The air is thick with expensive smoke, the scent of spiced wine, and the low murmur of wagers. Men of all stations, from wealthy merchants to off-duty guards, are gathered around tables for dice and cards. The sound of rattling ivory and clinking coin is constant. In a dim corner, away from the main action, ELIAS HARTWELL sits nursing a single cup of wine. CASSIAN VALE stands beside him, observing the room with a predator's amusement.
CASSIAN
Behold, Elias, the great theatre of Fortune. Here, a man's inheritance is lost on the tumble of a die. There, a pauper becomes a prince for a single night. Is it not a purer form of worship than any you'd find in a church? Here, at least, the goddess Chance answers your prayers instantly—with either a kiss or a slap. You should try your luck. It could not be worse than what you suffer in love.
ELIAS
My luck is a false coin, Cassian. I'll not spend it here. These men risk only gold. I have already wagered my soul and found it wanting. Let them have their games. They do not interest me.
CASSIAN
(Scoffs, taking a sip from Elias's cup)
Because you insist on playing a game with only one player, where you are both the gambler and the house, and you have fixed the odds so you can never win. This pining for your chaste muse—it is a self-inflicted wound you delight in dressing. You are in love with the ache of it all.
ELIAS
You see only the surface. It is not the ache I love, but the beauty that causes it. A beauty so profound it makes all other things in this world seem… counterfeit. Like these games. Like this false cheer.
As he speaks, a city CRIER enters, followed by a boy with a pot of paste. The CRIER clears a space on a large wooden pillar in the center of the room, tearing down old notices for bounties and auctions. He unfurls a large, new poster.
CRIER
(In a booming, official voice)
Hear ye, hear ye! By order of Lord Gideon Davenant, a grand masquerade is to be held this very night! A feast of celebration! All citizens of good standing are welcomed to witness the formal presentation of the noble lady Liora Davenant to her chosen suitor, the honourable Alaric Thorne! Music! Revelry! Let all of Veridia rejoice!
The CRIER steps back, revealing the poster. It is an expensive piece of work, printed with grand lettering. At its center is a finely rendered woodcut likeness of a young woman's face—artistic, idealized, but capturing a striking intelligence in the eyes and a proud set of the lips. The men in the room give it a passing glance, more interested in the promise of free wine than in the lady's portrait. But Elias's eyes lock onto the image. The noise of the room seems to fade into a dull roar for him.
ELIAS
(His voice barely a whisper)
Cassian… Who is that?
CASSIAN
(Following his gaze, a smirk playing on his lips)
Who do you think? That, my moonstruck friend, is the main attraction at the circus tonight. The jewel to be placed in Thorne's crown. That is Liora Davenant.
Elias stands, drawn toward the pillar as if by an invisible thread. He stops a few feet away, staring at the printed face.
ELIAS
But she… she is…
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
As a holy relic in a heathen's hall;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
The artist's hand that carved this likeness knew
He was not shaping wood, but capturing grace.
Did heaven grow weary of its angels, then,
And send one down to shame our mortal maids?
CASSIAN
(Coming to stand beside him, his voice a low, urgent warning)
By all the gods, Elias, contain yourself. You speak treason in a room full of ears. That is not an angel fallen from heaven; she is a viper hatched from the Davenant nest. Her beauty is the honey on the trap. Forget her face. Read the name beneath it. Davenant. It is a name written in the blood of our kin.
ELIAS
(His gaze still fixed on the poster, his voice filled with a new, tragic conflict)
But how can such a foul root sprout so fair a flower? Look at her, Cassian. There is no malice in those eyes. There is spirit, yes. A fire. But it is not the cold fire of their ambition. It is something… else.
CASSIAN
You see what you wish to see. A pretty face to hang your poetry upon. Do you know nothing of your own blood? Have you forgotten the stories your father beat into you since you were a boy?
ELIAS
(Finally tearing his eyes away, turning to Cassian)
I have forgotten nothing. I remember the lore. But seeing that face makes the old tales seem like a different language.
CASSIAN
Then let me translate it for you! Remember this, when you look upon her. Your great-great-grandsire, Alistair Hartwell, founded this city. He drew its plans, he built its first bridge with his own hands and fortune, believing that honour was the mortar that held the stones together. Our name, the Hartwell name, was meant to stand for legacy, for community, for a city built on principle.
ELIAS
(His voice taking on the cadence of a lesson learned by rote)
'Honour before gold, and people before profit.' I know the words.
CASSIAN
Aye, you know the words, but do you know their meaning? Do you know who laid the first crack in that foundation? Corbin Davenant. Their ancestor. He was Alistair's partner, the man with the coin. When the Great Fen Fire consumed half the city, your ancestor saw a tragedy to be mended. He pledged his wealth to rebuild, to house the displaced, to heal the community. But Corbin Davenant? He saw only opportunity. He used the chaos to buy the burnt land for pennies, to raise rents on the wretched, and to build a fortune on their misery. He called it 'pragmatism.' Your ancestor called it by its true name: a vulture's feast.
ELIAS
Alistair Hartwell swore that no Davenant would ever hold true power in Veridia, for their hearts were corrupted by greed. He broke their partnership, and the feud was born. A war fought not with swords, at first, but with ledgers and whispers, with alliances and betrayals.
CASSIAN
Exactly. And that girl's father, Gideon, is Corbin's direct heir in spirit as well as blood. He sees this city not as a home, but as a chessboard. Marrying his daughter to Thorne is not an act of love; it is a strategic move to consolidate power, to hem in our influence, to finally achieve what Corbin never could: total control. And that face you find so angelic? It is the sigil on their battle standard. She is the pretty flag they wave while they sharpen their knives in the dark.
Elias looks from Cassian's fierce, intense face back to the poster. The likeness of Liora seems to mock him now, a symbol of an impassable chasm.
ELIAS
So I am taught. To hate the name, to mistrust the blood. My own father's heart is hardened against them like a winter stone. And yet… my eyes, betraying all my history, tell me she is fair. My heart, a fool, leaps to see a face whose very name should make it recoil. What a cruel jest fate has devised.
CASSIAN
It is no jest. It is a test of your loyalty. A test you seem poised to fail spectacularly.
ELIAS
My only love, sprung from my only hate!
Too early seen unknown, and known too late!
Prodigious birth of love it is to me,
That I must love a loathed enemy.
I must go, Cassian. I must see for myself.
CASSIAN
(A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face)
Go? You mean to the feast? To the lion's den?
ELIAS
I must. If she is but a fraction as beautiful in flesh as she is in ink, I must look upon her. Even if it is from the shadows. Even if the sight of her is the last I see.
CASSIAN
(His eyes gleam with a manic energy)
Madness. Utter, beautiful madness. I love it. To risk our necks for a glimpse of an enemy's daughter whose beauty you've gleaned from a woodcut in a gambling hell… it is the most Hartwell thing I have ever heard. Very well. Our course is set. We will crash their dreary pageant. But I swear, Elias, if you start spouting sonnets and get us killed, I will haunt you for eternity. Now, come. We need masks that speak of mystery, not of suicidal adoration.
Cassian grabs Elias by the arm, pulling him from his trance. As they move towards the exit, Elias casts one last, longing glance back at the poster of Liora Davenant, a beautiful omen of the tragedy to come.
(Exeunt)