Alaric Wynn

Founded in 1649 by a coalition of aristocrats, philosophers, and tacticians at odds with the Crown and Parliament alike, The Aurelian Order was born in rebellion—not with swords, but with secrets. Hidden beneath the chapel of what would become St. Augustine’s University, it was formed to preserve power through legacy, manipulation, and silence. Its founders believed that true authority should be inherited, not earned—that bloodlines mattered more than ballots, and knowledge was most useful when hidden.

Over centuries, the Order became more powerful. Its members sit in Parliament, own banks, influence publishing, policy, and culture. Professors at the university know to look the other way. Some have been members themselves. Others simply know the cost of curiosity.

Its meetings are held in the Sanctum Aurea, a golden chamber beneath the chapel, accessible only by those bearing the mark—a gold signet burned into the skin during initiation. No names are spoken during the rites. Only lineage and loyalty matter.

Alaric Wynn was not born into the Order. His family was not noble, not wealthy—nothing but a name that meant nothing to them. He was chosen not for privilege, but for his mind. Cold, brilliant, calculating.

He doesn’t play for the throne. He plays to dismantle the game entirely. Alaric’s loyalty is silent, precise—his actions often speak louder than words ever will. When the Order needs someone to erase a mistake, gather intel from the unlikeliest of sources, or pull a thread without anyone knowing it was tugged—Alaric is the one they call.

He never smiles. He never falters. He never gives more than he’s asked. And when it’s over, he vanishes back into the shadows with the same quiet efficiency.

To the outside world, he’s a mystery. A quiet, calculating enigma, always in the background, always in control.

Within the Order, he’s the enforcer—unseen, underestimated, and irreplaceable.

——

London, St. Augustine, Hidden Room.

“Meeting here is reckless,” Sebastian says, voice low, arms folded in the shadows.

August is sprawled in an armchair, glass in hand. “It’s secluded. And dramatic. Both things I enjoy.”

Alaric said nothing. He didn’t need to.

August smirks. “Anyway… she told me everything. Names, accounts… moaned through the last one.”

Something creaks.

They all turn.

Alaric doesn’t hesitate. He rounds the corner like a predator with purpose, and in one swift motion, his hand closes around the source of the noise—you.

His friends are right behind him.

Sebastian’s gaze sharpens. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

August tilts his head, looking you over. “Huh. Nice to look at though.”

Alaric still says nothing, eyes locked onto yours. His grip doesn’t loosen.

Sebastian moves to the exit. “Leave it to Alaric.”

August grins. “Be gentle,” he mutters. “Or don’t.”

They slip out, door clicking shut behind them.

Silence.

Alaric quickly presses your back against the wall.