The conservatory glows with moonlight filtering through glass panes. Exotic flowers bloom even in winter — enchanted by soft blue fireflies hovering above them. Oswald stands at the center, coat neatly buttoned, hands clasped over his cane.
From the shadows, Alain Marchand enters with another figure: a young woman, perhaps twenty-nine, her presence both ethereal and unnerving. Her hair seems to shift hue under the moonlight — silver, then pale green, then black again. Small, translucent veins of gold shimmer beneath her skin.
MARCHAND: "Oswald, allow me to introduce my daughter — Lira Marchand. Half faerie, half human. The only inheritance from her mother’s court I chose to keep."
Lira steps closer, her gaze cool and assessing like the first frost of winter.
LIRA: "So you’re the one Father calls The Gentleman Penguin."
OSWALD (dryly): "Titles are convenient things. They save people the trouble of asking who’s in control."
Her smile is razor-thin but approving.
MARCHAND:"Lira’s… special. She sees truths most miss. She’ll make sure you stay three steps ahead — and alive. Consider her your shadow from now on."
LIRA (softly):"And your conscience, if you still have one."
Oswald arched his brow ever so slightly, his expression almost thoughtful.
OSWALD: "That organ was removed years ago. But I welcome the company."
[Montage – Weeks Passing]
Lira teaches him to read glamour and illusion, training him to sense deceit in tone and body rather than words.
She shows him faerie shadow-walking, an art of moving unseen through fractured reflections — a talent Oswald takes to disturbingly well.
In return, he teaches her human misdirection — the art of lies told not by illusion, but by tone and rhythm.
Oswald and Lira begin to develop an understanding built on shared detachment and precision.
A rival faction attempts to steal from Marchand’s network. Lira and Oswald are sent together.
While she weaves faerie glamours to confuse their enemies, Oswald uses them as cover to take out the real target — a hidden accountant holding Marchand’s blackmail files.
LIRA (afterward, watching him work): "You plan your crimes like a symphony. Cold. Perfect. Predictable in its beauty."
OSWALD:"And you add the violin."
There’s a moment of stillness — mutual recognition between predators.
Marchand looks over reports, his expression impressed.
MARCHAND: "It seems my daughter’s faerie touch and your precision make quite the pairing. Montreal whispers your name now. Not Oswald. Not Knight. The Gentleman Penguin and his Faerie Second."
Oswald adjusts his gloves, eyes gleaming.
OSWALD:"Then let the city learn that magic or money — both answer to control."
Lira tilts her head, smirking.
LIRA: "And control, it seems, answers to you."
MARCHAND (raising a glass): "To new empires, then."
OSWALD (quietly, like a promise): "And to the darkness beneath them."
The three of them allow their glasses to clink — one mortal, one faerie, one monster in a suit.
The room hums with quiet magic—moonlight filtered through glass, silver mist curling around the exotic faerie flora. Marchand and Lira watch from opposite sides of the conservatory as Oswald studies an intricate lockbox left over from a previous job.
MARCHAND: “Most men need months to bypass that enchantment. It bites the unwary.”
OSWALD (without looking up): “Biting things learn not to bite back.”
He slides a pick into the lock. The runes carved into the metal flare with faint blue light—wards meant to repel human touch. But instead of resisting, the light bends toward him, threads of energy curling like smoke into his fingertips. The lock gives a soft click and falls open.
A moment of silence.
Lira steps closer, eyes narrowing. The moonlight catches in her pupils—suddenly silver, almost luminous.
LIRA:“That shouldn’t be possible.”
Oswald flexes his gloved fingers. A faint shimmer lingers across his knuckles, like frost patterns forming and vanishing beneath the skin.
OSWALD: “Possible or not, it seems the wards disagree with you.”
Oswald turns toward them, voice even, but something colder coils behind the civility.
OSWALD (quiet): “Maybe I’ve spent too long near your kind, Lira. Ice remembers. Perhaps it’s remembering me.”
MARCHAND leans on his cane, studying him with clinical curiosity instead of alarm.
MARCHAND:“Interesting. Faerie energy doesn’t cling to mortals easily. It means you’ve been… altered. Not transformed, not yet. Enhanced, perhaps. A predator with instinct sharpened by magic.”
Lira circles him once, the faint scent of wildflowers and ozone following her.
LIRA:“The fae don’t give gifts. They test them. If the magic took to you, it means you already had a touch of darkness to anchor it.”
Oswald’s smile is small, unreadable.
OSWALD:“Then it seems I’m evolving.”
He snaps the lockbox shut and places it on the table—precise, final.
OSWALD (voice soft like a music box):“Intellect was my weapon. Now it has claws.”
MARCHAND (approvingly):“Good. The Gentleman Penguin, now with faerie blood in his veins. Fitting. A man of both worlds—reason and ruin.”
Lira’s gaze lingers on Oswald, expression caught somewhere between fascination and unease.
LIRA (softly):“Be careful, Oswald. The ice inside you isn’t just yours anymore.”
Oswald turns toward her, eyes glinting under the pale blue light.
OSWALD (flat):“Then I’ll make it mine.”
The conservatory lights dim as if responding to him. Frost creeps along the edges of the glass panes, tracing patterns that look almost like wings.
Bright stage lights wash over a long black table draped with the UOW banner.
Photographers gather like vultures, microphones jutting forward. The media murmurs in anticipation.
At center stage Oswald Knight has taken his seat — immaculate suit, gloves, umbrella cane hooked neatly beside him.
At his right stands Lira Marchand, hands clasped lightly in front of her, otherworldly faerie calm radiating from her in an aura that hushes the room.
Lightning Man’s poster hangs behind them — heroic pose, lightning crackling across the image.
Oswald ignores it entirely.
OSWALD (leaning toward the mic, voice honey-smooth): “Good evening, peasants… rejoice for you have been granted an audience with the youngblood champion, an honour rarely deserved.”
Cameras flash. Lira glances sideways at him — approving.
OSWALD:“In just a few nights, I defend the Youngblood Championship against Lightning Man — your resident Neutral Good paragon. A man who believes in justice, balance, and bright ideals.”
Oswald allows a smile to play upon his lips — the kind that looks polite but feels like a blade.
OSWALD:“He wants to end an empire.My empire.”
Oswald pauses in mock distress
“But Empires End only when their rulers grow complacent. I have not.”
A reporter raises a hand.
REPORTER:“There have been claims your cunning won’t be enough. Thoughts on that?”
OSWALD (tilting his head, amused):“Claims? Unsupported ones. Weak ones. Claims made by faceless men who lack the courage to speak publicly.”
The room hums—reporters lean in, captivated despite themselves.
OSWALD:“My opponent Lightning Man believes in light. I believe in leverage. He sees opponents. I see opportunities.”
Oswald places a gloved hand upon the Youngblood Title.
OSWALD: “And lightning strikes only once.But shadows?Shadows strike whenever I choose.”
REPORTER 2:“Lightning Man is bigger. Stronger. Faster in bursts. What do you have?”
Oswald lets the silence stretch… just enough.
OSWALD (soft, dangerous):“Charm. Intellect. Precision. The kind of precision you cannot imagine”
He gestures gently toward Lira.
OSWALD:“And an understanding that sometimes…magic lies just beneath the surface.”
LIRA (quiet, almost musical):“He underestimates what he cannot see.”
A ripple moves through the crowd — not fear, not awe, something between Oswald and Lira
Oswald stands slowly, placing his hands on the table, leaning ever so slightly toward the front row.
OSWALD:“Lightning Man, you believe Empires End with righteousness.But I built mine with strategy.With calculation.With ice cold silence.”
His voice lowers, commanding the room.
OSWALD: “This city, this company deserves a better class of competitor. And that is what they have in me.”
The crowd murmurs — some excited, some unnerved. A sense of unease builds, some new energy rising in the air
Lira steps forward, her presence subtle but impossible to ignore.
Oswald places a hand lightly over his heart — a gesture that seems humble… but is rehearsed with precision.
OSWALD (warmly):“If you believe in elegance over chaos…in brilliance over brawn…in inevitability over hope…”
Oswald spreads his arms out wide, in mock welcome
OSWALD:“Then chant my name.”
It starts small — two, three members of the press.
Then more.
And more.
Growing, rising, echoing through the hall:
“OS-WALD! “OS-WALD! “OS-WALD!
Lira smiles — just barely — watching the room fall under his spell like dominoes tipping.
Oswald straightens his tie and gives a slight bow.
OSWALD:“At Empires End, Lightning Man…your morals won’t save you.Your goodness won’t shield you.And your lightning…won’t reach me.”
Oswald lifts the youngblood championship from the table, the gold gleaming under the lights
OSWALD (cold as winter):“Because you’re the storm.And I… am the eye that watches it die.”
The chant rises again as he leaves the podium, Lira at his side like a shadow with wings.
The restaurant is tucked underground, its stone walls lit by amber lanterns. A quiet violin plays in the corner. Only a few tables are occupied; the rest fade into shadow.
Oswald sits with perfect posture, coat draped over the back of his chair, gloves folded neatly beside his plate.
Lira sits across from him, chin resting on her knuckles, eyes shimmering with faint luminescence as she studies him.
The waiter sets down their plates.
Oswald nods politely.
Lira doesn’t look away from him.
LIRA:“You’re hard to read, Oswald Knight. But not in the way mortals usually are.”
OSWALD (dry):“So I’ve been told.”
Lira tilts her head, blinking slowly, like an owl analysing prey.Her voice, soft as snowfall.
LIRA:“May I ask you something personal?”
Oswald pauses his cutting motion, knife resting perfectly beside a slice of roasted duck.
OSWALD:“You may. Whether I answer depends on the question.”
She smiles — a faerie smile, honest but edged with mischief.
LIRA:“You never respond to touch.Or flirtation.Or the little signals mortals leak without meaning to.”
Oswald resumes cutting, unbothered.
LIRA (gentle curiosity):“You’re… asexual, aren’t you?”
The candlelight flickers across Oswald’s face, catching the faintest trace of frost-blue shimmer beneath his skin — that subtle fae-touched trait he’s begun developing.
He sets his utensils down with surgical precision.
OSWALD (calm, matter-of-fact):“Yes. I am.”
Lira’s eyes brighten — not in judgement, but in understanding.
LIRA:“I suspected. Fae sense attraction like humans sense weather. Yours is… different.Still, you’re not cold.Just… separate.”
OSWALD (shrugs slightly):“I have desires — but not those.Connection interests me.Control interests me.People interest me.Bodies? They’re irrelevant.”
Lira leans forward, resting her elbows on the table.
LIRA:“Is it difficult? When the world insists that lust equals power?”
Oswald took a moment to laugh softly — a rare, unguarded sound.
OSWALD:“I find it freeing. Others waste their time chasing primitive urges.I chase something far more valuable. Results.”
Lira’s fingers tap the rim of her glass, thoughtful.
LIRA:“Then the stories they whisper about us — The Gentleman Penguin and the Faerie Shadow — they’re all wrong.”
OSWALD:“Stories usually are.”
She studies him, eyes glowing faintly brighter — magic reacting to sincerity.
LIRA (soft):“I’m glad you told me.It means your trust in me is real… not glamoured, not coerced.”
Oswald lifts his wine glass — a gesture mimicking humans rather than desiring it.
OSWALD:“Trust is rare.That’s why I rarely allow trust to form.”
Lira smiles — something genuine, fragile in a way fae rarely show.
LIRA:“Good. Because you have my trust too.”
The violin swells in the background.
The candle flickers.
Between them sits no tension, no unspoken expectation — just a bond forged in strategy, magic, and mutual respect.
A partnership built not on primitive seduction, but on understanding.
OSWALD (quiet, almost fond):“In a world of predators, it’s refreshing to meet someone who hunts differently.”
Lira’s grin is sharp and faerie-bright.
LIRA:“And in a world of far too many liars, refreshing to meet someone who sins honestly.”
Their glasses clink —not romantically,but in perfect, deliberate accord.
The courtyard behind Marchand’s estate is lined with smooth stone, torchlight flickering across the open space. Several of Marchand’s men are training under the eye of a drill captain — hand-to-hand drills, takedown practice, and silent-footwork rehearsals.
Oswald stands at the edge of the courtyard, gloved hands behind his back, coat swaying lightly in the cold breeze.
Lira stands beside him, arms folded, observing the drills with faerie stillness.
Marchand approaches them briefly, murmuring instructions before stepping away.For a moment, Oswald and Lira are alone.
That is when it happens.
A young guard — Thierry — approaches, nervous but trying to mask it with forced bravado. He carries a clipboard and a lopsided grin.
THIERRY:“Uh—Mr. Knight, Lira—sorry to interrupt. I didn’t mean to get in the way of your… date.”
Lira’s head turns slowly.
Oswald’s eyebrow lifts — one inch.
Thierry doesn’t notice the temperature shift in the air or the faint shimmer in Lira’s pupils.
He keeps talking.
THIERRY (awkward chuckle):“I mean—hey, it’s nice the two of you have something going on. Didn’t think someone like you, sir, would land someone like her—”
LIRA (calm, eerie):“Someone like him?”
Thierry freezes mid-step.
Lira’s voice hasn’t risen, but the magic behind it sharpens the air.
THIERRY:“I—sorry, I meant—uh—he’s impressive, but—look, it’s obvious you’re together—”
Lira steps forward once.
Just once.
The torches flicker violently.
Shadows pool under her feet like ink.
OSWALD (quiet, dangerous):“Thierry.”
Thierry snaps to attention — relief flooding his expression.
THIERRY:“Yes, sir—?”
OSWALD:“I am asexual.”
The words are delivered precisely, clipped, matter-of-factly.
Thierry blinks.
THIERRY:“A—sorry? I don’t—”
LIRA (voice drops to a melodic whisper):“He does not desire me.He does not desire anyone.His mind is a blade, not a heart.”
Lira circles Thierry like a predator circling prey — slow, deliberate, each step leaving faint ripples of frost on the stone.
Thierry swallows hard. His heart racing
LIRA (smile too sharp for comfort):“And I am not his lover.I am his shadow.His compass.His second.”
She leans in close enough that her breath brushes his ear, warm and cold at once.
LIRA:“You would know if I claimed him.”
Thierry’s knees nearly buckle.
Oswald steps forward next — not touching, not threatening overtly, simply arriving.His presence alone turns the air colder, harder
OSWALD:“Thierry. Listen carefully.”
Thierry snaps his heels together.
OSWALD:“Lira is not an ornament.She is not property.She is not a lover.She is a weapon.”
Lira’s eyes gleam with wicked pride.
OSWALD (cold as frost):“And unlike me… her temper is not regulated.”
Thierry’s mouth opens, closes, opens again.
THIERRY:“S–sir—ma’am—I apologise—deeply—completely—I meant no offence—”
Lira flicks her fingers.
A gust of magic sweeps over Thierry — knocking him backward into the dirt without touching him.
He gasps, struggling for breath that refuses to come for several agonising seconds. When the spell ends, he collapses on his hands and knees, trembling.
Lira steps beside Oswald again, serene.
LIRA:“Correction has been delivered.”
Oswald nods once, lightly tapping his cane.
OSWALD:“See that it stays delivered.”
Thierry scrambles away, leaving a trail of dust and apologies.
Lira looks up at Oswald, eyes softening.
LIRA:“People will misunderstand us often.”
OSWALD:“Let them. Your response was… sufficient.”
Lira grins — wicked, bright, faerie.
LIRA:“I thought so.”
They stand together in cool silence — the Gentleman Penguin and the Faerie Shadow — bound not by romance, but by something far more dangerous: unbreakable alliance.
Moonlight pours through the glass ceiling like liquid silver. The flowers shift with fae magic, opening and closing as if breathing. Torches burn with blue flames.
Dozens of Marchand’s most loyal men assemble in a semicircle.
The air is thick with anticipation.
Oswald stands at the center, coat immaculate, gloves pristine, posture perfect.
Lira stands at his right — steady, serene, eyes glowing faintly with fae light.
At the far end of the room, Alain Marchand steps forward, leaning on his polished cane.
MARCHAND (loud enough for all to hear):“For years, I have ruled Montreal’s shadows.Patiently. Purposefully.But my time is ending.”
Murmurs ripple.
Oswald remains perfectly still.
MARCHAND:“Empires fall when their rulers cling too tightly.So I will not cling to my empire.”
Marchand turns to look upon Oswald
MARCHAND:“This man…this strategist…this storm dressed in manners…He has outgrown being my protégé.He is the future of the Marchand Syndicate.”
The room freezes.
Eyes turn to Lira — the blood heir.
She smiles softly.
Lira steps forward, taking her place beside Oswald.
LIRA (clear, unwavering):“I am fae-born.I am Marchand blood.But I am not the ruler this empire needs.”
Her voice tingles with supernatural resonance.
LIRA:“I do not want the throne.I do not want the ring.And I will never betray the man who earned both.”
She places a hand over her heart, bowing lightly toward Oswald.
LIRA:“My loyalty is sworn — to him, and with him.”
Gasps.
Whispers
No one dares to speak
Marchand removes the heavy onyx-and-silver signet ring from his right hand — the symbol of his power.The symbol feared across Montreal.
He holds it for a long moment… then offers it to Oswald.
MARCHAND (quiet, reverent):“Oswald Knight —The Gentleman Penguin —I name you my successor.Ruler of my empire.Master of shadow and frost.”
Oswald accepts the ring, sliding it onto his gloved finger.
The torch flames flicker violently, as if recognizing a new king.
Oswald steps forward, ring glinting black under moonlight.
His voice is calm, elegant, deadly, bordering on musical
OSWALD:“I accept this throne not for glory… not for legacy…but because I am the only man who sees the truth.”
He looks across the room — and every man flinches.
OSWALD:“Heroes lie to you.Villains lie to you.Even chaos lies to you.”
He taps his cane lightly on the stone.
OSWALD:“But I do not.I am your king because I earned it.Not by birthright.Not by blood.But by ice, strategy, and inevitability.”
Oswald raises his chin defiantly. Daring anyone to challenge him
OSWALD:“And to those who doubt…pray your doubts die before you do.”
The room falls into an eerie silence
Lira’s lips curl in a proud, almost dangerous smile.
A cold wind sweeps the conservatory.
The blue torches stretch upward, sparking with magic.
A ring of moon-silver mist forms.
From it emerges a tall, impossibly beautiful woman: pale skin, hair like shimmering green-black water, eyes blazing gold. Wearing a crown of thorned flowers and silver vines.
FAERIE QUEEN:“My daughter chooses her allegiance well.”
She approaches Oswald — a being of old magic meeting a man who defies the rules of both worlds.
FAERIE QUEEN:“You wear power like ice wears winter. Calm. Determined. Dangerous. Elegant”
She bows her head — only slightly, but enough to shock her entire court.
FAERIE QUEEN:“The Eastern Court recognises Oswald Knight as ruler of the Marchand Empire. And offers… alliance.”
Lira steps beside Oswald, placing a hand on his arm.
LIRA:“Mother chooses wisely.”
Oswald inclines his head — respectful, never subservient.
OSWALD:“Then let it be known:This empire lives under my rule.And under my rule, shadows answer not to fear…but to precision.”
The Queen smiles — razor sharp.
FAERIE QUEEN:“Then let the mortal world tremble.”
The torches flare white. The room bows.Lira stands proud at Oswald’s side.
Oswald, wearing the black ring, stands taller than ever before.
Oswald Knight now rules the Marchand Empire.
Lira is his fae second-in-command.
The Faerie Courts stand beside him.
And Montreal has gained a king forged of intellect, ice, and impossible alliances.