knife trick (2)

Sitting ramrod straight, the man seemed entirely out of place in the rough and dark streets of Tenebrae. 

He wore a white suit with a silver scarf tucked elegantly around his throat. His hair was a fine blond, slicked back with copious amounts of gel. The man's expression was composed, a serene smile tugging at his lips, as though he were lost in his own world of beauty. A cane rested by his side, along with a folded-up newspaper.

"Your Highness, a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

The man stood, tucking the newspaper under one arm. He stepped forward, tapping the cane against the loose cobblestone. It was only when he came closer that Damian finally realized the glassy look in the man's eyes was unchanging. His irises were cloudy and white, his gaze settling an inch or two above Damian's forehead.

He's blind?

Damian didn't let the shock register in his expression as he shook the man's outstretched hand.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mister Blackbriar. I am truly grateful you took time out of your schedule to meet with me."

Morgan Blackbriar, First Seat of the High Table. 

The most powerful man in Tenebrae, a notorious recluse whose activities—and evidently, even his appearance—were a complete unknown.

Blackbriar's clouded eyes glanced over Damian's party.

"I believe I was expecting only one more with Your Highness…?"

His words sent a shiver down Damian's spine. The cane; the newspaper; the way he knew exactly where to shake Damian's hand—something was dangerously off about Morgan Blackbriar. Perhaps Dominic sensed that too, because he subtly moved closer to his charge. 

"Captain Lynn Brightwell, at your service." Lynn offered a stiff bow, her words pleasantly polite, carrying none of her usual attitude. 

"Ah, I thought I sensed a detestable amount of Flame. I fear I am aggrieved that you felt the need to bring a Flameguard along with you, Your Highness. Surely, you do not feel imperiled within the bounds of your own city?"

Lynn bristled at Blackbriar's comments, but said nothing—at the very least, when she donned her captain's garb, she knew her place, for which Damian was thankful. However, as befitted his duty, Damian could not ignore the First Seat's words.

"My retinue changes as I see fit, Mister Blackbriar. Surely you cannot fault me for wanting some protection when members of my own church are slain so close to your territory?"

Blackbriar smiled at the wicked barbs hidden within Damian's polite words. Such was the nature of the elite, of the royals, of those who ran the world. Like a fencing match, darting back and forth, offering jabs then retreating, feeling out the other's weaknesses.

It was a game that Damian detested, yet a game he was uniquely capable of playing—perhaps a gift from his mother, or just a necessity earned from his station.

"Your church, you say? I don't recall the Crown having specifically claimed ownership over the Order of the Flame."

Shit. Damian realized his slip-up too late. He had been intent on probing the First Seat for information about the senseless violence, but instead had made a classic blunder—the sort that would give the newspapers a field day.

"Maybe we can take this conversation out of the open?"

It was Dominic who came to Damian's rescue with a perfectly reasonable request that ended the war of words.

"Why, of course," Blackbriar said, gesturing broadly. "My apologies, Your Highness, I meant nothing by my words. Come, my offices are merely across the plaza. There's a lovely view of the harbor from there—you should find it quite enchanting."

Once again, Damian was left clueless by the First Seat's words. How could Dominic or Gunther have failed to mention such a fundamental fact about Morgan Blackbriar? Was the First Seat truly so private that he'd kept his eyesight—or lack thereof—a secret for years?

Yet, when Damian snuck a sideways glance at his bodyguard, he saw Dom's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

So he didn't know either? What in the Ashes is going on here?

With no answers forthcoming, Damian could do nothing but follow Morgan Blackbriar across the plaza and towards the squat, three-story building he had generously called his "offices." Damian doubted this was the High Table's true headquarters, but Uncle Leon would've had access to this information ahead of time, so Damian trusted it for now.

Lynn leaned into Damian, her mouth so close to his ear that it sent a strange, almost pleasurable shiver down his arm.

"We're being watched."

There was nothing pleasurable about her words. 

Damian was ill-equipped to use the Angel's Blessing; a dark stain on his reputation as the future King of Sidralis. Here, where the Deep's power was stronger than ever, his connection to the Flame was almost non-existent. 

But he didn't need the Angel's Blessings to make out the shadow-clad figures at the edges of the plaza.

Blacker than black, like ink spilled against the night. Formless, shapeless, but watching the group with a penetrating gaze.

Damian shivered.

"Let's get going."

He followed Morgan Blackbriar closely, all the while feeling like he was walking right into the heart of the lion's den.