The doorbell chimed, a sharp, unfamiliar sound in the quiet of the evening. Foster in casual clothes, who had been staring blankly at a police report, started. Ortego was at a friend's house. No one ever visited.
He opened the door to find a courier in the crisp, grey and gold livery of The Aethelstan Club & Social Foundation.
The man wordlessly handed him a thick, cream-colored envelope. Foster's heart hammered against his ribs as he took it. The courier tipped his hat and departed into the twilight.
Hands trembling slightly, Foster tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of that same heavy, expensive paper.
The Aethelstan Club & Social Foundation
MEMBERSHIP SERVICES
Dear Mr. Ambrose,
This is to formally notify you that The Oxford Club has met the minimum membership requirement. Your club is now active and may schedule meetings at the reception desk.
We look forward to serving you.
It was done. The impossible had happened.
He had members. But who? The questions screamed in his mind. He had to get to the club, to see the ledger, even though they were going to be aliases.
—
Earlier That Day...
9:17 AM - The Neurosurgeon
Grayson Wolfe adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses as he strode into the serene quiet of The Aethelstan Club & Social Foundation.
His morning had been spent directing a complex seven-hour surgery, and the club's hushed atmosphere was his preferred decompression chamber.
As a senior member of the High Ancient Mandate, his presence here was both routine and ritual.
At the reception desk, he nodded to the secretary.
"The club registry, if you please." he said, his voice calm and measured. He regularly reviewed it, a habit of a man who believed in understanding the entire ecosystem, not just his corner of it.
He flipped through the pages, his eyes skimming past "The Sons of the Deep" and "The Meridian Guild." Then he stopped.
A new entry. The Oxford Club. His gaze dropped to the founder's alias. The Lonely Saviour.
A faint, intrigued frown touched his features. It was melodramatic, yet poignant.
In a world of clubs named for power and antiquity, this one spoke of isolation and a self-appointed purpose.
It was an anomaly.
And Grayson Wolfe, a man whose life was built on understanding complex systems, had a professional and personal aversion to anomalies. He needed to understand its composition.
"I wish to register for this club." he told the secretary, indicating the entry.
"Of course, Dr. Wolfe. Your alias for this affiliation?"
He would not use "The Staff of Order" here, that identity belonged to the H.A.M. He required a new mask for this new venture.
"The Anchor."
He said, the word coming to him with sudden certainty. A stabilizing force. A thing that holds fast in a storm.
He provided his identification, had his real name—Grayson Wolfe, recorded in the official book, and paid a ten-dollar membership fee without a second thought. He left, his motivation a blend of intellectual curiosity and strategic oversight.
—
1:30 PM - The Girl with Flame in Her Hair
Mia West laughed as Chester and Biscuit, her two dogs, raced ahead of her, their leads nearly pulling her off her feet.
The community park was alive with butterflies, and she swung on the swing set, her ginger hair flying, her orange-flame eyes filled with simple joy.
The world was a beautiful, exciting place.
The world, however, was also unpredictable. The swing chain jolted, and she tumbled backward, landing with a soft thud on the grass, her head spinning. Dizzy, she sat up, laughing at her own clumsiness.
"Oh, for Heaven's sake..."
But her dogs did not come to lick her face. They stood rigid, staring into the trees bordering the park, a low growl rumbling in Biscuit's throat. Then, as if summoned by a silent whistle, they bolted.
"Biscuit! Chester! No!"
She scrambled to her feet and gave chase, her overflowing white gown whipping around her legs. The two dogs were impossibly fast, a blur of fur and determination, leading her on a frantic chase down streets and over a small, ornate bridge she'd never crossed before.
They scooted through the grand, slightly-ajar door of a magnificent marble building before she could catch them.
Panting, she burst in after them, into a foyer of such quiet opulence it stole her breath. A stern-looking secretary was already standing, about to call for security as the two dogs sniffed around the legs of an antique table.
"I am so, so sorry!" Mia gasped, rushing forward and fastening their leashes with trembling fingers.
As she did, she looked around, amazed.
Groups of people were clustered in different sections of the vast room, some dressed as laborers, others in what looked like royal robes, all murmuring in intense, secretive conversations. It was a masquerade without masks.
The secretary, initially disdainful, took in Mia's gown and her genuine, guileless amazement. The girl was clearly gullible, but also clearly not poor. The Foundation could make money from her.
"What is this place?" Mia asked, her voice full of wonder.
"This is The Aethelstan Club & Social Foundation," the secretary explained, her tone softening into a sales pitch.
"A venue for private clubs. People from all walks of life come here to discuss shared interests... discreetly."
She enticed Mia with the idea of joining a club, and when presenting the options, the newly formed Oxford Club seemed the most neutral, the safest for a "gullible teenager."
When asked for an alias, Mia blinked.
"Why would I use a fake name? My name is Mia West."
A brief, trivial argument ensued, but Mia, with the unshakeable confidence of youth, refused. The secretary, displeased but pragmatic, left the alias space blank and recorded her real name—Mia West, in the official book after checking her identification.
Mia paid her ten dollars, utterly captivated by the mystery of it all.
—
4:55 PM - The Bardic Son
Jacob Benson sighed, the sound swallowed by the velvet drapes of his father's library. The walls of the Benson estate felt more like a cage each day.
His assistant and royal guard, Alexander, stood by the door, a silent statue of disapproval.
"Father and Castillo are at the parliament until eight," Jacob said, his speech laced with the archaic cadence of his lineage.
"The ruse of the salvation army will suffice. I must go to the Foundation."
"Milord, the risk—" Alexander began.
"Is a currency I am willing to spend." Jacob finished, a line from one of his own poems. He needed the intellectual stimulation, the escape he found at the Sons of the Deep meetings.
An hour later, freshly escaped, he was walking through the Aethelstan's foyer, feeling the familiar thrill of being incognito. His moment of peace was shattered when a man in gold-rimmed glasses bumped into him, sending a tray of coffee crashing and splattering Jacob's expensive shirt.
Alexander stepped forward, his hand twitching, but Jacob held up a hand. "Peace, Alexander. It was an accident."
The man, Grayson, was impeccably polite, offering reimbursement.
Jacob, seeing an opportunity for a petty, poetic rebellion, waved away the offer for the shirt.
"Instead," he said, a mischievous glint in his eye, "pay my membership fee for a new club."
Grayson, amused by the odd request, agreed without fuss and paid the ten dollars at the desk before departing. Once he was gone, Jacob asked for the club registry.
His eyes, accustomed to scanning verses for meaning, fell upon The Oxford Club.
It was new. Unexplored. A blank page.
Perfect.
He chose an alias that wouldn't conflict with his role as The Seahorse in the Sons of The Deep Club: "The Quill."
He gave a fake name to the secretary, but was taken aback when she asked for identification. With a resigned sigh, he provided his real one.
The secretary's eyes widened in panic and surprise as she read Jacob Benson—the son of the noble, Joseph Benson.
Because why would the son of a noble be in a place like this? It could lead to unforseen situations and occurrences which may very well be chaotic and could get the place involved in political rivalry, battles or worse—exposed.
Alexander leaned forward behind Jacob, placing a single, slow index finger to his lips. The gesture was a promise of silence, and a threat.
The secretary, pale, calmly recorded the name.
—
Evening
Foster stood in the hallway of his apartment in his casual clothes, the official letter clutched in his hand.
The Oxford Club was no longer a fantasy. It was real. He had members.
He knew none of them. He had no idea why they had joined.
One was a curious intellectual, one a spirited innocent, and one a rebellious noble. A neurosurgeon, a young heiress, and a bard.
It was a chaotic, impossible foundation.
But it was a foundation nonetheless. The Lonely Saviour was no longer alone.
The game was no longer just about survival. It was about building something. And as he looked out at the darkening city, Foster Ambrose knew, with a chilling and exhilarating certainty, that nothing would ever be the same again.