The streets were narrow, stitched together by time and despair—red bricks chipped with age, rotting beams barely holding sagging rooftops. Rats scurried through puddles, and ivy crept like veins across crumbling walls. Amidst this patchwork of decay stood a small, unremarkable house—tucked behind a crooked fence, nearly swallowed by the shadows around it. The paint had long since peeled away, exposing the weary bones of the structure beneath. Its windows were clouded with dust, distorted glass reflecting nothing but emptiness. The front door, faded and warped by years of rain, remained tightly shut like lips that refused to speak.

No one knew who lived there.

No one cared.

But inside that forgotten place, time was not allowed to rot.

Not a single moment was left to waste.

---

The room was dim, warmed only by the firelight that danced softly in the hearth. Flickers of gold and orange clung to the stone walls, painting them with a living glow that tried in vain to ward off the heaviness in the air. The scent of old books, wax, and something metallic—like dried blood—hung beneath the warmth.

Vespera stood by the table, her presence sharp against the room’s weariness. She was dressed in black, as always, a gown that whispered along the floor like mist over graves. Her silver hair flowed past her back, catching glimmers of firelight like strands of moonlight pulled from the sky itself. In her gloved hands, she held a folded letter, crisp and sealed with the red wax of the royal palace.

“The report from the palace servant has arrived,” she said, voice calm, controlled—like a blade sheathed in velvet.

She laid the letter down with precise elegance, the soft thump of paper striking wood sounding far louder in the silence that followed.

Across from her, Charles sat—half in shadow, half in flame. The boy from the brothel was gone. In his place was a young man carved from grief, vengeance, and steel. His frame had grown tall, broad-shouldered beneath a black coat of tailored elegance. His cheekbones were sharp, lips pale, and his raven hair framed a face too still for youth. But it was his eyes that told the story—eyes like a grave at dusk. Quiet. Dark. Deep. Eyes that had once wept oceans and now no longer knew how.

He reached out, slowly, deliberately, and took the letter. His fingertips brushed the edge, trembling with restraint. The parchment crackled softly as he unfolded it. Firelight flickered across his face as his gaze scanned the contents.

Vespera said nothing. She watched. Always watching.

“The von Argeric family is involved in the trafficking of orphans,” he muttered, voice low and detached. “They’re working with three eastern barons… including Wightworth.”

The name left his mouth like poison.

His shoulders tensed. The letter crumpled slightly beneath his tightening grip.

His jaw clenched.

“This… never ends.”

His voice cracked, not in weakness, but in the weight of something that refused to die inside him.

Vespera moved closer. The fire behind her licked the stone with growing hunger. Her black gown swept across the floor like a mourning veil. When she stopped just beside him, she leaned down, resting her gloved hand gently on his shoulder.

“Are you growing tired?” she asked, her voice like the edge of night—quiet and vast.

Charles exhaled—slowly, heavily. His breath fogged the air, though the fire was warm.

“No,” he whispered. “I’m beginning to understand… this goes beyond revenge.”

He looked up, meeting her eyes.

“This needs reform.”

---

Seven years.

Seven winters of ash.

Seven summers of silence.

Seven years since that cursed night in the dungeon—when the world took everything from him and then tried to bury the pieces.

Seven years of shadows, whispers, and blood turned cold. Seven years building not just strength, but purpose.

Charles August Milverton had become a phantom stitched together by memory and resolve. A young man with a face like marble—striking, distant, and unreadable. His voice, when he spoke, held weight. Not rage, not pity—only conviction. Like embers that never died, quietly smoldering beneath the skin.

And through those years, he and Vespera had moved like wraiths through the city’s underbelly.

They slipped through archive vaults beneath the palace, stealing names, dates, deeds long buried in dust and rot.

They listened at the edges of noble banquets, hidden behind curtains and masks, memorizing the sins that spilled with every drunken laugh.

They waded through alleyways that reeked of vomit and opium, whispering truths to thieves, harlots, and killers—gathering pieces of a rotten puzzle.

Each face remembered.

Each lie documented.

Each injustice carved into Charles’s mind like scripture.

---

It was on a cold night, with fog creeping through the gutters like pale fingers, that Vespera stood beside him atop the roof of an abandoned cathedral. From there, the towers of London stretched out before them—stone spires reaching greedily toward the heavens, veiled by mist and moonlight. The wind tugged at their cloaks. Beneath them, the world continued, unaware.

“Charles,” she said, the name gentle on her tongue. “The Grand Assembly draws near.”

He did not respond.

The moon hung low behind a veil of gauze clouds, casting his profile in silver. His coat fluttered behind him like wings of ink. There was no warmth in his face—only stillness.

Vespera’s eyes narrowed with something unreadable. She took a step closer, standing shoulder to shoulder with him as they gazed down upon the sleeping city.

“Are you ready to show your face to the world once more?” she asked, lips curving faintly.

He remained silent. For a moment, all that could be heard was the wind, rustling like breath through ancient stone.

Then, slowly, Charles turned.

His gaze met hers—not with fury, not with hesitation, but with a clarity sharp enough to cut.

“I am.”

His voice did not waver.

“Let them see the ghost they buried.”

His lips curled—not in joy, not in cruelty, but in a knowing smile. Cold. Steady. Absolute.

“Now risen…

cloaked in black wings.”

---