliances.
The quiet click of the door brought him out of his thoughts. Colette stepped in, her soft presence soothing the room.
"Still working?"
She asked, a knowing look in her eye.
"There's always more to do."
He gestured to the piles of papers with a tired smile.
She placed a hand on his shoulder, warm and reassuring.
"Don't let it bury you, Charles. Not tonight."
He grunted but allowed himself a brief moment to enjoy her touch before shaking his head.
"There's no rest for men like me, Colette. Not until everything is in place."
Colette kissed his temple lightly.
"Then at least let me bring you a proper drink. It's going to be a long night."
Charles gave her a rare, genuine smile.
"That would be most welcome."
As Colette left to fetch the drink, Charles picked up his quill again. There were still letters to write, decisions to make, and preparations to finalize. The world outside was changing, shifting like quicksand—and if the Bourbon family was to survive, every move had to be calculated with precision.
Because power never rested. And neither could he.
Suddenly a quiet knock announced the head house fairy's arrival.
"Master Bourbon."
She said with a bow.
"There is a group of strangers at the property line asking to meet with you."
"Who is it?"
"I'm sorry Master, but Lily doesn't know."
The house Fairy murmured.
"I only know that their Master has a ring of the family though."
The corner of Charles' lips curled into a faint, knowing smile, though his sharp blue eyes glimmered with calculation. He leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against the carved lion's head atop his cane.
"The boy."
He whispered, almost to himself.
"He's finally come."
A flicker of excitement ignited deep within him, though he masked it well. He straightened, setting down the old letter in his hand with deliberate care, as if the very moment required ceremony.
"Let's see what he's made of."
Charles muttered, standing with a groan of effort.
Lily, the house fairy, tilted her head, concern flickering over her small, delicate features.
"Shall I alert the Ork guards, Master Bourbon?"
"No."
Charles said, waving a dismissive hand.
"I want to meet him myself."
He was already moving toward the grand front hall when the air shifted. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Something ancient stirred.
Suddenly, the entire mansion began to shake.
A thunderous, magical shockwave exploded through the estate. Dust and plaster rained down from the vaulted ceiling. Arcane runes etched into the walls flared to life in protest—only to fizzle out with a sharp crack as the wards shattered one by one, collapsing under the weight of overwhelming power.
Charles' heart thundered in his chest, a mix of rage, pain, and excitement coursing through his veins. His cane clattered against the polished floor as he steadied himself, forcing his aging body upright despite the sharp stabs of pain from his hip and chest. Every nerve screamed, but the familiar fire of adrenaline numbed him—just enough to move.
Lily, the house fairy, trembled at the overwhelming surge of magic that swept through the mansion like a tidal wave, flickering through the air with crackling arcs of residual energy.
"Lily!"
He barked.
The house fairy stood frozen, wide-eyed and trembling at the immense magical force that still lingered in the air like smoke.
"Master Bourbon..."
She stammered.
"The wards—"
"Go."
His voice was sharp and commanding.
"Make sure nothing else is compromised. I'll handle this."
With a small yelp, Lily vanished in a puff of dust and displaced air. Charles freed the wand hidden within his cane, the comforting weight of it in his hand a reminder of wars fought and won. For the first time in months, the old limp seemed to evaporate, replaced by a purposeful stride fueled by adrenaline and decades of experience.
'The boy.'
The thought simmered in his mind.
'The boy had done this. Shattered the wards...'
This might've just been a secondary summer home, but the wards were still nothing to be scoffed at by a teenager. And yet, here he was, rushing to meet a child—a child—who had just brought them crumbling down.
When he yanked open the heavy oak door, he found the stranger waiting just beyond the ruined wards—a young man, bold and unbothered, standing with an air of quiet command.
Charles narrowed his eyes.
The boy—no, the man—was tall, standing easily over six and a half feet, with the kind of posture that only came from confidence earned through hardship.
He wore a black dress shirt beneath a white vest, paired with a black ascot pinned with a red gem. His long, fur-trimmed coat draped over powerful shoulders, swaying slightly in the breeze. Every detail—from the cuffed boots to the gloves—spoke of careful precision. A compact staff and wand rested at his belt, ready but untouched.
And then there were the eyes—icy blue, sharp as cut glass. Bourbon eyes. The resemblance was uncanny. It was like staring into a mirror of his younger self.
Beside him stood several homunculi—soulless beings with neutral expressions, their weapons visible but holstered. They were motionless, awaiting their master's command, their eerie stillness making them seem more like statues than servants.
The boy met Charles' gaze without hesitation, offering a perfectly measured bow—exactly forty-five degrees, a deliberate show of respect without an ounce of submission.
"Apologies for the wards."
The boy said in a calm, collected tone.
"I was concerned my message hadn't reached you. So I… improvised."
Charles gritted his teeth, suppressing the urge to smirk. Cheeky brat
"You shattered them. All of them."
Liam straightened and shrugged, as if breaking ancient magical defenses was no more troublesome than snapping a twig.
"I just pushed my magic against them until they gave way."
A cold chill rippled through Charles, though he kept his expression neutral. This boy—this unknown scion—had broken centuries-old magic without breaking a sweat. The implications were staggering.
"Who are you, boy?"
Charles asked, his voice sharp and commanding, though curiosity lurked beneath the surface.
"Liam Noah."
The young man said, his voice even.
"Son of Sebastian and Cecilia Noah. I've come to introduce myself to the head of my mother's family."