Oh my. You’ve really rather got yourself into a pickle this time, haven’t you? Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. Perhaps you mean to rise above your station? No?

No, judging exclusively by the vacant expression plastered across your face, you have entirely no idea what schemes you have stitched yourself into. You have absolutely no conceivable idea how your being here might enact a positive change in your own miserable existence.

Those rags on your back would be gone, replaced by all the finery your mind cannot stretch to comprehend. Your wallet would be thick with coin. Your residence lavish and spacious, not just enough room to “swing a cat”—as your type might say—but large enough to swing an elephant, should you have strength enough.

Though, in order to gain such riches, you must make a choice. You must sign on to be a fleeting lightning bolt in the coming storm. You should need no further encouragement, of course, but just to be sure, allow me to tell you a story.

‘A rather fine act, wouldn’t you say?’ asked the woman sitting at Kryl’s left.

She was a glamorous woman, no doubt about it, and precisely the sort that a man of Kryl’s status would be expected to have at his side. But once again, there was none of the spark that he had been told would exist once he met his future wife. So it was that Kryl’s eyes lingered not on his date, but on the circus acts on show before him.

He’d seen men and women jump from great heights, swing across the arena on a trapeze, tame strange creatures and enact amazing feats of balance. That was to say: this circus was just like all those he had previously been forced to attend.

There had been no revolver to his temple, of course. His attendance was required through the more extreme method of demand known as social obligation. Without being seen regularly at such events, his name and face would drop from the lips and minds of those in high society, and future invitations would, as such, become fewer and farther between. No, his attendance here was an obligation that he dare not refuse.

Kryl glanced to the woman sitting at his left—his sister—and saw on her face the same glazed eyed expression that he too was battling. They met one another’s gaze, flashed one another a polite smile, then turned back to the performance. It would do them no good to be seen ignoring the entertainment provided by their gracious host, the Prime Minister.

He allowed his eyes to glance over at the man himself. Enoch Chambers had no obligation to fix his eyes firmly on the performance, and as such was spending his time speaking with his own date—a new and pretty woman that he had plucked from the dregs of society. Such was he prone to do.

When the performance finally ended, and the performers bowed their closing bow, it was on to the reception—another obligation of Haven’s social construct, as far as Kryl was concerned, but redeemed somewhat by the access to martinis.

Kryl left his date talking to a friend and hurried off to the bar, fidgeting with the Charm boono vial sitting in his inner blazer pocket. He considered adding it to his martini; perhaps this date needed Kryl on his more agreeable behaviour if the evening was not to be a complete waste. He noted that he was consuming such boono vials more and more, and ever increasingly did he feel like the Charm-infused Kryl was the real Kryl. Perhaps it was time to reduce such reliance on—

‘Mr Resnuc, is it?’ a man interrupted, shoving his hand forward and grasping Kryl’s own before he really had a moment to react.

Kryl reviewed the man in front of him. He wore all the typical trappings of sufficient social standing: a metal chain suggested an intricate pocket watch sitting in his breast pocket, his suit was well-tailored to his frame, and his shoes shone with the glistening light of fresh polish. But there was something rather… off about him, as well.

The suit was not quite in the current style, nor indeed quite in any style that Kryl had before seen in Haven. The broguing on the stranger’s shoes was of a pattern that Kryl did not recognise. The pocketwatch chain was gold instead of the much preferred silver of the people of this city. And a moustache, as well-groomed as it might be, was certainly not the look of the day. But Kryl could forgive such strangeness; though the man had, perhaps, peculiar taste, he was very clearly one of substantial wealth.

‘Yes,’ Kryl replied. ‘That is correct. And you are…?’

‘Mr Manwaring. And a friend, too, I hope,’ the stranger answered. ‘I was hoping to come across you at this event. And a few prior events also, I must confess.’

‘If this relates to my work in the office of propaganda, then perhaps we can set up a formal meet—’

‘Respectfully, sir,’ Mr Manwaring interrupted him, ‘such matters do not interest me. My interest lies more strictly in your family history.’

Kryl’s head spun from the martini glass being placed in his hand to the stranger at his side. ‘My…’

‘Family history, yes, Mr Resnuc. Perhaps we could speak more privately?’

Kryl glanced over at his date, who was currently scanning the room for, ostensibly, him. She caught a gloomy Riot by the arm and asked her a question to which the answer provided was a shrug. Kryl pursed his lips and then turned back to his new acquaintance. ‘Let us adjourn to a balcony.’

With that, Kryl left his date behind, and with her another shot at happiness. Was there a spark? No. But she was a pretty little thing none the less, and for that he felt the smallest ounce of sadness.

Kryl led the stranger down the lengths of a corridor and through a door at the far end, bringing them out to one of the balconies that hung around the exterior of the Great Arena. Below them was the occasional patter of footsteps, but largely only the trickles of the Dripcanal that ran at the building’s side. The building—modern in style but with elements inspired by the monarchic era—was situated on the southern side of the canal, and therefore positioned in the Sunrise District in all but name. Not that its proprietors would allow patrons to believe they were in an area as downtrodden as Dripcanal.

The stranger breathed in the air as though it was the freshest he had ever drawn, accompanying the motion with an exaggerated sigh. ‘I do believe I could get used to the smell of this city, you know.’

‘I did wonder where you were from.’

Mr Manwaring turned to Kryl with a sly smile stretched across his face. ‘Yes, I thought you might. Heard you were a sharp one. We do our research, of course.’

Kryl stepped forward, positioning himself next to Mr Manwaring on the balcony as they both turned to stare across the canal. ‘You mentioned my family history.’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought I had all record of it swallowed by the Fringe. I have written notes that speak of such actions.’

Mr Manwaring sniffed a small laugh. ‘Record? Yes, perhaps. But while you exist, there will be people who remember you. People who will talk, given the right pressure.’

‘I would hear what you know.’

The stranger held up an index finger to beg Kryl’s patience, then reached into his pocket and drew from it a large cigar, the emblem of a company in Harbourage wrapped around it. ‘Do you smoke?’ Mr Manwaring asked.

‘Not when it delays information I require.’

The man raised his eyebrows and began the process of preparing the cigar for consumption. Only once he had puffed at it once, twice, three times, did he finally turn back to Kryl.

‘Kryl Resnuc,’ the stranger said. ‘Brother to one Riot—peculiar name, though I do believe the unrest had begun by her year of birth—and son of Aiden and Lydia Resnuc, both deceased. Adopted for a time and raised in… well, that is where memory truly does grow vague, before returning to your city of birth during your teenage years. Your success here speaks for itself, but is not relevant to my employer’s vision. No. It is rather your family’s once loyalties that raises interest.’

Kryl paused. The stranger had not yet spoken his family’s truth. Had not yet spoken of the exile, of the loyalty to the monarchy of all things. Mr Manwaring had not yet spoken of the one secret that might have Kryl mysteriously disappeared. He decided to test the matter. ‘Loyalty to whom, Mr Manwaring?’

‘Why, the king, of course.’

Kryl felt once again at the vial of boono in his pocket; perhaps he could charm his way out of trouble, here. He had certainly done it before. After all, he wished he could claim his success was a result of his natural talents, but it would be fooling only himself. His access to boono was responsible for his position in Haven’s high society.

‘Is this blackmail or rather a simple threat?’ Kryl finally asked.

Mr Manwaring raised his eyebrows once more, though this time not in mild irritation but as an act of sincere astonishment. ‘Why… neither, Mr Resnuc. I only wish to laud you for your choices, and to ask: do you still hold such values?’

Kryl considered his words carefully; the wrong choice could usher in a world of misery for him, and a departure from his usual comfortable lifestyle. ‘I… do rather have concerns with the government of this city state.’

‘That is not a yes, I note.’

Kryl remained quiet, and the strange man’s eyes seemed to glisten knowingly.

‘Very well,’ Mr Manwaring said. ‘Then, if I am understanding you correctly, you may wish to meet with my employer.’

When Kryl said nothing, he continued.

‘There will be a carriage awaiting you outside the Gate of the Dawn, at the hour of the gate’s namesake. Please be prompt.’

With that, the strange man turned and left Kryl on the balcony, feeling as though his existence had suffered a sudden and total upheaval.

The carriage that had awaited Kryl had been grander than he had anticipated. Though it did not make use of the new automobile contraption, the presence of horses did not seem to detract from the overall spectacle of such a vehicle. Gold trim lined the edges of the carriage, and inside, the passengers—Kryl and Mr Manwaring—sat on bright red velvet. It was, truly, the height of luxury.

They started off east along the irregularly paved stone road, and even a vehicle as lavish as this could do little to ease the discomfort. Kryl smiled through it, making a certain sort of polite small talk with the man sat across from him, covering very little in the way of meatier topics. If Mr Manwaring was going to explain where they were headed, he showed no sign that he would do so soon. Kryl, not meaning to seem weak in front of this new acquaintance, acted as though he were comfortable with the arrangement, as though he held the power here.

It was no wonder that the had set off with daybreak; the journey continued long into the evening. When the sun set at their rear, their driver lit a flaming torch to light their path, and Kryl felt the sense of dread rise within him. Only as he was finally considering asking for an estimated time of arrival on this journey did they turn from the main road, and Kryl could see the glistening lamps of Harbourage dotted in the distance.

They arrived in a small village amongst the hillsides, with buildings standing far sleeker than any town like this had any right to possess. The paintwork was fresh, in vibrant colours rather than the cream that was typical. The road was recently paved, brushed clean of leaves and fallen debris. There was wealth here, Kryl noted—of a sort that he had failed to anticipate witnessing outside of the cities.

The driver slowed their carriage to a halt in front of the largest of the buildings in this village—once an inn, by the styling, though the lack of signage suggested a conversion of a sorts. Mr Manwaring gestured Kryl inside, and…

‘Oh,’ Kryl mumbled, finding himself for the first time in a long, long time to be… speechless.

Looking over upon Kryl’s entry were a group of well-groomed ladies and gentlemen, each surveying him with a curious gaze. But it was the centre of this mass that Kryl focused on—a woman of beauty that he had never before seen, sat upon a seat that might better be defined as a throne, an air of regality in her every breath and movement.

‘It is customary to bow before Queen Elmira,’ Mr Manwaring whispered at his side, then threw himself into such a position.

Just this once, Kryl did just as he was told, without question.

‘Kryl… Resnuc, is it?’ the regal woman proclaimed, gesturing her apparent advisors away with the wave of her hand.

‘It is.’

‘It is, your grace,’ Mr Manwaring corrected him.

‘Your—’ Kryl started, but the queen interrupted him.

‘Now, now, Mr Manwaring. He’s not a subject yet.’

‘I don’t believe that is an excuse for poor manners, your grace.’

The queen smiled upon him, and Kryl felt his heart flutter with jealousy. So recently had he met this woman and yet already he wished for her eyes to remain upon him.

‘My spies tell me that you’re a man of considerable influence in the city of Haven.’

‘That is so,’ Kryl replied, and then—at a gentle cough from Mr Manwaring—added, ‘your grace.’

‘And one loyal to my grandfather, so long ago. He was close to your parents, you know that?’

Before Kryl could speak, the queen continued.

‘Though I suppose you do; that was the cause of their murders, after all.’

‘It was a long time ago, your grace.’

Queen Elmira rose from her makeshift throne and seemed to… float over to them. In her presence, Kryl felt shabbily maintained for the very first time in his life. He smoothed down his shirt absent-mindedly.

‘Yet I know from experience that the killing of family sows a certain seed in the soul. One that grows into a plant that inhabits every ounce of your being. One that manifests not in hate, perhaps, but in a desperate desire for justice.’

‘The men who killed my parents are—’

‘Dead, yes,’ Elmira interrupted. ‘But the regime remains the same. Or do you believe that Haven’s parliament serves the city well?’

Kryl licked his lips, meaning to choose his words carefully. ‘I think you know that I do not, being that you have summoned me here.’

Queen Elmira’s face warped into the widest, warmest, most welcoming of smiles, her white teeth glistening even in the low light of the oil lamps. ‘Excellent.’ She turned and strolled—ever so leisurely, ever so gracefully—back to her throne, and Kryl could not help but to stare as she moved. ‘There is a revolution coming, you know. The pieces are set. All that remains is for those others to decide: which side are they on?’

It was no question. Even if Kryl did not resent the government, its members, its leader, there was an air to the woman in front of him that commanded loyalty. But he remained a pragmatic being, still, and there were many a question that remained to be answered. ‘A revolution requires a war, your grace. Yet I see no army.’

‘They would come at my call, of course,’ the queen continued. ‘My legion—thousands of them—exist to serve. They await their instructions while they toil away at their daily work, confident in the knowledge that the day of the Great Return shall soon be upon them.’

‘In Haven?’

‘Some,’ Queen Elmira replied, ‘Though not many. Most serve from Harbourage. Some from Hazard. But it is not soldiers I requires in the city of Haven; it is assassins.’

‘You mean…’

‘I mean to take my birthnight, Mr Resnuc. And to take this city, I require disorder. Enoch Chambers must die, you understand. His death will be the first domino that falls. It is you and Mr Manwaring, here, that I feel would be best placed to enact such a chance. I ask only this of you, on this day: would you do this for me, Kryl?’

His heart fluttered at the sound of his given name escaping those lips. Out of instinct, he sunk to his knee. ‘Of course, your grace.’

Another smile. Another flutter. Kryl knew this woman already held him in the palm of his hand, yet… He did not care.

‘Excellent,’ the queen said. ‘Then I shall retire for the evening. We shall discuss the specifics on the morrow. I have arranged a room for you. If you will…’ She gestured vaguely to the man at Kryl’s side.

‘Of course, your grace.’

The two men remained still, remained quiet, as they watched the woman take her leave. As if at once, they both allow a deep breath to escape their lungs.

‘She is quite the woman, Mr Manwaring.’

‘Please, Mr Resnuc,’ the other man said. ‘We’re all friends, here. Call me Gresley.’