Tuesday morning arrived without ceremony.
Turner Gate woke the same way it always did—shops unlatching their doors, carts creaking awake, voices rising slowly as though the city itself needed coaxing into consciousness.
Adrian
Adrian moved through the morning with quiet efficiency.
He dressed quickly, careful not to disturb the stillness of his room, and ate a modest breakfast by the window as the light crept higher along the stone buildings opposite. His schedule rested neatly in his thoughts: work first, then the academy with Selene.
The thought did not unsettle him. It steadied him.
By the time he stepped into the street, umbrella tucked under his arm out of habit rather than need, he felt prepared in the way only routine could provide. The academy awaited, not as an escape, but as a continuation—another place where effort meant progress, and progress meant certainty.
As he walked, Adrian adjusted his pace unconsciously, already measuring the hours ahead. There was comfort in knowing where he needed to be. And, increasingly, who he wished to see.
---
Matthew
Matthew Wellington, meanwhile, had declared war on information.
He sat in his family's study with books spread across the desk, none of them particularly relevant, all of them aggressively consulted. His inquiries that morning had been discreet but persistent—maids, clerks, a tailor's apprentice who talked too much for too little coin.
Lady Evelyne Verin did not frequent public gardens. She did not attend casual teas. She did not wander the city unescorted.
"She's an indoor lady," Matthew muttered, leaning back in his chair. "Of course she is."
Her world existed in drawing rooms, galleries, scheduled visits, and carefully observed routines. No chance encounters. No accidental meetings.
Which, Matthew decided, simply meant effort was required.
He smiled faintly. Effort, at least, was familiar territory.
Somewhere between scribbled notes and half-formed plans, Matthew paused—pen hovering—and realized he was smiling for no audience at all.
That, more than the wink, unsettled him.
---
Thomas
Thomas Wellington was winning money he did not need in places he should not have been.
The betting den hummed with low voices, cards slapping wood, coins clinking in uneven rhythms. Thomas lounged with practiced ease, one boot hooked casually around a chair leg, expression relaxed enough to be insulting.
"Careful," someone warned him. "Luck turns."
Thomas smiled. "Oh, I know," he said pleasantly. "That's why I never rely on it."
By midmorning, he had relieved three men of their coin and one of his patience. He left before anyone could sour the mood, pocket heavier, spirit light.
Outside, he adjusted his coat and considered the day.
Matthew was scheming. Adrian was scheduling. And Thomas?
Thomas was entertained.
"Interesting times," he murmured to himself, stepping back into the flow of the street.
---
And so the city moved.
Three young men, each convinced he understood the rhythm of his own life, unaware of how neatly fate had begun arranging their steps.
Adrian believed discipline would protect him. Matthew believed charm would save him. Thomas believed detachment would spare him.
They were all, of course, mistaken.
Love has never cared for preparation. It arrives quietly, rearranges everything, and leaves men wondering when they first agreed to lose control.
But that. That is a matter for another volume.
— Elias Morgan
End of volume 1: Love is not primal. Or so they thought.