Brendan Mars
Brendan Mars reclined in his leather chair, the creak slicing through the stillness as he gazed out the window. Below, the sprawling city stretched like an unyielding tapestry, chaotic and restless, while the Dominion's headquarters loomed high above it all—a fitting metaphor for the power that shaped the world. Yet today, that view did little to settle the weight pressing down on him. The calm veneer of the room contrasted sharply with the storm brewing inside his chest.
Across from him sat Jonathan Frost, silent and composed, his hands loosely clasped in his lap. Their partnership had spanned decades, tethered by the delicate balance of power and secrecy. Brendan had always been the face of the Dominion, its visible strength, while Jonathan operated in the shadows, his hand guiding the veiled machinations most dared not approach. Together, they were cogs in an intricate machine: leader and shadow, public and private. But even that balance felt fragile now.
"Ethan's late," Brendan finally said, his voice calm yet edged with quiet disapproval. "Not like him."
Jonathan inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the remark without offering a response. Brendan had known him long enough to expect that silence—calculating, deliberate, a trait born from years of navigating the moonlit corners of the Dominion's operations. They had grown up together, heirs to a legacy steeped in tradition, a legacy that demanded the eldest take the mantle of leadership while the youngest embraced the shadows.
And Ethan, first born of the Dominion Leadership, Jonathan's son, was next in line. He would inherit Brendan's position, just as Luelle—Brendan's daughter, who was born three years after Ethan—would inherit Jonathan's. It was the way of the Dominion. It always had been, the first born becomes the public leader, while the second born inherits the place in the shadows. Yet lately, Brendan found himself questioning that immutable structure. The heir and the shadow. The leader and the unseen. Why did it have to be this way?
"I spoke with Rowan this morning," Brendan continued, his gaze shifting toward Jonathan. "Ethan wasn't answering his phone. Apparently, our heir let loose last night and drank himself into a stupor. Surprising, isn't it?"
Jonathan's eyes narrowed—not in shock, but in thought. "Everyone stumbles at some point," he replied matter-of-factly. "Ethan is no exception."
Brendan raised an eyebrow, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. "I suspect your little suggestion had something to do with it."
Jonathan hesitated, a flicker of guilt crossing his face before he schooled his expression into calm neutrality. Brendan didn't need more than that flicker. He knew.
"You told him to marry," Brendan said, his tone sharper now. "And now he's unravelling. Is this truly the right course of action?"
"It's necessary, it is how it always was, the leader marries by the time he is thirty," Jonathan asserted, his voice firm yet subdued. "Ethan's role is not just about him; it's about the Dominion and securing its future. You know that as well as I do."
Brendan sighed heavily, sinking back into his chair. His gaze fell on the untouched glass of whiskey sitting on his desk, its amber liquid catching the faint light filtering through the room. The Dominion always came first. That truth had been ingrained in him since birth, a mantra whispered at every turn. Sacrifice wasn't a choice—it was a necessity. But lately, Brendan wondered if that necessity had gone too far.
"And speaking of ensuring the future," Brendan said after a moment, his voice softer, more contemplative, "Luelle has been excelling, she will fill your shoes well."
Jonathan's posture shifted slightly, the faintest spark of pride igniting in his eyes. It wasn't just pride. It was something deeper, something heavier—a shared acknowledgment of the cost. Luelle had become everything the Dominion demanded of her: precise, fearless, and effective.
"She's effective," Brendan continued, choosing his words carefully. "But I wonder… is it too much?"
Jonathan's hands tightened slightly in his lap, the only sign of tension breaking through his stoic demeanour. "She was raised for this. Trained for this. She understands her role."
"Perhaps," Brendan murmured, his thoughts drifting. He reclined further, his gaze distant, his mind caught on the way Luelle carried herself. She was different—different from the others who moved within the Dominion's orbit. There was something in the way she looked at Ethan, something haunted, as if her work wasn't just duty, but a burden she bore in silence.
For years, Brendan had kept her in the shadows. It was the safest place for her, the only place she could thrive without becoming a target. Yet even he couldn't deny that her attachment to Ethan complicated things. She didn't just see him as her future leader. She saw him as something more—as someone she couldn't let go of, no matter how much tradition demanded otherwise.
The question slipped from his lips before he could stop it: "Why do we have to continue like this? Why must the Dominion be divided between leaders and shadows?"
Jonathan tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady, waiting for Brendan to elaborate.
Brendan let the question linger, his mind racing. "Ethan and Luelle… they're remarkable. Their strengths complement each other. Why must one lead while the other remains unseen?"
"What are you suggesting?" Jonathan's voice betrayed nothing, his tone inscrutable.
"I'm proposing they partner," Brendan replied, his words measured.
Jonathan's expression shifted, a flicker of conflict passing through his eyes before vanishing behind his practiced mask. Tradition wasn't questioned lightly in the Dominion. Brendan knew that as well as anyone. But he couldn't ignore the idea—couldn't ignore the possibility that Ethan and Luelle could change things.
Jonathan leaned back, his gaze sharp and calculating. "You're going soft," he said finally. "The Dominion is built on tradition for a reason."
Brendan nodded slowly, the notion settling uneasily in his chest. Tradition held significance, yes. But evolution held promise. Ethan and Luelle represented the Dominion's future. Perhaps its next chapter didn't have to mirror its past.
Yet Brendan's thoughts returned to the shadows—the shadows where Luelle thrived. She couldn't leave them, not without exposing herself, not without risking everything. For all his musings, Brendan knew the truth: she would remain unseen. It was the only way to protect her. It was the only way to protect Ethan.
The Dominion's rules held firm. And Brendan would abide by them—until the day came when they no longer had to.
Ethan
Ethan knocked twice on the heavy wooden door, his knuckles grazing the surface. The sound echoed faintly in the hallway, and he hesitated for a fraction of a second before turning the handle. Behind him, Rowan stood silently, a step back but close enough for Ethan to feel his presence—a quiet reminder that he wasn't facing this alone.
"Come in." Brendan Mars's voice came through the door, as steady and commanding as ever.
Ethan pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was exactly what he expected—quiet, calculated, oppressive. Brendan was by his desk, standing tall and rigid, his piercing gaze locking onto Ethan the moment he entered. Beside him sat Jonathan Frost, Ethan's father, whose silence was as heavy as the morning air.
The weight of their scrutiny hit Ethan immediately. Brendan and Jonathan didn't look angry. No, it was something worse. They looked disappointed.
Ethan squared his shoulders instinctively, as though bracing against a tide he couldn't hold back. He could feel Rowan lingering behind him, offering an unspoken solidarity that Ethan hadn't realized he needed.
"Sit down," Brendan said, his tone sharp yet controlled.
Ethan obeyed, stepping forward and settling into the chair across from the desk. The leather creaked softly beneath him as he sat, his movements stiff. His father's eyes followed him the entire time, heavy and relentless. Brendan gestured toward Rowan without looking. "You can wait outside."
Rowan hesitated. Ethan could feel it in the faint shift of his posture, the quiet reluctance that said everything Rowan didn't.
"It's fine," Ethan muttered under his breath, glancing briefly over his shoulder at his friend.
Rowan nodded once and left, closing the door behind him. Ethan's eyes remained fixed on the desk, but he couldn't help but feel a faint pang of frustration. Rowan's presence had been a small comfort—one that disappeared the moment the door shut.
"What happened last night?" Jonathan's voice sliced through the quiet, calm but carrying a weight that Ethan knew too well.
Ethan's jaw tightened. He should have expected this, but the question still hit like an accusation.
"What do you mean?" Ethan replied, forcing his voice to remain neutral.
"Your phone was off," Jonathan said evenly, leaning back slightly in his chair. His tone wasn't raised, but it was deliberate, probing. "Why?"
Ethan leaned back slightly, his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. He could feel the expectations pressing against him, their judgment palpable.
"I wasn't unreachable," Ethan said, his tone edged with defiance. "You always know where I am. There are guards everywhere."
His words came out harsher than he intended, his frustration leaking through despite his efforts to contain it. He regretted them almost instantly as his father's brows furrowed slightly in response. Brendan raised a hand before Jonathan could reply.
"Tone it down, Ethan," Brendan said calmly, though the command in his voice was unmistakable.
Ethan exhaled, forcing himself to lower his tone. "I just needed time to myself. That's all."
Brendan studied him carefully, his eyes narrowing slightly. The silence stretched for a moment before Brendan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.
"Let's talk about the woman," Brendan said smoothly, his voice even.
Ethan stiffened, his posture straightening reflexively. "What woman?"
"The one you were seen with last night," Brendan clarified. "Who was she?"
Ethan hesitated, the fragmented memories of the previous night resurfacing—the woman at the bar, her steady presence, the way she spoke without prying too deeply.
"I didn't get her name," Ethan admitted after a moment, his tone subdued but defensive.
Jonathan's chair creaked faintly as he shifted. "Did you sleep with her?"
The question hit Ethan like a slap, his hands tightening into fists. He sat up straighter, his frustration spilling over before he could stop himself.
"That is none of your business." His voice was sharp, cutting through the tension in the room.
Jonathan didn't flinch, his tone cooling. "It is my business if she's a threat. She could be a spy. Someone planted to get close to you, to hurt you. You can't afford to be careless, Ethan."
Ethan clenched his jaw, his pulse hammering as he fought to keep his temper under control.
The worst part wasn't the interrogation—it was the fact that Rowan was likely listening from just outside the door. Ethan knew his friend well enough to imagine the sympathy written all over his face. Rowan wasn't part of the Dominion in the same way; he had freedoms Ethan could only dream of. And that knowledge, combined with Rowan's silent understanding, only made this moment sting more.
Brendan's voice broke the tension, redirecting the conversation with deliberate ease. "We'll leave that matter for now. There's something else I need to discuss with you."
Ethan exhaled slowly, though the frustration lingered.
Brendan leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Ethan. "There's an event coming up. A ball. You'll attend, of course."
Ethan nodded, his jaw still tight.
"And," Brendan continued, his tone gaining weight, "we'll be inviting several eligible women—women vetted by the Dominion. You'll take time to meet them and decide who is best suited to be your future bride."
The words landed heavily, though Ethan had expected them. His father's directive to find a wife hadn't been subtle, and Brendan's reinforcement only solidified the expectation.
"You know the tradition, Ethan," Brendan added, his tone sharper now. "The heir of the Dominion must be married by the time they turn thirty. You've hit that mark. There's no time left to waste."
The reminder was a knife in Ethan's side. He knew the rules, knew the tradition, but hearing it spoken aloud—the finality of it—made his chest tighten.
Ethan's gaze flickered briefly to his father, whose expression hadn't changed. Jonathan simply watched, waiting for Ethan to comply as always.
Ethan exhaled, pushing down the frustration bubbling inside him, and nodded again. "Understood."
But beneath his outward compliance, Ethan's mind churned. The weight of the Dominion's expectations—the choices already made for him—had never felt more suffocating.