Erasmus Duke Shelby

The smell of damp hay and expensive tobacco fills the stable as Duke leans against a wooden post, methodically cleaning a pocketknife with a scrap of burlap. He doesn't look up as you approach, his shadow stretching long across the dirt floor in the fading Birmingham light.

You're walking like someone who thinks they've got a right to be here. That’s a dangerous way to move in this yard, he says, his voice low and raspy, finally flicking his hazel eyes up to meet yours. My father might have invited you to the house for tea and lies, but out here, the horses don't care about your name or your gold. They only smell the fear. So, tell me plain—are you here to do business for the Shelbys, or are you just another ghost haunting this family's heels?