The Howlett estate had settled into an uneasy quiet, but James Howlett knew better than to mistake peace for safety. The weight of his family's legacy pressed down on him as he studied the reports on his grandfather's desk. The Governor had made his move, attempting to tie the Howlett name to his own through a marriage proposal. That alone had been enough to rattle James—but what concerned him more was the deeper game at play. Governor Kevin Smith was not a man who made offers without ensuring he controlled all possible outcomes.
That night, long after the household had gone to bed, James left the estate, his boots silent against the frost-covered ground. The cold Canadian air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. He had business in Yellowknife, and it would not wait until morning.
The Governor's mansion stood at the heart of the city, an ostentatious display of wealth and power. Guards patrolled the high iron gates, their rifles glinting in the moonlight. But James had no intention of walking through the front doors. He moved like a shadow through the outer perimeter, slipping past the patrols with ease. His years of hunting in the wilderness had honed his senses—every breath of wind, every distant footstep, every shifting branch told him where to step and when to stop.
Scaling the outer wall was effortless. He found himself on the upper balconies, where the wind rattled the glass panes of the grand windows. Inside, the Governor's quarters were dark and silent, save for the flickering light of a dying fireplace. James tested the handle. Unlocked.
Too easy.
He stepped inside, the warmth of the room a stark contrast to the cold night. The scent of burning wood mingled with the heavy aroma of rich tobacco. The Governor, sprawled across his massive bed, was in deep slumber, his breath heavy with the remnants of brandy. A woman lay beside him, her form barely visible beneath the tangled sheets.
James exhaled slowly. He hadn't come to kill Smith—yet.
"Ahem."
His voice broke the silence, low but firm.
The Governor stirred slightly, muttering something unintelligible before turning onto his side. James rolled his eyes.
"Ahem!" he repeated, louder this time.
Smith jolted awake as if struck by lightning, his eyes snapping open. Confusion turned to terror as he registered the tall figure standing at the foot of his bed.
"Who—what—?! Guards! Guards!" His voice cracked as he scrambled upright, reaching for a pistol on the nightstand.
James moved first. In a blink, he was across the room, knocking the weapon away with a sharp flick of his hand. His fingers closed around the Governor's collar, yanking him forward.
"Quiet," James said, his tone calm but edged with unmistakable authority. "We're going to have a conversation."
The woman beside Smith awoke with a start, eyes wide with terror. She let out a shriek, clutching at the sheets to cover herself. James sighed, already irritated. He turned and, with a swift but controlled motion, tapped the side of her head. The touch was gentle—more of a calculated pressure point than a strike—but it was enough. She slumped back onto the pillows, unconscious.
Smith wheezed, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. "What... what do you want?"
James tightened his grip, lifting the man slightly off the bed.
"Let's start with introductions," he said coolly. "James Howlett. You know, the man whose hand you tried to force in marriage negotiations."
Smith's pupils dilated as he struggled against James's hold, but he quickly realized it was futile. The younger man's grip was like iron.
"I don't—" Smith stammered. "I only suggested—"
James cut him off. "You don't get to play dumb. You tried to sink your claws into my family. That was your mistake. The only reason you're still breathing is because I need you to send a message—to whoever put you up to this."
Smith gulped, his face paling further.
James leaned in, lowering his voice. "If you make another move against the Howletts, if you so much as think of meddling in our affairs again, you'll wish we were only discussing marriage arrangements."
With that, he released the Governor, who collapsed onto the bed in a heap, gasping for air.
James didn't wait for a reply. He turned, stepping back toward the window. As he placed a foot on the ledge, he cast one last glance over his shoulder.
"Sleep well, Your Excellency."
And then, he was gone.
---
The Days That Followed
By the time James returned to the Howlett estate, the first hints of dawn were touching the sky. He walked into the manor as if nothing had happened, greeting the servants as he always did. He had breakfast with his grandfather, who eyed him with quiet curiosity but said nothing.
Three days later, the news broke.
Governor Smith was dead.
The official story was food poisoning—an unfortunate tragedy, claiming both the Governor and his niece. The details were hazy, and the Governor's mansion remained suspiciously quiet on the matter. Some whispered rumors painted a more humiliating end—his body found in a compromising position, a scandal buried before it could reach the wider public.
The British Crown sent investigators, but they uncovered nothing. No signs of forced entry. No evidence of foul play. The case, despite its political weight, went cold within weeks.
At the Howlett estate, Mr. Howlett listened to the news in silence, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, it was only to remark that he suddenly felt much better. His appetite returned, and the weight on his shoulders seemed to lift.
James merely nodded, saying nothing.
Wayne, the old butler, couldn't shake a strange feeling of unease. The way James had spoken that night—the certainty in his voice—lingered in the back of his mind. Had it truly been a coincidence?
But no one dared to ask.
---
The Future of the Howlett Estate
With his grandfather recovering, James took on more responsibilities. He managed estate affairs with efficiency, earning the respect of the household staff and tenants alike. The Howlett name was secure—for now.
But James had his own concerns.
His body was changing. His strength, already formidable, had grown beyond anything he had ever known. Wounds that should have taken weeks to heal vanished in hours. His senses sharpened—he could hear a whisper across the manor grounds, smell the iron tang of blood long before he saw it.
Late at night, he trained in secret. The forests surrounding the estate became his battleground as he pushed himself to his limits, testing the boundaries of his abilities.
It wasn't enough.
He needed more. Stronger challenges. Greater resistance. His instincts screamed at him, demanding more.
And so, in the quiet of his study, James began making plans. Sketching designs. He sent O'Hara to fetch records of blacksmiths and engineers.
"Master, what are you drawing?" she asked curiously one afternoon, peering over his shoulder.
"Something useful," he replied simply.
She tilted her head. "It looks like medieval armor... and this big sphere?"
James smirked slightly. "Tools, O'Hara. Just tools."
She gave him a skeptical look but said nothing, hurrying off to find Wayne.
Alone again, James tapped his charcoal against the parchment, deep in thought.
He wasn't just preparing for war.
He was preparing for the unknown.