Autumn had settled over the Ruskan countryside. The fields lay stripped and yellow, their stubble glistening with frost. Beyond them, birch trees stood pale against the gray sky, their leaves turned to copper and gold. A thin fog drifted between the trunks, curling like smoke from an unseen fire.

  At the heart of it stood a mansion — broad, stone-built, its windows glinting faintly in the cold light. The walls bore no banners, only the plain crest of House Kuznetsov above the gate. Armed guards flanked the entrance, muskets slung, breath steaming in the chill air. Not a voice carried from the courtyard; only the crunch of boots on gravel and the soft creak of iron hinges when the wind turned.

  Inside, the corridors were dim and spare. The scent of tobacco, old paper, and polished wood lingered in the air. In the study, a brass clock ticked steadily beside the fireplace, its flame burning low.

  “What are we going to do, Dimitri? You said the Guild was going to protect us,” said a short, stout man, sweating bullets.

  “Previously they did. I don’t know how or why Dumas commissioned a Fair Game,” replied a man with a petite handlebar moustache.

  “I knew that frog couldn’t be trusted.”

  “But at least he warned us about Alaric and Katerina’s possible alliance.”

  “Great. Now Alaric’s going to have an alliance with that bitch,” said Morozov, the stout man.

  “Careful, Alexander. She is still my sister — and last time I checked, she is still your wife,” Kuznetsov said quietly.

  “Careful? I’ve always been careful. All of this was your idea!”

  “You blaming me? Who was crawling to me like a beggar for money?” Kuznetsov yelled back.

  “And that’s all! I just wanted some money — but then you came up with this plan to steal a blueprint and cheat your own sister out of inheritance!”

  “And you followed it anyway!”

  “I thought you knew what you were doing!”

  “I know what I’m—” Kuznetsov began to shout, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Who is it?” he asked sharply.

  “Your guest has arrived, sir,” came a voice from behind the door.

  “Ah, yes. Please, let him in.”

  The door opened, and a man stepped inside. He looked to be in his fifties — tall, with well-kept grey hair combed neatly back, his posture straight as a saber. His suit was immaculate: dark wool, a silk vest of muted silver, elegant but never flamboyant. The faint glint of a pocket watch chain gleamed near his waistcoat. Everything about him was precise — the fold of his collar, the polish on his boots, even the measured rhythm of his steps.

  His face was calm, his expression composed, yet there was something in his eyes — that quiet superiority of a man accustomed to being obeyed.

  “Ah, please, welcome to my home,” Kuznetsov said, gesturing toward him. “Alexander, may I introduce you to Mr. Aldrich Hawthorne. He is a prominent member of the Guild and our ally in this Fair Game against Alaric — but most importantly, the buyer of the blueprint.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hawthorne,” Morozov said, extending his hand.

  Aldrich gave only a slight nod. “Pleased to meet you,” he replied coolly, without taking it.

  “Please, please, take a seat,” Kuznetsov offered.

  “May I have the luxury of standing, Mr. Kuznetsov? My back feels a bit stiff from the long journey — and the cold weather certainly didn’t help that predicament.”

  “Yes, please, do as you wish. Shall I add more firewood?”

  “No, it’s sufficient,” Aldrich said, removing his gloves with unhurried grace. He turned toward the hearth, warming his hands before the low flame, the gold of his signet ring catching the firelight.

  “Before we continue, gentlemen, I wish to take a look at the blueprint I’m purchasing,” Aldrich said.

  “I have the blueprint safe and sound,” said Morozov.

  “Are you willing to show it to me?”

  “Not until our problem is solved.”

  “Alexander! Don’t be rude,” Kuznetsov snapped.

  “It’s fine, Mr. Kuznetsov. The caution is understandable,” Aldrich replied calmly. He stepped closer to Morozov, standing before him. His tone remained measured, but there was weight behind every word.

  “But know this — you must keep to your promise. If you somehow lose that blueprint, then Mr. Van Aerden will not be your biggest problem. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, I understand,” Morozov said with a nervous nod.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “Good. Then I suggest you keep close watch over that blueprint.”

  He turned away and returned to the fireplace. The room fell silent, the only sound the faint crackle of burning wood and the rhythmic ticking of the clock.

  “Mr. Kuznetsov,” Aldrich spoke again, breaking the cold silence. “What is our current situation?”

  “It appears he is on his way to form an alliance with my sister,” Kuznetsov replied.

  “Ah,” Aldrich murmured, a faint smile touching his lips. “So the lion has seeketh the lioness.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Hawthorne. I have come up with a solution.”

  “Oh? And what solution might that be?”

  Before Kuznetsov could answer, a knock came at the door.

  “Mr. Kuznetsov,” said a voice from outside, “the people you invited have arrived, sir.”

  “Ah, good. Let them in.”

  The door opened, and a group of rough-looking men entered the room. They were broad-shouldered and weathered, their coats worn but well-kept, belts heavy with pistols and knives. There was a trace of discipline in the way they stood — mercenaries, clearly, but professionals.

  “Mr. Hawthorne,” Kuznetsov said, gesturing toward them. “I present to you the solution.”

  “They are your solution?” Aldrich asked, his tone turning sharp. “They’re Black Pigeon mercenaries — they’re a Guild asset.”

  “Well… they’ve agreed to accept the work. I don’t see what’s the harm.”

  “What’s the harm?” Aldrich’s voice hardened as he stepped forward, the air around him seeming to cool with each word. “Do you understand why the Fair Game exists in the first place?”

  Kuznetsov faltered. “To… settle disputes—”

  “No,” Aldrich cut him off, now walking toward him with slow, deliberate steps. “The Fair Game exists to reduce and minimize destruction — to prevent the loss of the Guild’s assets when a guildsman enters an unsanctioned conflict, whether with each other or an outside actor.”

  By the time he finished, Aldrich stood directly before Kuznetsov, towering over him.

  Kuznetsov blinked rapidly, beads of sweat forming along his temple — but before he could speak, the mercenary captain stepped forward.

  “The Guild doesn’t own us, old man,” the captain said flatly.

  “Silence, boy. The men are talking,” Aldrich said without even looking his way. “It is the Guild who decides whether you are an asset… or not.”

  The captain’s jaw tightened. “Are you afraid, old man?”

  Aldrich slowly turned his head, his gaze landing on the captain — cold, judgmental, and utterly still.

  “Afraid? No. Cautious,” Aldrich said as he walked toward the captain. “And so should you. Alaric Van Aerden is not a man you underestimate — he is ruthless, cunning, and resourceful.” He faced the captain eye to eye. “Your lack of caution disturbs me, boy.”

  The mercenary captain clenched his jaw, holding back his anger.

  “You seem to know much about him, Mr. Hawthorne,” Kuznetsov said.

  “We have a short history, and I’ve seen what he can do.”

  “I see… then can you share what you know about Alaric? His weakness, perhaps?”

  “What are you planning with the Black Pigeon anyway?” Aldrich asked, then took a seat near the fireplace.

  “I plan to assassinate him.”

  “Hah.” Aldrich chuckled. “I advise against it. He will be surrounded by elite guards at all times, and even if you succeed it doesn’t mean the Fair Game ends. You will unleash something worse.”

  “Worse? You mean his brother? He’s just a brute.”

  “He is a brute, yes. But Alaric’s wife loves him dearly and is just as cunning — she would surely avenge him. Plus, there is his platinum-haired assistant; she’s a monster in her own right and fiercely loyal. If Alaric dies, there may be no one left to stop them. It would be mutually assured destruction.”

  “Then… what do you suggest?”

  “I will not help in this folly,” Aldrich said. “But I will say this: it’s better for him to remain alive than dead. For your sake.”

  “I see… then change of plan, captain. Your new task will be to kidnap Alaric. If that proves too difficult, then kidnap my sister or his lawyer.”

  “Very well, but killing is one thing and kidnapping is another. There might be complications, and I don’t want to be held responsible if someone gets killed. Is that understandable?” the captain said.

  “I understand, but try your best not to harm my sister.”

  “Sounds good, but I want to renegotiate our payment,” the mercenary captain said.

  “We already agreed on the price,” Kuznetsov protested.

  “Aye, but judging from what the old man just said, the job is harder than we anticipated — so we want more.”

  “Fine. Tell me the new price.”

  “Oh, I don’t want money… If we succeed, then I want that old man to grovel on his knees and kiss our boots, one by one.” The captain pointed at Aldrich.

  Aldrich just stared at him coldly — a look that said bold words for a boy who doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into.

  “Captain!” Kuznetsov yelled.

  “It’s fine, Mr. Kuznetsov,” said Aldrich as he crossed his leg. “Sure, I will do that… however, you must guarantee the success of your mission with your life.” His tone was serious.

  “Bah.” The captain scoffed. “The Black Pigeons never fail their missions.”

  “Never failed yet,” Aldrich said. “There’s always a first time — and it would be such a disaster if this were it. Especially for you.”

  “Very well. I hope you hold to your words, old man.”

  “So are you.”

  “Let’s go, men. Let’s make some money,” the captain ordered, and left the room.

  When all the mercenaries had gone, Kuznetsov exhaled and bowed his head for a moment. “I’m sorry about them, Mr. Hawthorne. I didn’t know they would cause so much trouble for you. I will speak to them — tell them not to disrespect you when they return.”

  “If they return,” Aldrich said quietly, “and only if they return successfully.”

  “Yes, of course… do you have any other plan, Mr. Hawthorne?”

  “I will muster my own men. In the meantime, you could gather more… sponsors for this endeavor.”

  “There are not many people willing to side with the Guild in Ruska,” Kuznetsov admitted. “I was hoping you had contacts you could introduce to me.”

  “Sure. I will send the invitations.”

  “Wait—here? The Tsar’s men would be alerted if a lot of wealthy men from the west suddenly arrived. They still oppose our establishment; I don’t want to give them any pretext to make it harder than it already is.”

  Aldrich considered for a moment, then inclined his head. “Do you have a ballroom?”

  “I do.”

  “Then we are going to have ourselves a party. That way, it will not raise suspicion.” Aldrich smiled.

  “I see... How many people are we expecting?”

  “There are five that come to mind.”

  “Five? That’s hardly a ball — more of a tea party.”

  “Then invite your associates too.”

  “My associates? They mostly don’t concern themselves with matters outside Ruska. I don’t believe they’ll be any help.”

  “Maybe not for you, but they could help me establish connections in Ruska.”

  “Ah, I see what you mean. I will arrange the ball, then.”

  “Good, very good. Carry on then.”

  Outside, frost crept along the stone sill, and the birches whispered in the thin wind. Inside the study, the fire burned low, throwing long shadows across the faces gathered there. Promises had been made, prices adjusted, plans set into motion. Beneath the polite words and measured smiles, each man tasted the same metallic tang of risk.

  Kuznetsov watched Aldrich at the hearth — precise, controlled, dangerous as a blade — then turned his gaze to the window where the russet fields lay waiting. The autumn night closed around the mansion like a held breath, and somewhere beyond the glow of the hearth, the slow wheels of fate began to turn.