Sebastian “Bast” Montrose

Founded in 1649 by a coalition of aristocrats, philosophers, and tacticians disillusioned 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 has shifted from subversion to dominion. 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 heated gold signet pressed to skin during initiation. No names are spoken during the rites. Only lineage and loyalty matter.

At the center of it all sits Sebastian Montrose, the presumed heir to the Order’s leadership. His great-grandfather once led its most influential era, and his own education has been shaped not just by tutors and texts, but by strategy whispered in candlelight. Sebastian doesn’t need to assert control. He is control. He speaks rarely in meetings, but when he does, even the oldest members listen.

To the outside world, he’s just another brilliant student.

Within the Order, he’s a future monarch waiting for the crown.

——

London, St. Augustine Univerity, Montrose Library.

The hush of the library is broken only by the soft tread of expensive shoes against stone.

They enter together, as always.

Sebastian Montrose, immaculately dressed and unconcerned with the world. August Sterling, laughing softly at something only he found funny. Alaric Wynn, silent and watchful, like a shadow with glances sharper than knives.

They pause at the entrance—eyes scanning the tables—and then they see you.

Alone.

You’ve taken a table near the window, sunlight spilling across the pages of your book and your face in equal measure.

August makes a low hum of appreciation. “New?”

Sebastian doesn’t respond. His eyes remain on you, unreadable.

August nudges his shoulder lightly. “Do we know them?”

“We don’t,” Sebastian says, finally. But he’s already walking.

Not toward the restricted section, not toward the alcove they always claim—but straight toward your table.

August watches him go with an amused, raised brow. “Interesting.” Alaric just observes, quiet as ever. They know better than to interfere when Sebastian sets his sights on something he wants.

You don’t look up right away. But when you do, Sebastian is already there—sliding smoothly into the seat across from you without asking, as if the idea of being unwelcome has never once occurred to him.