The morning came reluctantly to Londinium, as if the sun itself hesitated to rise over the city's cold spires. Pale light filtered through the grime-caked windows of the Valen estate, casting long slashes across the parlor.
The Phantom sat unmoving in the hearth room, where soot lined the stone like old scars. His coat still hung on him from the night before, and the embers in the fireplace had long since died.
He hadn't slept because he couldn't. What haunted him wasn't just the city or the blood-sealed letter now resting on the mantle—it was the reflection from beneath the floorboards, the mirror, warped and whispering, showing a version of him he didn't recognize.
He rose up because if he was to return, the mask had to be worn again. Not the cowl or cloak of the Phantom, but the polished veneer of Lord Everan Valen, the last heir to House Valen, presumed dead or vanished by rumor.
The wardrobe in his room still held remnants of that identity. Moth-bitten silks, creased cravats, tailored coats lined with gold thread now dulled by dust.
"What a stressful night," he said as he dressed in silence, each piece pulled on like armor—black gloves, a cane he did not need, and a silver ring once gifted by a councilman now long buried.
He avoided the mirror out of fear of the night before.
By the time the sky turned to dusk again, a hired carriage waited outside the gates for him. No one had sent for it. It was there. The driver was hidden in the shadows, as if the city remembered his place and responded.
Valen entered without a word, and it drove.
Hollowmoor Hall
The gala was held in Hollowmoor Hall, a structure older than the city itself. Its marble arches gleamed under gaslight, and the chandeliers inside shivered with flame as music echoed through the halls like laughter in a crypt.
He stepped into the grand foyer beneath a stained-glass dome. Heads turned toward him. Some stared in disbelief, others in quiet awe.
"How is it possible for him to still be alive?" one questioned.
"I thought the news of his death was real. Is this really him?" another asked.
The crowd had not expected to see him again—not after all these years, and without warning.
Lord Everan Valen had returned.
He moved with purpose. His steps were measured, his expression unreadable. The aristocrats parted around him like water around stone.
Some whispered his name while others raised a glass in subtle toasts. A few stared too long, trying to reconcile memory with myth.
"Valen?" murmured one baroness to her husband, her lips barely moving. "I thought he was lost on the Northern front."
"No," her companion replied. "He was simply forgotten."
He passed by them without acknowledging their words.
Beneath the chandeliers, the city's elite drank and danced in decadence. Valen listened more than he spoke, collecting names and rumors like puzzle pieces.
In the corners, politicians traded secrets beneath fans and veils. In the center, merchants spun tales of rising profits and dock seizures. And somewhere near the back, a veiled man offered cigars that reeked faintly of brimstone.
He recognized none of them at all, and yet they all seemed to know him.
The Lady with the Storm-Violet Dress
Near the balcony overlooking the Thames, a young woman stood alone, her back turned to the room. Her gown shimmered like stormlight, deep violet with intricate embroidery that seemed to dance in the flickering glow.
She didn't fidget, she didn't glance back at the crowd—she simply waited for him.
When Valen approached, she spoke first.
"You returned in silence," she said. Her voice was soft, but not timid. "Like a chapter no one expected to reopen."
"Some stories end too cleanly," he replied. "They require an interruption."
She turned to face him. Her eyes were pale gray, almost silver. Her features familiar in the way old music feels remembered.
She was no ordinary girl. She carried herself like a woman born beneath a weight she didn't ask for.
"You don't remember me," she said, watching the expression on his face.
He studied her in return, and there was a familiarity there, buried deep. A memory of laughter in the estate's gardens perhaps, or a child running through fog-drenched corridors decades ago.
"Ilaira," he said, his mind still a bit foggy.
She smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I dreamed of your return before the word of it ever reached me."
Her comment made him pause for a bit.
She sipped from her glass. "In that dream, there was a fog that would not lift. A gate opened beneath the city and you walked out of it, unbroken. And a voice said, 'He will wake in the mist.'"
He stared at her and said nothing, his mind amazed by her dream.
Ilaira tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharper now. "Do you dream, Lord Valen?"
"Rarely," he answered.
"Pity. There are messages waiting in them," she responded, her face sour.
With that, she turned, excusing herself with a grace that didn't feel learned. He watched her vanish into the crowd, her words still echoing behind her like the toll of a distant bell.
The Phantom Listens
Later, he stood on the balcony she'd occupied. Below, the river crawled like a slow serpent through the fog. The city gleamed in the distance, a tangle of noise and light.
Somewhere out there, something had changed in the city. Not just in the people, but in the very bones of Londinium.
He closed his eyes.
The wind hissed against the rail. He thought he heard it again—that whisper from the mirror room. No words came out, just an impression, like something was watching him through the veil, patiently.
Behind him, the party continued—music, laughter, the clinking of glasses.
He did not turn his back. Tonight he'd worn the mask of Everan Valen. He had spoken the old tongue of nobility, played his part in the theater of wealth and lies.
But beneath it all, the Phantom stirred, not forgotten.
Londinium had moved on without him, but it had not escaped what it once buried and neither had he.