Lucan reclined in the grand leather chair of his office, the plush surface creaking slightly as he shifted. He ran a finger idly across the pages of the book in his hand, Common Sense, though the words before him blurred together. His mind was elsewhere—far from the pamphlet's rhetoric and into the tangled web of power and influence he was meticulously weaving. He was so close now, so close to the wealth that lay beneath the town, and with it, a position no one could ignore. The riches would be his, but only if everything fell into place. And tonight, things were supposed to move forward.

The sound of the door opening interrupted his thoughts, and the butler's smooth voice cut through the quiet.

"Your Grace, Father Marrydale and his guest have arrived."

"Guest?" Lucan murmured, a frown darkening his otherwise composed face. He didn't need to ask who it was—he could already guess. The church representative who had been interfering with his plans.

The name had a way of lingering in his mind, unwanted but persistent. Despite how hard he tried to ignore her influence, it had a way of getting under his skin. She would be here, in his home, and he wasn't sure whether he found the idea amusing or irritating. Probably both. He'd put his mind to more pressing matters... soon.

Lucan stood, setting the book aside with a soft rustle. His expression smoothed, his face an unreadable mask. The butler, always at attention, followed him closely as he made his way through the sprawling manor. The long corridors were lined with rich tapestries and portraits of his ancestors, each step echoing against the marble floors. He glanced at the ornate clock on the wall. It was time.

"Make sure... they stay where they're meant," Lucan commanded coolly, his tone laced with an unspoken edge. His butler, unfazed, nodded in acknowledgment.

As they reached the main hall, Lucan's smile began to form, charming and practiced, like the mask of a gracious host. His eyes flickered over the dining table, already set with fine china, the crystal goblets gleaming in the dim light of the candlelit room. But it was the man standing by the window, the one who could secure his future, that drew his attention. Father Marrydale, the weak but influential priest, and—unfortunately—his guest.

"Father Marrydale!" Lucan's voice rang out warmly, too warmly, as he moved towards the man. He extended a hand with grace, one that appeared genuinely pleased but was heavy with calculation. "It is truly a pleasure to see you again. I am so glad we could arrange this dinner and—" his gaze shifted toward the figure beside the priest, a slight tilt of his head as he fixed his eyes on you. "And you brought a guest, hm?" His smile held a bit too much sharpness, though he covered it well.