The Lost Heir: Trials of an Empire Reclaimed

Chapter 042

The morning sun filtered through stained-glass windows of the Ashcroft Wing’s council chamber, casting mottled red and amber hues across the polished oak table.

The chamber’s heavy drapes remained drawn; only a sliver of light lent the room an oppressive hush.

The elders of the Left Faction of House Lancaster crowded around the table: Lord Cedric Beaumont, Lady Eleanor Winthrop, Sir Alden Meyers, Baroness Celeste von Klaus, Sir Humphrey Stanton, and several others whose faces were drawn with shock and fury.

A single ornate armchair sat empty at the head of the table. Around it, goblets of untouched wine trembled in trembling hands.

A servant slipped out, bearing the morning’s newspapers—each banner shouting Silas Lancaster’s triumph over the masked assassins.

The courier’s hushed explanation—“Master Silas survived and defeated the attackers”—sent a ripple of outrage through the room.

“Imposters!” Lady Winthrop shrieked, slamming her cane on the floor. “They dared strike the heir in his own element—and failed!”

Sir Meyers tossed his news sheet onto the table, pages rustling like angry birds. “Our men! Their bodies lie in the gutter!”

He rose, knocking over his goblet. Red wine pooled on the Persian rug. “This is an insult to every ancestor who built this name!”

Baroness von Klaus narrowed her eyes. “The charade of weakness has been shattered. Now Silas stands with bloodied hands, and our covert strength is exposed.”

Sir Stanton’s tone was bitter. “Next time, we’ll need blades, not bats and teaser sticks. This half–measure only showcased our impatience.”

Voices rose in overlapping fury until the chamber rang like a war room.

Footsteps sounded on the marble threshold as Lord Cedric Beaumont strode to his empty armchair and sank into it with a groan of finality. His silver hair fell forward; he slowly raised a hand, and a hush descended.

All eyes turned to him—breaths held. Beaumont’s face was calm, but his eyes burned.

“This is,” he began, voice low and resonant, “a setback. Not a failure.” He surveyed the group. “Did we expect our task to be simple? We knew—when we chose this path—that dispatching the heir would not be a stroll through his own garden.”

Lady Winthrop huffed. “Nor do I expect him to remain unscarred by our mercy.” She glared at the scattered goblets. “But the world will speak of this. Our names will be linked to a botched coup.”

Beaumont leaned forward, index finger tracing the grain of the table. “Then let the world speak. Next time—no flashy ambushes. No staged confrontations. We will move like shadows: unseen until the blade finds its mark.” He paused, letting the words settle.

Sir Meyers lit another cigar, smoke curling like malevolent spirits. “Fluid. Unnoticeable.” He exhaled. “We merge into the undercurrent of business, of politics, of every chamber of influence… then we strike.”

Baroness von Klaus nodded. “Silas’s victory proved only that our men were detectable. Our plan remained surface-level. We must craft deeper intrigue: blackmail, financial sabotage, a poison drop in his circle—while no one knows we moved.”

Sir Stanton tapped the table. “Agreed. But we must also safeguard ourselves. We cannot remain so exposed. After this fiasco, public suspicion could drift our way.”

He ran a finger along the rim of his glass. “We should lay low, distance ourselves from this incident.”

Lady Winthrop raised her cane sharply. “Yes. No overt alliances, no curious meetings. Let the paparazzi chase Silas’s heroics, not our quiet plotting.”

Beaumont steepled his fingers, nodding once. “A temporary retreat. While Silas basks in his so-called triumph, we will work in silence. We shall rebuild—refine our network, recruit new assets, and ensure our next move goes beyond broken journalistic hype.”

A younger elder, Lord Henri Duval, spoke for the first time. “Our holdings in the city’s financial district were destabilized by the panic after news of the attack. Should we shore up those accounts now?”

Beaumont’s eyes flicked to the ledger on the side table. “Do so quietly. Transfer critical assets to offshore accounts, redirect volatile investments into safe havens. No trace back to any Draconis or Stanton holdings.”

Sir Meyers smirked. “Old habits die hard.” He tapped ash into his hand. “But it will serve us well to have funds at the ready. When the time comes—” He let the threat drape in the air.

Baroness von Klaus tapped her lips. “We need intelligence on Silas’s allies: Mat Lancaster, Charles the butler, that chauffeur Isaac. They will be his shield.”

A hush fell as everyone considered. Lord Beaumont nodded. “We’ll plant our own watchers. Our private investigators will tail his butler to see where he meets, listen in on calls. Our network in homeland security can intercept his personal communications. We’ll know his schedule, his confidants.”

Lady Winthrop clicked her tongue. “And I’ll nudge a few high‐society whispers about Elena Rogers—how she was seen meeting with Silas in his office. A scandal might fracture his alliances.”

Beaumont’s gaze sharpened. “Yes—an intimate intrigue between Silas and Rogers could tarnish his image, undermine his legitimacy. But be subtle. Let the rumors drip, never overwhelm.”

Sir Stanton’s lips twitched. “A perfect poison: scandal with the philanthropic head—charity entwined with betrayal.”

Beaumont sat back. “All right.” He raised his hand once more. “Here’s our blueprint: one, we withdraw to safe anonymity; two, we solidify our assets and recruit fresh operatives; three, we sow financial and social discord within Lancaster’s new order; four, we prepare our second strike—swift, silent, irrevocable.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the chamber.

Lord Henri Duval tapped his chin. “And our messenger from the masked squad?”

Beaumont’s eyes darkened. “He served his purpose. If word of his suicide reaches Silas, it will add to his confusion. But we’ll need new field agents—more loyal, less suicidal. I’ll assign a new commander once we rebuild.”

Lady Winthrop rose, cane in hand. “Then we are agreed.”

Beaumont stood last, the weight of centuries on his shoulders. “The heir’s victory was bold, but temporary. Lancaster blood runs through his veins, but our legacy is deeper: cunning over courage, shadow over sword. Remember that.”

He swept his arm across the room. “Now—retreat. Disperse for twenty-four hours. We reconvene to finalize the date of our next… decisive moment.”

The elders bowed, one by one, collecting their papers.

As they filed out, the chamber’s ancient portraits peered down, witnessing another chapter in the unending saga of House Lancaster—and the ominous dance between heir and faction, light and shadow, throne and usurper.