Chapter Text
"There is a difference between those who were made in darkness and those who chose it. The former still carry the memory of light. The latter no longer know what they have lost. Both are equally dangerous — but for entirely different reasons." — Codex Noctis, Vol. I · 11th Century · Author Unknown
From the Records of the High Court of Blood — Restricted Archive, 17th Century
Reproduction or consultation by non-initiates is forbidden. Penalty: death.
The society of Immortals is not, as humans suppose, a mere matter of monsters wandering in the shadows. It is, above all, a matter of order and hierarchy.
Every bloodline has its place. Every blood has its status.
At the apex of this structure stand the Elders — the Firsts, whose names were erased from human records so long ago that they became mere myths.
Below them are the Pure Bloodline Nobles, vampires born of original blood. They are few, but extremely dangerous, and fully aware of it — to the point of near boredom.
Next come the Converted — humans transformed by Nobles, bound to their makers' bloodlines by ties that transcend loyalty and prove stronger than any choice.
Last are the Renegades — those who abandoned or were expelled from their bloodlines. They live briefly and die badly.
The oldest rule of the High Court is simple: Each one knows their place and remains in it.
The most notable exception is Katarina Vauclaire.
Pure Bloodline Noble. Third direct generation from the Originals. Seven hundred and forty-three years of documented existence — and, probably, a few more that she herself refuses to confirm.
Her file contains one hundred and seventeen formal incidents, forty-two ignored audience requests, and a single note made by Elder Serafim himself, dated 1601:
"Uncontrollable. But useful. Leave her."
[…]
Versailles, Paris — 1697
The Palace of Versailles had an undeniable gift: it made everyone feel small before its grandeur. Louis XIV had built it with full intention. Katarina knew that king personally, and had learned — far too early for her own good — that there were things in this world far older and more dangerous than any throne.
The monumental architecture, the columns that seemed to touch the sky, the endless halls — all of it had been built not merely to impress human dignitaries, but as an offering. A demonstration that the king was useful. That he deserved to remain among the Nobles. The humans circulating through the ballroom that night did not know this. They believed they had been invited by distinction, status, or some favor of the court that would never be clearly explained. Katarina, however, knew exactly what they were.
She identified them within the first thirty seconds: the Nobles. There were at least nine scattered across the ballroom. Some wore masks, as the era required — some red, others black, adorned with details that caught the candlelight, creating an air of mystery and seduction. None of them greeted each other; it was unnecessary. Versailles, that November, was shared territory — a tacit agreement between bloodlines that rarely agreed on any other matter.
On the elevated balcony overlooking the ballroom, the Implacable watched everything below as though observing mere mortals. They stood above it all, analyzing every movement with the patience of those who knew the night would be long and full of surprises.
That evening was a banquet for the Nobles, though the guests of honor were entirely unaware of it. The golden glow of the candles danced across the opulent halls, wrapping everything in a warmth that made even the most mediocre humans a little more interesting.
Katarina needed no help. She entered from the east wing without a mask — a choice the other Nobles present noted immediately and none commented on aloud. She wore a stunning red dress that fit her body perfectly, a discreet scandal, the kind of garment women noticed with envy and men watched with their mouths open. At her throat, a pearl necklace that had once belonged to a queen whose name she preferred not to mention.
Her black hair was pinned in an elaborate updo that had taken exactly twelve minutes to create, and which she already planned to undo before midnight. The lipstick, the same vibrant color as the dress, had been chosen with meticulous care.
The stares followed her across the ballroom. Older men undressed her with their eyes, even with their wives beside them, as if the room had frozen in a snapshot of desire and admiration. It was as though time did not exist, and she had become the sole focus amid the palace's opulence. Katarina Vauclaire knew her presence was a powerful magnetism, capable of suspending reality around her, and that amused her completely.
"Mon Dieu," someone murmured to her left.
She did not turn. She did not need to. She ignored the comment, leaving the man unsettled. She knew that indifference was a powerful form of control.
The party followed its predictable ritual — chamber music, crystal glasses, conversations about politics and money disguised as conversations about art. She picked up a glass of wine she was not going to drink and walked slowly through the ballroom, feeling the weight of the stares. Men interrupting conversations. Men losing their train of thought. Men straightening up without realizing it, instinctively, as if posture could change anything.
It could not. She had already chosen her target.
Comte Beaumont stood near the window with two other nobles, gesturing about something that must have been very important to him and completely irrelevant to the rest of the universe. Tall, well-dressed, with that specific arrogance of someone who had never been refused in his life. When his eyes met hers across the ballroom, she saw the exact moment he decided that night would be about her.
What a coincidence, she thought. Me too.
She smiled — just a little, enough to leave a trace of mystery in the air. She looked away quickly, but not before stealing a glance from the corner of her field of vision. The man, watching her with fascination, froze. The combination of her enigmatic smile and the fleeting glance left a feeling of anticipation, as if he were about to discover a secret that only she possessed. Katarina knew this game of provoking and ignoring kept men intrigued, feeding their desire.
Before Comte Beaumont had even crossed the ballroom, a young man with blond hair and blue eyes appeared at her side, making an exaggerated bow. His smile was excessively white, his lips too red for the symmetrical pallor of his face. The military medals he wore had clearly not been earned in any battle.
"Mademoiselle." His voice came out louder than he intended. "Allow me to offer you my company this evening. I noticed you are unaccompanied, and it would be disrespectful to leave someone so beautiful alone, especially with such men around. Grant me the honor of being your companion, mademoiselle."
Katarina assessed him with a sharp glance, as though she had already made her decision before even looking. There was something slightly off about him — not in his face, not in his clothes, but in something she could not quite name at that moment. A subtle scent that did not belong in that environment, notes of herbs and something older, almost imperceptible. Every other man who had approached her that night had looked away at some point, instinctively. This one did not. He held her gaze directly, with a serenity that did not match the exaggerated bow or the false medals.
She noticed. She did not find it relevant.
"No."
He blinked, opened his mouth, then closed it. She had already turned her back, leaving him there, slightly bewildered — or at least, that was how it appeared.
The young blond man did not move. He remained exactly where he was, blue eyes following the figure in the red dress as she glided across the ballroom. His red lips curved into a small smile, entirely different from the one before.
Katarina Vauclaire.
She lived up to her reputation.
The second was a middle-aged Marquis with a family ring on his finger and a wife on the other side of the ballroom pretending not to see. He approached with the confidence typical of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted, leaned lightly against the edge of the table where she had stopped, and said in a low, smooth voice, as if sharing an important revelation:
"Your beauty is the most singular I have ever seen in this palace. And I have had the honor of beholding many."
"I know," the vampire replied, picking up another glass of wine without even looking at him. "About both things."
He stood still for a moment, unsure whether he had been complimented or dismissed. Katarina did not help him find out. The third tried to strike up a conversation about art. The fourth, about politics. The fifth — a young diplomat with light eyes and nervous hands — simply stood near her too long until she finally turned and said, directly:
"If you are not going to say anything, at least be decorative somewhere else."
He walked away, cheeks flushed, with the posture of a defeated man.
It was then that Comte Beaumont finally appeared, bringing with him a smile that certainly worked on all the others.
"Bonsoir," he said, with a deep and charming voice, the kind of tone he had trained to sound like authority. "I was on the other side of the ballroom and found myself completely unable to look away from your presence."
With an elegant gesture, he bowed slightly and, in an act of courtesy typical of the era, kissed her hand softly, as if the gesture were a reverence to her presence. The vampire noticed the fine leather gloves, with the family crest embroidered on the back in gold thread, the kind of detail men took pleasure in displaying with pride.
Katarina gave him a mocking, almost disdainful look. He was, in fact, attractive. Well-defined bone structure, broad shoulders, a dark velvet jacket with gold embroidery on the lapels, typical of old money. There was something in his posture that exuded unshakable confidence, as if he had been born with the conviction that the entire world had been shaped to please him.
Seven hundred years of existence and this type still showed up the same.
"How tragic for you," she remarked, bringing the wine glass to her lips and taking a sip while fixing him with a provocative gaze that conveyed a certain challenge. There was something attractive in the way her eyes gleamed, making him feel nervous under her piercing stare. With a slight smile at the corner of her mouth, she continued: "I hope the rest of the evening proves more productive for you, Comte."
He let out a laugh, short and surprised, as if he had never faced the need to make an effort to win someone over.
"You are different," he remarked, with a curious gleam in his eyes.
"Every man who approached me tonight made exactly that same observation,"she replied, with a mildly bored tone.
"And it seems none of them are still around," he added, noticing the others' absence.
"Very perceptive," she said, tilting her head slightly. A strand of hair slipped down her neck, accentuating her grace. "That is a rare quality to find."
He stepped closer. She did not step back — she never stepped back — and saw in his eyes the exact moment he interpreted that as an invitation. It was always like this. They always read the absence of fear as interest.
He was not wrong, this time. He was only wrong about the kind of interest. He extended his hand and touched her arm softly, as a form of courtship.
"Comte Beaumont," he said, extending his hand with a confident smile. "And you, mademoiselle? Might you grant me the grace of knowing the name of this enchanting lady before me?"
She looked at the extended hand for a second, assessing the situation, before shaking it — without the delicacy he clearly expected. The grip was firm, as if she wanted to make clear she would not be intimidated.
"Katarina."
"Just Katarina?"
"For now, darling. I trust that, as the night progresses, you will have the opportunity to discover more about me, Comte Beaumont."
The music changed to something slower. Someone on the other side of the ballroom laughed loudly. The candles trembled with a draft that seemed to come from nowhere, and for a brief moment, she glimpsed in him an emotion she could not name. He felt something wrong. A sudden chill that ran through his entire body — that peculiar sensation of when the body perceives something the mind still refuses to process. He shook his head and decided to push the thought away, plunging back into the conversation.
She smiled charmingly, and as the instinct dissolved, he allowed himself to relax.
Such a pity, the vampire thought, with quiet menace. You could have saved yourself.
They talked for a long time, exchanging words and laughter as though they had known each other for years. The hours passed unnoticed, as if they were in a bubble isolated from the outside world.
Around them, the ballroom had shifted subtly. Some guests had disappeared entirely. The vampire noted the absences without needing to think about it — the Nobles were feeding, each in their own way, in some dark corner of the palace where the torches did not reach.
Then she suggested some fresh air.
He agreed immediately, of course, they always agreed, as if the idea had been theirs from the start. Katarina walked beside him through the palace's side corridor, hands clasped behind her back, listening to him speak about his properties in the south of France. He spoke with the enthusiasm of someone who needed to convince someone — or himself. He mentioned the estates, the harvests, the tenants who paid on time.
The vampire listened and found it pathetic that a Comte of Versailles needed to list his possessions for a woman he had just met. The war had ended less than three months ago, and the French nobles already behaved as if the Treaty of Ryswick had erased the debts Louis XIV had accumulated over decades of conflict. As if the people dying of hunger in the streets of Paris were not a direct consequence of the same men now dancing in the lavish palace.
She knew, because she had lived long enough to see the pattern repeat. Wars ended. Nobles celebrated. And the people paid the price.
She felt nothing about it. It was simply the order of things.
The alley lay beyond the gardens, where the torchlight did not reach.
"This way," she said, turning before he realized they had left the lit perimeter.
"Mademoiselle, this is not—"
"Katarina," she corrected, without stopping or looking away. "I already told you."
He followed. Of course he followed, intrigued and somehow drawn in by her audacity. When she stopped and turned, he was still smiling — that smile of a man who thought he knew how the night would end. Katarina tilted her head, studying his expression with genuine curiosity. There was something almost touching about it. All that confidence built on such a fragile foundation.
"You are fascinating," he said, moving closer.
"I know."
Suddenly, he pulled her waist toward him, leaning in to kiss her neck. His touch was insistent, and she felt a shiver of disgust mixed with something more. Despite the discomfort, part of her was intrigued. He would be her dinner that night, and even feeling a certain revulsion, she could not deny the thirst consuming her.
He murmured against her skin — vous êtes divine, vous êtes à moi — with the conviction of someone who had never been contradicted. His rough hands traced the contours of her dress with growing urgency, his hips pressing against her in a way he could barely conceal, his arousal evident through the expensive fabric of his trousers.
"Ma chérie—" he gasped, desperate. "You were made for me. I knew it from the moment you walked into the ballroom."
"I know." She repeated it in the same bored tone as before.
Katarina placed a hand on his chest — slowly, almost gently — and pushed him against the stone wall with a force that did not match the body he had spent the evening underestimating. The transformation was subtle but powerful. Her eyes darkened, the golden iris expanding into black, as a threatening gleam rose in her gaze.
Her nails grew, sharp as claws. She smiled — but it was not a sweet smile. It was a demonic smile, full of a malice that revealed her true vampiric nature. Her teeth elongated, growing sharp, ready for the prey, as the mask she maintained so effortlessly slipped for a moment, revealing the bloodthirsty creature within.
He was pressed against the alley wall with an expression Katarina had seen before — not on him specifically, but on others. It was a mixture of disbelief and dread, the typical reaction of powerful men when they finally realized they were not the greatest predators in the room.
"What are you?" he whispered, frightened. "W-who are you?"
"What a tedious question, Comte Beaumont." Katarina tilted her head, letting another strand of hair slip over her shoulder in a seductive manner. Her voice, softly tinged with a slight French accent, made her words all the more captivating. *"You spent the entire evening courting me, trying to take me to your chambers, and only now, in such a revealing moment, do you decide to take a real interest in me?"
He tried to move, but she did not let him. It was so easy it almost took the fun out of it. Almost.
Her hand closed around his throat, not with enough force to kill, but enough to make clear that the choice of keeping him alive was hers. His face grew red, his eyes wide, while his breath came in small, irregular gasps.
"You should have left when I arrived." She moved closer, unhurried. *"Everyone in the ballroom felt it. The electricity in the air, the palpable tension. Only you, in your foolish arrogance, remained completely oblivious."
"I felt nothing—"
"Exactly."
She gave him no time to understand. Her teeth sank into his neck in a swift movement — she had done this so many times she did not hesitate. He tried to scream, but her hand muffled any sound, pressing over his mouth with force, leaving no room for protest.
Desperate, his fingers closed around her arm, trying to push her away, to scratch, anything to break free. But soon the struggle faded, his movements grew weaker, until they stopped. When it was over, she pulled back slowly, watching him with a gaze that mixed satisfaction and a touch of disdain.
"You really thought you were the predator here?" she said, with an ironic smile. "So naive, Comte Beaumont. You let yourself be led by appearances, believing you could dominate me — when, in truth, you are merely prey in a game you do not understand."
He slumped against the stone wall, sliding to the ground, eyes still open and glazed, a frozen smile on his face, as if he were still processing that everything had gone wrong.
Katarina wiped her mouth with the lace handkerchief he had offered her earlier — a gesture that now seemed ironic. She folded it carefully and tucked it between her breasts. Then she crouched down to his level, holding his face in both hands, forcing him to meet her eyes — that golden iris, expanding and contracting like something hypnotic, utterly irresistible.
"Tonight," she said, in a low and deliberate voice, "you spoke with a woman. You drank, laughed, believed the world was at your feet. Her name you can no longer recall. Her face will be a haze in your mind. To you, she never existed."
His eyes blinked once, slow, like tides.
"You will wake up in the garden with a headache and the vague certainty that it was a very good night. Nothing more."
She released his face and stood.
"Now you know," she added, in a playful tone. "Never underestimate a woman like me."
Paris glowed beyond the alley. Music drifted from an illuminated palace window — a soft waltz, the same one playing when she had entered. It was one of the lessons she had learned in her first hundred years: life moved forward with an impressive indifference, and that could be comforting or tedious, depending on the night.
This night was comforting. Katarina straightened her dress and ran her fingers through her pinned hair. She breathed in the cold November air with the calm of someone who had just had a good dinner. The folded handkerchief rested lightly between her breasts. Somewhere along the way back, she would leave it visible — a small carelessness that no one would associate with anything.
Inside the palace, the Nobles knew very well how to enjoy themselves. She knew the ritual — dark corridors, humans who would never make it home, a night that Versailles would pretend had not happened by dawn. The Nobles liked company in those moments, sharing the chaos with the same ease with which they shared territory.
Katarina never saw the appeal. She had always preferred the solitude of the hunt. It had always been this way.
She knew how to disappear. She had centuries of practice. She turned her back on the alley and walked toward the lights, her steps steady on the wet cobblestones, unhurried, without looking back.
She never looked back.
The young blond man appeared at the entrance of the alley a few moments later, hands tucked into his trouser pockets. He stopped and looked at Comte Beaumont sprawled on the ground, slumped against the stone wall, with that frozen smile and glazed eyes.
He crouched down slowly, tilted his head, moved the Comte's lace collar aside with two fingers, and examined the neck. The two puncture wounds were unmistakably the marks of a vampire.
His red lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.
"Ma chéri,"he murmured to the silence of the alley. "It seems you had quite an evening."
[…]
The mansion stood less than a league from the palace, a convenient distance, as she used to say, though "convenient" was a euphemism for "meticulously planned." She had chosen the land in 1682, while the construction of Versailles still raised clouds of dust, and built it with patience, as a woman of means who had learned to enjoy her considerable fortune.
The pale stone walls absorbed the moonlight in a way no architect could explain. The formal gardens, with hedges trimmed into geometric shapes typical of the era, were mildly tedious to Katarina. The main entrance featured two columns she had commissioned solely because the stonemason insisted that "every respectable residence requires columns, madame" — and on that occasion, she had not had the patience to argue.
Inside, the high ceilings, dark wood, and Flemish tapestries were older than most of the Converted she knew. A fireplace large enough for a person to stand inside — a detail that had proven useful on at least one occasion she preferred not to recall.
She entered through the back door, as she always did after a night of hunting. Céleste waited in the corridor, holding a candle, with the expression of someone barely concealing her relief at seeing her walk through the door.
"You are late, mademoiselle," she said, taking Katarina's cape before being asked. "I told Margot you would be back before midnight. She said betting against you would be foolish. I should have listened to that insolent woman."
"Good evening to you too, Céleste," Katarina replied, without stopping.
Céleste was twenty-three, with brown hair always slightly disheveled and a tendency to treat the vampire with a familiarity that would have horrified any other servant in any other household in France. She had been in her service for four years — long enough to lose her fear, but not her judgment entirely. Katarina had found her on the streets of Paris, consumed by smallpox, without family, without resources, without a future. She had offered the transformation as one offers a practical solution. It was not kindness. She would never admit to such a weakness.
Margot appeared in the entrance of the main hall, carrying a tray with a crystal glass and the expression of someone who had won a bet without needing verbal confirmation. She was six years older than Céleste, and the vampire had found her in equally inconvenient circumstances — tuberculosis in an advanced stage, in a village two leagues from Paris, coughing blood onto a rotting mattress. That, too, had been a practical solution.
"I knew," said Margot, simply, raising an eyebrow with a certain disdain.
"Nobody asked you anything, you insolent creature," Céleste retorted, turning to her with a scowl.
Katarina remained silent. It was unnecessary to say more. The two lived in a permanent state of war — where Céleste spoke, Margot observed; where Céleste opined, Margot concluded. They argued with the regular frequency of those who spent too much time together and had nowhere else to go, which, in her household, was the default condition.
She took the glass from the tray without ceremony and walked to the fireplace. The contents were scarlet and slightly warmed — blood type A positive, the only one she tolerated without reservation. Margot knew the exact temperature and the correct type; she had learned in the first month and never forgotten. The vampire drank slowly, standing before the fire, letting the warmth of the hearth and the glass dissolve the November cold outside.
"How was your evening, mademoiselle?" asked Céleste, folding the cape with an excessive care that revealed, in truth, barely disguised curiosity. Between the two of them, she was the nosier one. "I heard tonight was one of the gatherings at the palace. Were all the Nobles present?"
"Nine that I identified," Katarina replied, offering nothing further, well aware that her servant was an incorrigible busybody.
"Nine." Céleste opened a playful smile. "And dinner — was it to your liking?"
"Alive," said the vampire, watching the fire crackle. "He will probably wake up with a headache and an inconvenient gap in his memory."
"No paperwork this time, then," Margot commented from the corner, without taking her eyes off the tray.
"I was in a good mood."
Céleste and Margot exchanged a curious glance. Both admired the most dangerous noble in the court, and, by some inexplicable reason, loved working for her. Katarina's temperament was difficult, with complicated moments. But over time, they had learned to adapt — to read the signs, to know when to speak and when to disappear. It was a balance that had taken far too long to build, and that neither of them would have traded for anything in this world.
"There is a letter," said Margot, finally, in a tone that indicated she had been waiting for the right moment to deliver the information. "It arrived this afternoon. It bears the High Court seal, my lady."
Katarina did not respond immediately. She took another slow sip. She had known this moment would come — the High Court was moving again. There had been rumors among the Nobles throughout the week; something significant was underway, perhaps another war. The kind of situation the Court allowed to explode until it had no other choice.
"Where is it?"
"On the writing desk. I did not open it," Margot replied, adjusting the tray against her hip and shifting her gaze to some neutral point on the wall, as she always did when she knew the answer would not be well received.
"I know you did not."
Céleste fidgeted nervously with the edge of the cape.
"I could have opened it," she said, with the unnecessary honesty that defined her. "But Margot said you would find out somehow, and I might suffer for it."
Katarina looked at her for a second.
"Margot is right."
Céleste made the face of someone digesting an old injustice. Margot said nothing, but something in her posture conveyed, unmistakably, satisfaction.
Katarina finished the glass, set it on the tray with care, and walked to the writing desk in the corner of the room. The envelope was there, the Court's red seal intact, her name written in elegant script.
She stood looking at it for a moment. Then, for just a second longer than usual, she did not move.
She placed it in the drawer, closed it, and went to her chambers.
The High Court could wait until tomorrow.
Her room was wrapped in golden shadow, lit only by a beeswax candle trembling on the walnut nightstand. The soft light traced the figure reclining on the bed, revealing her in an almost intimate way. A black silk robe slid gently from her shoulders. Dark hair fell in waves over her chest, framing a face of old and dangerous beauty. Those eyes — gleamed with quiet menace as Katarina pushed open the door.
Katarina paused at the threshold, assessing her from head to toe. Dinner had been excellent — and now there was something more to add to the night. She entered, closing the door behind her with a soft click. The small hours promised new possibilities.
"Was the night... entertaining, my queen?" the woman on the bed asked, her voice heavy with accumulated desire.
"Productive," the vampire replied, removing her jewels slowly, without hurry. Her eyes never left the other woman for an instant. "You were there tonight."
"I was." A feline smile curved her rose lips. "The Comte Beaumont, of all people. What an insufferable creature. The entire ballroom devoured you with their eyes and you chose that presumptuous peacock."
"His blood was of good stock."
"Always a practical justification, Vauclaire..." the other murmured, tilting her head, her eyes traveling over Katarina's body as though already undressing her in thought.
Katarina walked to the bed with the confidence of someone who knows time belongs to her. As she moved, she released the updo with a fluid gesture; the black hair fell heavy over her shoulders. With her other hand, she reached for the lace at the back of the dress. The red silk slid from her skin in a sensual cascade, revealing white lace lingerie that contrasted with the pale tone of her immortal flesh.
The woman on the bed watched every inch revealed. Her eyes darkened, pupils dilating like those of a predator before its favorite prey. The vampire climbed onto the bed slowly, placing one knee on each side of the other's hips, hovering over her without touching yet. Simply looking, with an intensity that left no room for doubt.
"My enjoyment would have been far greater," Katarina murmured, fingers closing on the woman's waist with a pressure that left no uncertainty about her intentions, lowering her lips slowly toward her ear — "si vous étiez avec moi, mon amour."
The woman on the bed shivered as she felt herself grow wet. Her hand traveled up Katarina's arm, fingers tracing the veins that no longer pulsed, until it closed softly around her throat. She did not squeeze, she only held. A reminder that both of them were predators, surrendered and utterly fascinated by each other.
"You were breathtaking tonight, Vauclaire," she said, her voice low, almost a purr. "That red dress was a scandal. I was completely undone just watching you."
Katarina dragged her nail slowly along the woman's nape, scratching with a dangerous lightness, and wound her fingers through the dark hair, pulling just enough to force the face upward — meeting her eyes with a smile that held nothing innocent.
"That was my intention, my dear."
"I know." The fingers tightened slightly, just enough for the vampire to feel the delicious pressure. "It is always your intention to provoke."
Katarina descended another centimeter. Her lips grazed the corner of the other's mouth, breathing the same cold, perfumed air.
"Did you come all this way just to tell me that?"
"I came here," the other said, pulling her by the neck and pressing their bodies together in one fluid movement, "because I cannot bear another second without tasting you. I want to feel you, your mouth on every part of me, your fingers inside me. I want to come whispering your name, my queen."
The kiss that followed was completely obscene. Tongues met with fervor, without tenderness, days of restraint exploding between them. What followed belonged only to the shadows of that room.
The candle trembled, growing weaker — a silent witness to whispers in French mingled with low moans. The name "Katarina" escaped like a prayer from the other woman's lips, while sharp nails traced red lines that healed almost instantly over Katarina's pale skin. The wooden bed creaked rhythmically, fine linen sheets tangling around intertwined limbs, bodies burning against each other like fire.
Whispers laced with breathless gasps. Moans muffled against offered necks. The wet sound of hungry mouths. The slow and then urgent rocking of the bed against the ancient floor of Versailles. Fingers entwined with force. Low, wild laughter when a bolder bite tore a gasp from the other.
The candle finally went out between distracted fingers. In total darkness, only the rustle of silk remained, the brush of skin against skin, the eternal sighs of two creatures who needed no air — only each other. Outside, the gardens of Versailles slept beneath the November moon, indifferent to the silent fire burning between the two women.
Outside, in the shadows of the garden, a figure stood motionless among the trimmed hedges. Wide-brimmed hat, elegant suit, a lit cigar whose ember was the only point of light in that dark corner. The smoke rose slowly, dissolving into the cold November air, while fixed eyes did not leave the darkened windows of the mansion.
The head tilted from side to side, slowly, with that specific patience of someone who had already waited a long time and knew they could wait longer.
Katarina Vauclaire's arrogance had always been her greatest sin. And sins, sooner or later, collected their price.
The cigar was dropped to the ground, extinguished beneath the sole of a shoe in a disdainful gesture.
"Wait for me, Katarina Vauclaire," he murmured to the silence of the garden, eyes still fixed on the darkened windows. "Your days are numbered, my queen."
The figure turned and disappeared into the shadows.