Rain didn’t fall. It hung overhead like silver thread suspended in swollen storm clouds, glistening, taut, waiting to break. The estate had changed. Or perhaps he had. Artorius Pendrath stepped out of the black car in silence, the gravel crunching beneath his dress shoe. The air carried the scent of wet stone and distant sea salt with a chill that clung to your bones whispering weariness and endings.

Straightening his cuffs, Artorius took a moment to make sure he looked presentable - not out of vanity, but duty. Appearances mattered today, even if he felt hollow inside.

He stood at 6'5 with broad-shoulders, a lean, well-built figure like a skilled swordsman, he held himself with quiet power. He had a cascade of reddish blonde hair that seemed to shine when it caught the sun. Dark green eyes glinted from beneath furrowed brows that gazed at everything taking its measure. 

His skin was sun-kissed and smooth from his tempered life. His square jaw was strong and chiseled with refined high cheekbones, full red lips, and a straight roman nose giving him a regal edge. All together, he was a strikingly handsome young man. He was after all his father’s son!

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Above him, the great family mansion loomed against the gray sky: all granite, glass, and gothic angles. Modernized over the years, but never softened. It stood as more than a home, but as a warning. The mourners had already gathered. Men in bespoke black suits, women in veils of raven silk, and even a bishop in full liturgical vestments. Family friends. Business partners. Stakeholders who played their parts well of being in grief. None of them looked at him as only the son. Now he was the inheritor of his father, the master of this house and family.

He had dropped everything - whether that be his postgraduate studies at one the most prestigious college, Oxford. His friendship, his relationship, though on that side he did screw everything up, and everything else to come back here back to a world he had taken a break from. 

He still couldn’t believe that his old man would pass away like that… in a helicopter crash. He was always so much larger than life, he seemed to carry the whole world on his back but now he was dead, and he was left to pick up the pieces. 

At the mansion’s wide stone steps, a figure waited. Ser Ector, the family’s head butler and one of the few men in Britain to have been knighted by the Crown for service rendered, stood straight as a lance. His uniform was immaculate. His presence anchoring and a balm to his soul.

“They’re waiting for you inside, young master,” Ector said, voice gravelled with age and dignity. Artorius met his gaze. The old man hadn’t aged a day. Or maybe he'd always looked like this carved from loyalty and stone. He nodded once and crossed the threshold into the house.

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The great hall smelled of cedar and candlewax. Chandeliers glimmered overhead, their light caught in the cut-glass decanters lining the sideboards. Every wall bore portraits of solemn Pendrath faces staring down at him from centuries past, eyes sharp like the blades they once carried.

He moved through the crowd with the slow, deliberate grace his father had drilled into him since boyhood: never rush, never fidget, and never let them see you search for an escape.

“Artorius, my boy,” an older man in a pinstripe suit clasped his hand, holding it a moment too long. Lord Berwick one of the largest shareholders in Pendrath Holdings. His breath smelled faintly of brandy. “A tragedy, truly. Your father was… irreplaceable.” His grip tightened. “But the world does not stop for grief. The board will require your presence sooner rather than later.”

This was why Artorius wanted to get away from all this, already the vultures were circling and wanted stuff from him before his father was even laid to rest. Nonetheless he put on a polite smile and asked. “Of course, my lord. For what purpose?”

“To confer the CEO position naturally,” the man laughed as if it was the most obvious thing, lightly patting him on the shoulder. 

Artorius said nothing. He did want to remark he didn’t even finish his grad school, but he doubted they would care. It was tradition after all for the head of the house to helm the family businesses. Now that was him it fell upon him. In the end he doubted he would have much to do with other running things as he would only be acting as the face of the company which was all that mattered really in the end.

Pendrath Enterprises was more than a business. It was a pillar of the British economy with a long and storied history that was a trillion-pound conglomerate with holdings in technology, medicine, shipping, manufacturing, R&D, and even the military. Too big to fail. Too big to let go of.

The line of mourners and opportunists never seemed to end. Relatives he had no idea how they were related. Executives in bespoke suits with watches that cost more than most homes. Family friends if one could call them that, who orbited in the same circle of wealth and power. There was old money and power here with wolves in black wool. They offered condolences with their mouths and demands with their eyes. He felt the weight pressing in — the expectation, and the reins he would have to take on - a machine too vast to pause or slow down.

“Cousin,” the voice cut through the clamor like a warm knife, and Artorius turned, relief sparking for the first time that night as he was met by a familiar face.

“Gavyn, how are you,” he greeted the man with a bear hug. They shared similar features since his aunt, his father’s sister, was his mother. She passed away sadly in childbirth, giving birth to him. They had spent plenty of time together growing up. 

Where Artorius was all sharp edges and regal bearing, Gavyn was earthier. He had brown hair thick and swept back in unruly waves. His green eyes, brighter than his cousin’s, always seemed to carry humor even in heavy moments. The same broad-shouldered build marked his build, though he carried it more like a soldier than a king.

Last Artorius heard, Gavyn's father was sick so he was acting Earl of Chester, so he asked after him. “How is your old man?”

“Fine as could be, he wished to make it, but as you know he wasn’t able to.”

“It's no problem, give him my well wishes. There is so much we should catch up on,” he said, leaving the rest unsaid. 

“Yes,” Gavyn said, his voice softening. “But this is sadly the most unfortunate time. I’m sorry for your loss, cousin. Truly.”

Artorius gave a small nod of thanks, not trusting his throat to form more. Artorius rather not dwell on it too much or else who knew what he would do… He had to be unshakable before these sharks circling looking for any blood in the water. 

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Then the air shifted as the crowd parted for a figure, in walked a man whose very presence seemed to straighten the posture of those nearby. He wore the deep navy and crimson of the royal household, the Lord Chamberlain’s office. The gold lion of England glimmered on his breast.

“Lord Pendrath,” the man said, voice clipped and formal, offering a shallow bow. Artorius almost corrected him — I’m not Lord Pendrath. But his father was dead. The title was his, whether he wanted it or not.

“Her Majesty sends her deepest condolences,” the man continued. “And a reminder that the Ducal title of Caerleon cannot remain vacant. Tradition demands it be formally passed at the soonest convenience.”

Artorius’s jaw tightened. More chains. More duties to be heaped upon him. Still, he gave the answer expected of him. “It will be my honor. I’ll come to London soon to see the Queen.”

The man’s pale eyes didn’t blink. “Excellent,” he said. The word was a seal not of approval, but of inevitability.

-

Hearing a ringing sound, Artorius turned around to see Ector drawing their attention. “The statue is ready!” Following him to where the old oak flagstones were worn from time and history. A black curtain hung over something tall, draped in silk like a shrouded giant. 

Ector's voice ringing over the murmurs. “In honor of Rhydderch Pendrath we present this memorial.” Two attendants pulled the rope. The veil fell.

The statue was no ordinary likeness. Twelve feet of marble stood of Rhydderch as he had in life not in repose, but in defiance. He held a spear in hand planted into the stone at his feet, pointing downward. The armor he wore was rendered so precisely that every dent and rune from real battles had been captured. His gaze was not heroic in the empty way of most monuments; it looked at you, challenging, daring you to meet it.

Gasps broke from the crowd. Even Artorius felt something stir. This was no cold tribute, it radiated presence. It was as if the soul of the very man was held in the statue. The old vicar recited a blessing, but the words barely registered. Artorius’s thoughts were elsewhere — the day they had told him his father was dead. How unreal it had felt. But here, before the statue, the truth pressed in. Rhydderch Pendrath was gone. The weight he had carried now rested on his shoulders.

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Finally to bring this solemn day to a close, the family and closest circle of allies had gathered at the cliffside harbor. The sea lay flat as hammered silver, the horizon smudged with rain that never seemed to arrive.