Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A wisp of cinnamon lingered in the air as the room became suffused with a gentle sway, the floorboards bending softly beneath the dancing feet. The violinists drew their bows with graceful precision across the strings of their instruments, while the pianist, his fingers well-practised, tenderly caressed the keys of his piano.

The opulent ballroom was bathed in golden light that fractured in the myriad crystal chandeliers, casting flickering reflections upon the polished marble floor. Voices and laughter mingled into a harmonious murmur, while delicate silks and shimmering jewels flared with every movement of the dancers.

It was the highest echelon of vampires, the very aristocracy of France, who had gathered that evening in their most exquisite attire. They seemed to float above the dance floor as if they were part of the music itself, lost in the elegance and perfection demanded by the ball.

Noé whirled around a young beauty, her eyes an enchanting blend of emerald and gold, cloaked in a gown of black velvet. Their fingers nearly brushed, as if longing for a touch. A play of nearness and distance, a dance of refined intimacy. Every movement was rehearsed, every gesture imbued with centuries-old tradition. This evening was more than a mere social event; it was a stage for power, influence, and hidden desires. A symbolic beginning of a new political alliance among the most influential noble families.

Every smile, every curtsey, every fleeting glance was a calculated move in a complex game that extended far beyond the ballroom.

The music swelled, propelling the dancers into ever wilder movements until the rhythm burst into a feverish climax. Silks rustled, heels clicked across the gleaming floor and breaths shortened until the final note shattered in the air, and the world stood still for a moment.

The ladies paused, their faces but a whisper away from those of their partners. Noé could feel the warm breath upon his lips and discern the gentle rise and fall of another’s chest. Their gazes merged in an instant of electrifying intimacy, rendering all else insignificant.

Not a word was spoken. No movement dared to disrupt that perfect moment. Only the rapid beating of hearts and the scarcely perceptible tremble of fingers that almost, yet did not, touch.

Then came a murmur, a collective awakening from the trance. The spell broke; breaths deepened and bodies slowly parted. Suddenly, resounding applause erupted through the hall as if to sweep away the vacuum of silence. The dancers bowed, their lips still echoing the fleeting magic, though in their eyes the afterimage of the rapture lingered for a brief moment.

The strains of the last dance still echoed in Noé’s ears as he surveyed the scene, his heart pounding faster than usual, buoyed by the exhilaration of the dances. The ballroom was a pulsating sea of elegance and deception. Silks rustled and crystal glasses clinked softly, while behind the scenes, glances were exchanged that were more dangerous than any blade.

His gaze fell upon her.

Lady Seraphine de Montclair.

She was the sort of woman whose mere presence rendered the air heavy, as though imbued with an invisible toxin, both sweet and lethal. Her dress was a vivid scarlet that shone like molten ruby under the chandeliers’ glow, as if it had been woven from liquid desire. Her hair, dark as the Parisian night, was arranged in intricate curls, interwoven with diamonds that sparkled like stars. She was a living embodiment of temptation and power, arrayed in the hues of blood and fire. Yet she was not merely beauty; she was calculation incarnate.

As the matriarch of the Montclair family, a name whispered in the shadows when matters of influence, intrigue and control over the vampiric realm arose. She commanded an embrace no one could evade, whether in a dance or a war of words.

Perhaps it was Noé’s final dance of the night, before his social presence might have been overtaxed. His breath caught for a moment when their eyes met. A shiver of cold ran down his spine, not from fear but from a silent premonition. This was no coincidence; it was a calculated manoeuvre.

She knew who he was. She knew why he was there.

The crowd parted before her as though she alone wielded the power to command it and with every graceful movement she drew nearer. A predator advancing on her prey with measured elegance.

“Monsieur Archiviste,” she said, her voice like liquid honey edged with steel.

Soft yet unyielding. Her lips curved into a smile that concealed more than it revealed.

“I trust you have yet another dance in store for me.”

It was not a question; it was an invitation.

And Noé knew that this dance would mean more than a mere play of steps and turns. It was the moment when politics and passion entwined inseparably, where power was founded not only on words but on touch.

With impeccable etiquette, Noé bowed gracefully, his grasp gentle yet assured as he took Lady Seraphine’s hand. Her skin was cool and supple. A reminder that within her dwelt not only aristocratic elegance but also a dangerous power.

“It would be my honour, Lady Seraphine.”

A smile played about her lips, enigmatic and unpredictable. The music resumed, this time a slow, almost intoxicating waltz. The rhythm draped the hall like a silken veil and as they moved together, the other dancers instinctively receded. They all knew it, this was no ordinary dance. It was a negotiation cloaked in elegance.

Noé led her with the composure of a man who knew that every step, every breath was being observed and he used that knowledge to his advantage. Their bodies moved in perfect synchrony, as though they had danced together all their lives. Two masters not only of the waltz, but of the political game.

“Your style is impeccable, mon cher Monsieur,” she murmured, her fingertips as light as feathers on his shoulder, “yet perfection can be deceiving. Tell me, what faults do you perceive in this room?”

It was a performance, and Noé returned her scrutinising gaze. A deep, impenetrable darkness. His hand on her waist was not overly firm, but decidedly so. A subtle assertion of power as their bodies drew momentarily closer.

“I could list many,” he replied, “though some would cost me more than you are willing to pay.”

A soft laugh, barely more than a whispered breath against his skin, followed.

“Ah. You already know it.”

Noé revealed nothing more.

“I know many things, yet never enough; but if there is one certainty, it is that you are not here merely to be entertained.”

“A wise man indeed. Finally, someone who does not waste time with polite platitudes.”

She leaned closer, her lips nearly brushing his ear.

“But even knowledge does not shield one from betrayal. Our esteemed friends on the Elder Council did not withdraw from the public eye without reason, did they?”

Her voice was soft, yet it carried an edge sharper than a dagger’s blade. His eyes narrowed imperceptibly as she tested him, gauging whether he would betray himself.

“The Elder Council always operates in the shadows,” he replied calmly, “Some things never change.”

“And yet, something has changed.”

Her breath grazed his cheek as she leaned in, attempting to intoxicate him.

“Some voices speak of the events in Marseille. Others whisper of the incidents on the banks of the Seine two nights ago. And then there are those who claim that you meddled where you ought not to have.”

Maintaining the facade of desire, his hands caressed her body even as Noé showed no hint of surprise at her accusation.

“People talk a great deal when the wine flows.”

“Oh, mon rêve, you and I both know these are not mere rumours.”

She turned gracefully with him, their legs brushing in time with the music.

“The alliance we speak of is not merely a symbol of peace, but also a tool of control. Some fear that someone like you might turn it into a weapon.”

His lips twitched ever so slightly.

“That presupposes that I am a threat to the balance.”

“Aren’t you?”, her eyes sparkled as though she already held the answer.

The dance quickened, growing more intense. The cool touch of her hand, the whisper of her voice against his ear, the dangerous game she played with him. He could sense that she was not merely challenging him. She was weighing him, determining whether he was a mere puppet or an active player.

A game he was beginning to enjoy.

“The question is not what I am,” he eventually whispered, excited, as if he had sipped a sinful wine sweeter and heavier than anything he had ever known, “but rather who you wish to believe that I am.”

He twirled her, his eyes sparkling with amusement, as his hand glided along her back and she leaned back before he caught her. His fangs caught the light for a moment in the tension, his breath tingling upon Lady Seraphine’s skin.

“If I am not mistaken,” Noé continued in a dangerously low tone, “the relationship between the Montclair and Oriflamme is unstable. There are forces that would see it shattered at any cost. And they are closer than you think.”

A brief pause. A slight smile, almost one of acknowledgement.

The dance escalated into a final whirl, their bodies drawing so near for a breathless moment that he could detect the scent of spiced wine and roses.

“Well played, Archiviste.”

Then the music ended with one final, sharp note. The air was heavy with perfume and tension. She stepped back, her hand slipping from his. A graceful gesture, yet also a warning. She bowed with an elegance that was as effortless as it was calculated.

“Until soon, mon rêve.”

An unusual name she had chosen to bestow upon him and Noé blinked as his body felt, for a moment, strangely unresponsive, as if it no longer fully obeyed him. He tried to regain his focus, but Seraphine had already vanished into the crowd like an elusive shadow, leaving scarcely a trace. A spirit of rubies and shadows. And yet her words still echoed in his mind.

Noé stopped, his thoughts revolving around the unspoken. The names that went unsaid, the truths hidden between the lines.

The true dance had only just begun.

The music resumed, a deep, sensual crescendo that seduced the senses. He closed his eyes for a moment, surrendering to the dangerous tingle beneath his skin, feeling his mind drown in this sweet, agonising tension.

But then, a soft murmur arose from the shadows of the hall. A name he had not expected and yet he sensed her presence before her scent even reached him. A sweet bondage, as alluring as it was perilous.

“Noé.”

Domi de Sade.

Her utterance of his name was both a caress and a warning. She stood but a whisper away. Too close to resist touching him, yet too distant to be truly near.

Her figure was a blend of dark romance and cold elegance. A dress of deep blue velvet clung to her body as though woven from the night itself. The lace at her neckline traced delicate patterns upon her skin, almost like shadows of forgotten caresses. Her hair cascaded in gentle waves over her shoulders, a stark contrast to her cool, almost unapproachable eyes that fixed him with an intensity only she possessed.

His fingers twitched, a subconscious desire for her blood, to bridge the distance, but he forced himself to remain calm.

“Domi.”

Her lips curved into a barely perceptible smile, a hint of pleasure at how she could unsettle him. Her hand slowly rose as if to reach for him, only to pause, mere centimetres from his chest.

“It appears you’ve had quite an exciting conversation.”

Her gaze briefly swept over the hall towards where Seraphine de Montclair had disappeared into the crowd. A dark spark flashed in her eyes, a blend of curiosity and possessiveness.

Noé knew it was a game, one they both understood. Yet with Domi, the game was always more than mere illusion. It was a trial, a truth that challenged him to test his limits and perhaps hers as well.

“Indeed,” he finally said, his tone casual though his posture remained taut.

“You do look rather exhausted, Noé,” she murmured, stepping even closer.

He wished to retort, but as he opened his mouth, the words failed him. The night had been strangely fulfilling and the stars bore witness. A peculiar dizziness seized him for a split second, barely perceptible, hardly worth mentioning, and he blinked it away.

“I could do with a little break,” he admitted, allowing the tension to ease from his shoulders, “I was planning to leave anyway. Will you accompany me?”

A twinkle passed over Domi’s features, as if she had been waiting for precisely that moment.

“Of course.”

She did not cling to him, yet she remained close as they departed the ballroom together.

Outside, the air was cooler, more pleasant than the stifling warmth of the ball. Noé drew a deep breath, though it did not feel as liberating as he had hoped.

They strolled slowly along the cobbled streets, the rhythmic clatter of their footsteps echoing in the nocturnal silence. Noé tried to keep himself upright, but occasionally he staggered ever so slightly, barely noticeable. He attributed it to the alcohol he had imbibed or perhaps the lateness of the hour. It had been a long evening and fatigue was a foe that spared no one.

He did not notice how his step faltered so minutely, but Domi did. She said nothing, merely watching him from the corner of her eye.

“Vanitas will chide you if you come home in this state,” she remarked casually as they walked along the darkened lanes.

“What state?” he replied without much thought.

“Oh, nothing. I simply savour the rare moments when you become careless,” she teased with a slight smile.

He snorted in amused defiance. “I am not careless.”

His fingertips tingled in the cool night air that brushed his skin. He rubbed his hands together to dispel the numbness, yet the faint sensation persisted. His heart beat a little faster and his breath deepened as they crossed a narrow bridge over a small canal. The light from the streetlamps flickered upon the water’s surface and for a moment, the scene felt almost surreal.

The silence between them was not unpleasant. Domi was one of the few with whom Noé could spend hours without uttering a word, yet share an understood depth. The closer they came to Vanitas’s dwelling, the heavier his steps grew; fatigue seeped into his bones like an invisible burden.

At last, they stood before the door. Domi leaned lightly against the banister of the steps and regarded him appraisingly.

“Go to bed, Noé,” she said softly, bestowing a brief kiss upon his cheek.

He had meant to offer a witty retort, but the words failed him. Instead, he simply nodded, smiling tenderly.

“Thank you for accompanying me.”

“Always,” she replied.

She tilted her head slightly, as if pondering further words, but then chose silence. Instead, she turned and melted into the night, her footsteps echoing softly on the pavement.

Quietly, Noé turned the key in the lock and entered his flat. It was dark; only the faint, silvery glow of the moon filtered through the window. All was quiet. With a soft sigh, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment.

Overwhelming fatigue now beset him. Every muscle in his body felt weighted down. His legs nearly gave way as he dragged himself to the sofa and sank into it. His head throbbed, a dull pressure behind his eyes. Perhaps Domi had been right; perhaps he should have looked after himself better. But the thought was too vague, too distant, to grasp.

Just as he began to relax, he heard footsteps from the adjoining room.

“Noé?” Vanitas’s voice, drowsy yet alert, called out.

Noé opened his mouth to reply, but for a moment he forgot what he had meant to say. An uneasy tingling ran down his back and his fingers twitched slightly. The strain of the day weighed upon him and now, even in safety, he felt no better. Quite the contrary.

Vanitas emerged from the shadows, his gaze scrutinising.

“You look dreadful.”

Noé managed a tired smile.

“Glad to see you too.”

Vanitas snorted softly, though his eyes remained serious.

“What’s the matter with you?”

Waving him off with a feeble gesture, Noé murmured, “Nothing. Just tired.”

“Tired looks different,” Vanitas said as he stepped closer, arms crossed, “Are you sure you’re not about to collapse?”

“I’m not going to collapse,” Noé attempted to dismiss it with a smile, yet the severity in Vanitas’s gaze made it clear that he did not believe him.

Vanitas sighed softly.

“Go to bed before you break down here.”

Noé nodded weakly. He managed to rise, staggering slightly as he made his way to his bed. Vanitas watched him, his usual mocking demeanour softened by a trace of concern.

“If you happen to die in the middle of the night – wake me beforehand.”

Noé snorted tiredly.

“I’ll do my best.”

Then the door clicked shut behind him.

Chapter Text

The night lay upon the world like a velvet shroud, thick with silence, stitched with darkness, draped over the city in an embrace both tender and suffocating. Stars shimmered in distant indifference, their cold light spilling across the rooftops like spilled pearls, their glow distorted where it touched the fog that coiled through the streets in slow, languorous swirls.

Somewhere, faintly, the scent of crushed lilacs lingered, carried by an unseen breeze, ghosting through the open window and mingling with the heavy weight of candle wax and ink.

Noé lay upon his bed as though shipwrecked, his body an anchor, sinking into fevered depths. Sleep did not offer solace but gnawed at the edges of his mind, biting, tearing, filling the space behind his eyelids with restless, half-formed visions.

The room around him was bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, silvered and dreamlike, yet it wavered, shifting as if seen through water.

His temples throbbed, each pulse of pain threading molten gold through his skull, a relentless, sluggish rhythm that kept time with his erratic heartbeat. Too fast, then too slow, like a bird caught in a storm.

The weight upon his chest was unbearable, as if the night itself had settled atop him, pressing him down into the burning abyss. He turned, seeking refuge in movement, but even that was painful.

The air was thick, humid, scented with the faint metallic whisper of sweat and sickness, clinging to his skin like an unwanted caress. Unconsciously, Noé pressed a trembling hand against his ribs, fingertips ghosting over his own fever-warmed flesh, searching for an answer that did not come.

Something was wrong.

His eyelids fluttered open and the world beyond them was no longer the one he had known. The darkness was deeper than mere absence of light, painted in layers of midnight blue and abyssal black, shifting like silk caught in unseen currents. Shadows stretched and curled, unfurling like ink bleeding into parchment, distorting the edges of the room until nothing remained familiar.

The candle on his nightstand flickered wildly, its golden flame licking at the air, casting rippling reflections upon the polished floorboards, yet its light was devoured before it could reach the corners of the room, swallowed by a presence unseen and hungry.

His limbs felt detached, remote, as though the scorching fever had hollowed him out, leaving only the echoes of his own motions. Dizzy, he pushed himself upright, but the world warped beneath him; reality itself turning to liquid, shifting, unstable. The moonlight pooling against the floor fractured into shimmering fragments, distorting like shattered glass beneath water. A tremor coursed through his body, subtle at first, then rising into a violent shudder that crawled up his spine, weaving itself into the very marrow of his bones.

And then, without memory of the decision, he was standing.

The air was dense, humid, clinging to his skin. Breathing felt laborious, each inhale a battle against the weight in his chest. His steps wavered, but it wasn’t the floor shifting beneath him. It was the world itself, its edges blurring, shifting, folding in on themselves. Darkness pulsed at the corners of his vision, a silent force pulling at his consciousness, yearning to draw him in.

The air was perfumed with something sweet and cloying, a scent too delicate for this torturing nightmare; something floral, laced with the undertone of damp earth after rain. It clung to his senses, heady, dizzying, suffocating. The floor beneath him swayed, or perhaps it was the world itself shifting, folding, blurring, its edges dissolving into nothingness. Darkness swam at the corners of his vision, pulsing like a heartbeat, calling him deeper, ever deeper.

Nothing was as it should have been. The furniture loomed, foreign and distorted, cast in hues of umber and violet, each shadow sharpened to unnatural clarity. The door was not where it should have been. Noé reached out, fingertips grazing the walls, but the texture beneath his touch transformed, shifting from cool stone to rough, frayed velvet. The walls closed in. The shadows stirred. Flickering tongues of light and darkness intertwined, restless, twisting like candle flames caught in an unseen tempest.

A whisper brushed past his ear, breathless, soundless, dissolving into the stifling hot air like mist. It smelled of something long forgotten, something cold and distant; a winter morning beneath a sky the colour of crushed violets.

His heart pounded, each beat a fractured, uneven rhythm, his pulse thrumming against his throat as if something inside him had lost its place. His vision blurred, his body swayed, the ground beneath his feet crumbling into nothing. He reached for purchase, for something solid, but all he found was the shifting tapestry of a world unravelling.

The heat beneath his skin was unbearable, searing from the inside out, yet his blood ran cold, thick as melted gold, sluggish and heavy. Sweat traced glistening trails down his spine, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone, cooling against fevered skin. Each breath dragged through his lungs like broken glass, ragged, uneven, desperate.

A voice, thick with sleep, fractured the silence.

“Noé?”

His name drifted toward him, a whisper wrapped in mist, slipping between his fingers before he could grasp it. He turned – or tried to. His limbs felt weighted, every movement sluggish, as if caught in invisible restraints. The world around him quivered, warped, its edges dissolving into an ephemeral blur, like a dream unravelling before it could take form.

A figure loomed before him; a spectre veiled in moonlight, its shape flickering like the reflection of stars on a restless sea. Darkness and radiance entwined, shifting, contorting, twisting into something warped and unreal. Dread, cold and insidious, curled through his ribs, rooting itself deep in his marrow and Noé stumbled back, panic lurching in his throat.

“What’s wrong with you?”

The voice, now sharper, cut through the thick fog enveloping his mind, though even in its urgency, it wavered, distorted; as though carried through water, its edges softened by distance, by the cruel blur of delirium.

"Vanitas...?" Noé asked, cracked and uncertain, the taste of something metallic lingering upon his tongue.

He blinked – once, twice – yet the world did not solidify. Instead, the walls continued to sway, colours spilling into one another in dreamlike strokes. Deep indigos bled into gold; rich carmine streaked through shifting darkness. The very air seemed liquid, glistening, trembling, shifting as though the room itself had been painted onto glass and was now melting away. A relentless throbbing pounded against his skull, a merciless drumbeat drowning his thoughts, fracturing them like brittle porcelain beneath an unyielding hand.

“Everything is… wrong. The walls… they’re moving…”, Noé slurred confused.

His own voice felt foreign, thick like honey, slow like autumn leaves spiralling toward the earth. Breath hitched in his chest, raw and scorching, his lungs sluggish in their labour. He was drowning in something invisible, something feverish and cloying, a fire burning him from the inside out.

Then, a whisper, as soft as the hush of falling snow and as insidious as the scent of lilacs in the dark, slipped into the tattered remains of his thoughts.

“You’re dreaming again, Noé”, the voice breathed in his ear.

Not a question. Not an answer. A certainty, woven into the very fabric of his reality.

His gaze drifted sideways, expecting Vanitas, expecting the dim, suffocating chamber, but what awaited him was neither. There, untouched by the distortions of the shifting world, stood Louis. His expression, serene yet weighty, bore the familiarity of a memory worn smooth by time. A ghost of a smile rested on his lips, yet his presence was fragile, a thing held together by the tenuous threads of remembrance. His mouth moved, shaping words that dissolved into the void before they could reach Noé’s ears.

“Louis…”, his voice broke, raw, fragile.

His name fell from Noé’s lips, fragile as autumn leaves caught in the wind, his voice untangling into a sound so delicate, so raw, it threatened to shatter beneath the weight of its own longing. The syllables burned in his throat, laden with an anguish that transcended sorrow, deeper than grief, more visceral than despair. It was the cry of a wound that had never healed, only festered in the shadows of his heart, waiting for this moment to break open anew.

His pulse hammered in his ears, erratic and uneven, a discordant rhythm to the chaos in his mind; and though his lips had formed the name, though he had spoken it into existence, it disintegrated almost immediately, dissolving into nothingness before it could truly reach the one for whom it was meant.

The voice spoke again, soft, distant, barely more than a whisper threading through the thick silence that surrounded him, and Noé’s thoughts reeled, grasping at the edges of understanding, but the words eluded him, fragmented and insubstantial, like echoes fading into inanition. A deep, gnawing confusion settled within him, coiling around his chest like an iron vice, suffocating, relentless.

“I… I don’t know…” he murmured hoarsely at last, confused.

He tried again, forcing himself to speak, to think, to hold onto something real, but his tongue was heavy and uncooperative as if it did not quite belong in his mouth; the weight of exhaustion clung to him, dragging his mind into murky depths where reason and clarity were but distant flickers of light.

His thoughts slipped away like grains of sand through his fingers. Every attempt to grasp reality only seemed to push him further into uncertainty, into disorientation, into a spiralling, desperate sense of being lost within himself.

A cool hand pressed against his forehead. The touch cool against his fevered skin, unfamiliar yet reminiscent of something he should have known, something that should have steadied him. It pressed lightly to his forehead, the gesture meant to comfort, to soothe, but instead, it only deepened the sensation that he was slipping away. The contact, though real, felt strangely distant, like a memory being relived rather than something happening in the present. Even his own body seemed reluctant to acknowledge it, the sensation barely registering past the growing haze in his mind.

His heart, frantic and aching, willed his eyes to search again, to seek the one who had filled his dreams and haunted his waking hours alike. His gaze darted, wild, desperate, scouring the space before him for golden light, for warmth, for the face he had longed to see for so many nights spent in silent agony. But the vision of Louis, the figure he had expected, the one he had called for, was nowhere to be found.

Instead, standing before him, wrapped in the quiet weight of something unfathomable, was a presence darker, taller, more formidable in stature. A shadow where there should have been light. A silhouette where there should have been familiarity.

His breath caught. His chest tightened. His lips parted, trembling on the edge of fear and recognition.

Teacher?

“̶N̶o̷é̷,̸ ̵l̴o̶o̸k̴ ̶a̴t̷ ̴m̷e̶.̶”

The voice, strangely subdued, echoed through the delirium clinging to him. There was no harshness in it, only something unfamiliar; something heavy with worry, heavy with sorrow.

“You’re not listening, Noé.”

The words were reproachful yet gentle, almost regretful.

He tried to hold onto them, to anchor himself, but everything was slipping, fracturing at the seams. His body no longer felt like his own and more like a hollow vessel teetering on the edge of dissolution.

“I… I’m sorry…” His lips formed the apology, but he could not tell if he had spoken them aloud.

“Hey! Noé! Concentrate!”

Suddenly, something gripped his shoulders and Noé flinched, his eyelids half-lifting, the effort to lift them akin to moving mountains. The pressure was grounding, cutting through the numbness like the first breath of cold air after drowning, while his thoughts scattered like leaves caught in a violent wind, but through the haze, the face before him sharpened, replacing the ghosts.

Vanita’s expression was uncharacteristically tense and carried unfamiliar worry. The sight of it was so out of place, it sent a fresh pang of clarity cutting through Noé’s fevered haze.

"Wh’re…’re we…?" The words, slurred and uncertain, tumbled from his lips, barely comprehensible even to himself.

The heat beneath his skin pulsed relentlessly and fevered as he exhaled in trembling gasps. The ground beneath him swayed, tilting his world in a manner that sent nausea curling in his gut. His head dipped forward, but the hands on him remained firm.

“E-Everythin’…‘s… spinnin’…”

“Noé, focus on me,” Vanitas intoned slowly, his grip tightening further, “You have a high fever. Someone must have poisoned you at the ball. It–”

“Hey, hey, Noé!” Fingers snapped in front of Noé’s face, the sharp sound slicing through the encroaching dark, demanding his attention.

Noé fought to sluggishly lift his gaze, his thoughts wading through thick, choking fog. When had he closed his eyes? Keeping them open felt impossible. The voice, once so sharp, sounded urgent, unravelling into distant echoes. The shadows lengthened, twisting and writhing like living things. The flickering torchlight blurred, glimmering in amber pools upon the cold marble floor.

He wanted to speak, to reassure, to say that there was no need for worry, that Teacher needn’t be concerned. But his tongue was too heavy, his lips unwilling to form words. All that escaped was a whimpering murmur.

The shadow’s voice still insistently reached for him, but it was growing distant, slipping between the spaces of his fading consciousness.

His breath came in gasping, uneven pulls, his body trembling beneath the fever’s relentless grip, while Louis’s voice whispered through the darkness, sang him a lullaby, a promise, an illusion. It called to him, warm against the encroaching void.

He felt his leaden body slowly slumping forward and his head tipping forward as his knees gave way beneath him, his eyelids too heavy and the air in his lungs burning.

He barely registered the fall, Vanita's desperate scream ringing in his ears.

The impact came as a distant echo, muffled, weightless. Yet he continued to fall, endlessly, swallowed by the vast, starless void. Cold licked at the edges of his mind even as fire raged through his veins. His consciousness flickered, splintering like shattered glass.

The world unravelled, unravelling with him.

Heat.

Cold.

Darkness.

───── ⋅ ✩ ⋅ ─────

Vanitas watched as Noé staggered, his frame swaying as though caught in the pull of an unseen tide, his breath slipping from his lips in shallow, uneven gasps. His eyes, so often alight with insatiable curiosity, with that soft, moonlit wonder that made him who he was, had dulled to a lifeless, unfocused haze. His irises, like amethysts cast beneath dark waters, losing their lustre to the encroaching shadows. A quiet horror unfurled in Vanitas’ chest, something he refused to name but could not banish.

Worry. Fear.

The scent of blood lingered in the air, warm and metallic, mingling with the faintest traces of lavender. Noé's nose began bleeding, his eyelids fluttered and Vanitas watched as his breaths growing shallower, more erratic.

He saw it, the moment Noé's knees gave in and his body surrendered to gravity, yet time stretched thin, cruel and deliberate in its descent.

“Noé!”, he cried, his voice piercing the silence, each syllable laden with panic.

His hand shot forward, a frantic, instinctive movement, fingers reaching, aching, to grasp, to hold, to stop–

The flickering candlelight caught the fall in slow motion; the pale glow reflecting against Noé’s skin, against the curve of his jaw, casting delicate, violet fractures against a face too eerily still, too hauntingly serene for what was unfolding.

But he was too late.

Noé’s collapsed, crumpled with a sickening, dull finality against the cold floor. The impact sent a shudder through the air, through Vanitas’ very bones.

Vanitas fell to his knees beside him; his fingers twitched, hesitating, trembling as he hovered over Noé’s unmoving form. He could not bring himself to touch; not yet. Because if he did, if he felt that unbearable stillness beneath his hands, if he confirmed that awful, unyielding truth, then something within him might break beyond repair.

The flickering light above them trembled, its glow casting long, wavering shadows across the walls, stretching their figures into ghostly silhouettes.

But he could not stay frozen in fear and Vanitas forced himself to move.

With a shaky breath, he reached forward, fingertips ghosting over Noé’s cheek, a feather-light touch that felt like blasphemy against skin so feverish yet so deathly pale. The contrast was suffocating – the way heat clung to Noé’s body as though he were burning from within, yet his complexion held the pallor of porcelain. Sweat clung to his brow, glistening in the dim light like scattered fragments of a shattered star, yet he remained still.

Too still.

A silence too vast, too empty.

A cold, paralyzing wave of despair washed over Vanitas, sapping the very breath from his lungs. He shook Noé gently, his voice quavering.

Vanitas swallowed against the tightness in his throat, his pulse a frantic, caged thing against his ribs. He brushed his thumb against Noé’s skin, clumsy, desperate, smearing away the thin rivulet of blood that had traced its way down his face, staining it a deep, aching red. Red like roses crushed beneath careless hands, red like the setting sun drowning in the sea, red like the open wound tearing itself wider in Vanitas’ chest.

A breath.

A shudder.

“Noé…”

“Noé, wake up”, he pleaded, his voice breaking fearfully.

No movement.

No sound.

Noé’s body remained heavy in his arms, an unbearable weight that pressed down on him, suffocating, terrifying, devastating. His lips parted, but no breath left them, his chest rising in shuddering, irregular intervals, as though Noé were forgetting how to exist, how to hold on.

Vanitas’ grip tightened.

“Please…”

A cold, creeping dread slithered up Vanitas’ spine, slow and merciless, sinking its fangs deep into his bones. A sickness twisted in his gut, nausea curling through him like thick, suffocating smoke. His own heartbeat roared in his ears, wild and panicked, a stark contrast to the unbearable quiet of Noé’s fragile, laboured breaths.

He was losing him.

The realization struck, visceral and unforgiving, knocking the breath from his lungs.

Damn it.

His hands clenched, fingers curling against the fabric of Noé’s clothes, as if anchoring him in place, as if holding on could stop the inevitable.

Damn it all.

Panic coiled around his throat, tightening its grasp with every frantic beat of his heart. His stomach, a pit of ice and fire, twisted violently, writhing beneath the crushing weight of dread. It threatened to consume him whole, a storm of terror pounding against his skull, talons of despair raking through his thoughts, clawing deep, dragging him toward the precipice of paralysis.

No.

No. He couldn’t let this happen.

Not like this. Not now. Not Noé.

Vanitas trembled as he pulled Noé closer, his hands near bloodless from the force of his grip. Noé’s body burned like a dying sun, fragile and flickering, its light threatening to vanish into the void. Hot tears carved their path down his cheeks, searing against his frozen skin. He wanted to scream, to curse the heavens, to do anything but sit helpless as the life he cherished slipped like sand through his fingers. And yet, he remained frozen, a prisoner within his own despair.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, ragged, nearly broken, “Please…”

The words barely existed, swallowed by the vast, indifferent night. A cruel wind stole them away, scattering them into the distance, where only the reflection of long dead stars lingered.

He didn’t know if Noé could still hear him, if he was already lost. Didn’t know how long this fever-ridden body, so heavy in his arms, would continue to breathe, to live.

Vanitas closed his eyes for a fleeting instant and in the suffocating darkness behind his lids, the weight of his fear crashed down upon him. His heart pounded like a war drum, each beat hammering against the fragile walls of his sanity, threatening to shatter him entirely.

A trembling sob escaped him, shattering the silence as he hugged Noé tighter.

He had to pull himself together. He had to act. He had to–

His mind came to a sudden halt.

Focussed, he took a deep, calming breath, trying to control his tears, as a dangerous glint blazed in his sapphire-blue eyes.

Poison.

Poison meant intent. Deliberate. Calculated. Someone had wanted to see Noé like this.

Wanted Noé weak, vulnerable, crumbling before their unseen hand.

The ballroom had been no mere gathering of gilded masks and hollow smiles – it had been a stage, a carefully woven illusion where death lurked unseen beneath crystal chandeliers and twirling dancers.

Rage ignited in his chest, a wildfire, an unholy inferno that threatened to consume every rational thought. His hands clenched, fingers twisting into the fabric of Noé’s clothing, gripping so fiercely his knuckles turned bone-white. His teeth ground together, the pressure a dull, pulsing pain radiating through his jaw, yet he welcomed it. It was something to hold on to, something real in the face of this waking nightmare.

He forced himself to breathe, to think, but his mind was a shattered mirror, fragments of clarity reflecting the same image over and over.

Noé falling.

Noé crumpling to the ground.

Noé, his breath a trembling whisper, slipping further, further, further..

Vanitas let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a sob and a snarl. With a violent motion, he wiped at the tears streaking his face, but they were relentless, unyielding, as though his body sought to mourn before he could fight.

Had it been a single misstep? A careless moment – a glance too long, a touch too fleeting? Or had the outcome been inevitable from the moment they set foot within that accursed place?

He shakingly breathed in and out, as he fought against the tide of emotions threatening to swallow him whole. He wanted to scream at the silence, at the void, at the unseen forces that conspired against him. But all he could do was clutch the dying light in his arms and pray to gods who had long since abandoned him.

“You won’t die,” he choked out, voice breaking like brittle glass, “Do you hear me?”

Was he speaking to Noé? To himself? To the very cosmos that had set this cruel fate in motion? He did not know.

But his tears fell nonetheless, silent and unrelenting like a sacred vow, while around them, the shadows thickened, curling hungrily at the edges of the world. The night was no longer merely darkness, but a greedy odiousness that watched with bated breath, waiting to claim what it was owed.

Vanitas did not know what poison coursed through Noé’s veins.

Nor did he know how much time remained.

But he knew one thing.

There was no choice. No hesitation. No surrender.

If the heavens themselves dared to stand in his way, he would shatter their gates. If the depths of hell sought to pull Noé into their torturous embrace, he would burn through their darkness and carve a path back to him with bloodied hands. The world, the laws of men and gods alike – none of it mattered. Only Noé. Only saving him.

Gently, he gathered Noé into his arms and rose to his feet.

With a gentleness at odds with the fury raging inside him, Vanitas gathered Noé’s frail form into his arms. He rose, feeling the weight of him – too light, too still – against his chest. The night swallowed them whole, a chasm of silence stretching endlessly in all directions, indifferent to their suffering.

Domi was not an option.

Not because she wouldn’t help him. But because she simply couldn’t.

Dominique de Sade loved Noé in a way that Vanitas neither understood nor ever would or wished to. It was the kind of love that knew no limits, but she never healed from her last loss. And for that very reason, she was the last person he could turn to. She wouldn’t simply fight for him – she would scorch the world blindly. If she realized how close Noé stood to the precipice of death, she would break and fall into madness – savagely setting fire to everything.

She would despise Vanitas with every fibre of her being. She would tear him apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

The Chasseurs were out of the question.

The Humans useless.

The Vampires dangerous.

He could not trust those bound by morality, for morality was a fleeting, fickle thing, a mirage that danced and shifted depending on who was watching. Morality was weak, unreliable. And Vanitas had no use for weakness. He needed something solid. Something unshakable. A force that moved not by conscience but by price – a demand, an exchange. That was the only certainty in this world.

The only language he understood was that of necessity.

Pure business.

A shuddering breath left him as shameful frustration curled around his ribs like a vice, squeezing until it was all he could do to remain standing. His sight blurred at the edges and he blinked hard against the tears that threatened to spill, his gaze lifting toward the heavens in a silent, futile plea.

The moon loomed above them, cold and distant, its silver light a pale mockery of salvation. It illuminated nothing. It saved no one. It was as indifferent as the gods themselves.

His fingers clenched around Noé, holding him tighter, as though he could tether him to this world through sheer force of will alone. A single tear slipped down his cheek, its warmth stark against the night’s cruel chill.

He couldn’t lose him.

Not Noé.

A breath, a whisper, a confession.

"I’m sorry, Noé."

Chapter Text

The night raised its voice in a gentle, plaintive lullaby, a faint echo of ancient sorrow drifting through the darkened alleys of the city. Above him, the endless sky stretched like a fractured mirror, the stars scattered like the gods' forsaken tears. Glittering, yet heavy with melancholy.

Their light refracted in the damp cobblestones, trickling down the jagged silhouettes of facades, casting spectral shadows that flickered with every breath of wind, as if they were alive. The air was thick with the scent of cold stone, of decay, steeped in the faint whisper of lost hopes dissolving into the night like ash.

A shattered kaleidoscope of silvered light and the ravenous grasp of burning dreams flickered at the edges of Noé’s consciousness. It danced in trembling shards, merging, unravelling, dissolving into the feverish haze of his thoughts.

Noé did not know where he was.

He drifted aimlessly in an ocean of darkness, a shoreless hell where space and time had lost all meaning. Somewhere, beyond the shifting mist, he felt arms holding him. A vague memory of safety, of something familiar. A shadow of past comfort. A heartbeat, close yet distant. A pulse that was not his own.

But it was meaningless.

Everything was meaningless.

For all that remained was pain.

His body burned in a searing inferno, each breath a torment, as if liquid lava filled his lungs. Invisible blades tore through him from within, acid poison coursing through his veins, devouring him with insatiable hunger. Yet he was too weak to scream, too feeble to fight back. Only a strangled whimper escaped his cracked lips, a whisper, lost in the icy silence of the night. The unbearable agony was omnipresent, pulsating, all-encompassing, and as he sank into its abyss, the cold hand of despair tightened around his throat. Fear shackled his soul, imprisoning him in a cage of nameless suffering.

Scalding, silent tears burned their way down his cheeks, vanishing into the darkness as though they had never existed.

He floated. Fell. Or both at once. He no longer knew, no longer understood how long he had spent adrift in weightlessness. He could not remember. Time was an illusion, a farce that faded in the wake of agony. Second by second, it dripped through his fingers like molten glass. Cutting, burning, disappearing.

Heat pulsed beneath his skin like fevered fire, searing, consuming, only to be shattered by a cold so biting it gnawed into his very bones. The pain was an endless cycle, a cruel dance between flame and terror, dragging him to the brink of unconsciousness yet never releasing him.

His breath scraped dry against his throat, his lips cracked, his mouth parched. His body was heavy, yet weightless, like petals upon the wind. He wanted to beg, to plead for it to end, but all he had left were his tears and the bitter taste of his own blood.

The fresh night air was cool, but the venom in his body still burned, leaving him frozen in hellish torment. Sounds were muffled, distorted, as if seeping through from underwater. His breathing came in ragged, uneven gasps, each breath a battle. His body trembled uncontrollably, yet every movement seemed impossible.

A breeze ghosted through his hair, cool, yet strangely gentle. In the distance, beyond the haze of his agony, an echo of laughter rang out. Soft. Light. Familiar. Painfully familiar. But when he reached for it, it crumbled between his fingers, vanishing like smoke into the night.

Blinding light seared his vision as a tender embrace enveloped his skin, warming his heart like whispered memories of a time long lost. Noé allowed himself to be held, cocooned in its sheltering grasp. Large, obscure eyes, gleaming like dark amethysts, full of meaning, full of life, looked down at him, a gentle, sorrowful smile upon their lips.

"Noé," the voice murmured, soft as an autumn breeze, bittersweet as a forgotten melody, "Why are you crying?"

He wanted to answer, to speak, but the words lodged in his throat, as if every emotion he had ever felt had become too much, his chest tightening with the weight of them. The figure, this shadow of a dream, tilted their head, stepping back, slipping from his embrace and panic clawed its way into Noé’s chest. He wanted to hold on, to cling to the warmth, but deep down, he knew he could not.

"Why did you forget us?"

The words echoed through him, distorted, foreign, and yet, Noé could not see their face.

"No, I..." He wanted to protest, to remember, to understand. But his voice failed him.

The scent of blood. The screams. The crunch of bones beneath merciless blades.

His heart pounded against his ribs, shattering into a thousand pieces as he watched the shadows dissolve, leaving behind only emptiness. Bitterly, his hands clenched into fists. Nothing remained but the abyss. A vast, endless void.

"You didn’t stop it," the shadow whispered, turning to him.

A condemnation.

Hollow eyes bore into him. Bottomless. A chasm, waiting to swallow him whole.

"You failed. And you will fail again."

"̴͓́D̸͂ȏ̷ͅ ̵̥͐y̵͂o̴͙̿u̶͇͂ ̵͉́ẗ̵ͅh̷̒i̷̜̽n̶͕̂k̶̿ ̷̫͝y̸͔̕o̶̚ù̷̥ ̵͈͊ć̷a̷̼̍n̵̩̽ ̵̈ĕ̴ͅs̷̥͘c̶̍a̸̲̽p̸̟̔e̵̞͋ ̴́m̸̩̌e̶̥͐?̴̠̚"̸̤̚

The shadow loomed over him, darkness curling around him like an encroaching tide. Noé could not run. A sudden gasp tore from his lips, choking on his own blood as pain lanced through him. Slowly, he looked down.

A blade, cold as death, had pierced him from behind, driving through his chest. The warm light of his world shattered into dust, leaving him only with the unrelenting solitude. Instead of air, his lungs filled with the metallic taste of blood. Life bled from him, torn away like a trembling leaf in a storm.

He drowned. In darkness. In voices. In guilt.

Blood was everywhere.

Clinging to his fingers.

The voices around him grew louder, a distorted chorus of mourning wails.

"Hold on."

The words were scarcely more than a breath of wind, a final whisper of bittersweet warmth that had never been. An anchor of forgotten hope, nothing more than a shadow.

Arms around him. A heartbeat pressed against his fevered cheek. The darkness surged in waves of pain and despair, dragging him down, deeper, ever deeper, until only a single ember remained. A light that did not come from the stars. A tear that was not his own.

Before the night swallowed him whole.

───── ⋅ ✩ ⋅ ─────

An icy breath of wind swept through the narrow alleyways like a silent harbinger of doom, stirring up brittle leaves and carrying with it the damp, weighty scent of ancient stone and decaying foliage. The wan glow of distant street lamps was swallowed by the darkness, their feeble light casting flickering shadows upon the glistening wet cobblestones.

In the distance, a single bell tolled, deep, muffled, as though the peaceful night itself had paused for a heartbeat. A dull, forlorn chime, lost to the void before oppressive silence reclaimed its dominion, lurking, dissolving into nothingness.

Breathless, Vanitas rushed through the labyrinthine streets, his coat whipping in the wind as his frantic heartbeat pounded against his ribs. Noé lay heavy in his arms, his body limp, fever-hot yet deathly pale. Every step was a battle against exhaustion, against the gnawing fear that threatened to consume him whole.

His breath came in ragged gasps, steaming in the frigid night air, as at last, the ominous manor loomed before him, its towering walls a mute sentinel against the encroaching doom.

Without hesitation, without even a moment’s respite, he struck the heavy wooden door with all his strength. Again. And again.

His bloodied knuckles crashed against the dark, unyielding wood, over and over, until numbness devoured the pain.

"Open up! Bloody hell, OPEN UP!"

His voice tore through the night, hoarse, trembling with urgency. But silence was a cruel adversary, suffocating his cries, swallowing them whole as if they had never been uttered. The wind howled through the empty streets, pulling at his clothes, whipping through Noé’s damp, tangled hair, which clung feverishly to his burning forehead. His breaths came shallow, barely more than a whisper against the biting cold.

The seconds stretched into an eternity, an unbearable void of hope and dread. Then, at last, a sound from within. Footsteps – hurried, urgent.

The door was flung open, and Vanitas blinked against the dim candlelight spilling from within. His gaze met Jeanne’s. Her eyes, wide with shock, disbelief, and wariness, locked onto his, searching. The storm-wind surged between them, making the candle flames waver as if the very air sought to extinguish them.

Vanitas stood, a dark, angular silhouette against the night, his shoulders heavy with weariness, his lips pressed into a thin line. Shadows carved deep hollows into his features, making him seem even more distant, even more lost.

"Vanitas? What-"

"Help him," he forced out, his voice raw, fractured, "Please."

He stepped forward and as Jeanne’s gaze dropped to Noé’s motionless form, the shock in her expression melted away, replaced by a steely resolve.

Without hesitation, without a second of doubt, her hands slid beneath Noé’s body, firm, steady, possessing that quiet strength which required no words. Vanitas’ fingers clung to him for a fraction of a second longer, the final anchor to the weight he had carried for so long. But then he met Jeanne’s unwavering gaze, filled with unspoken assurances and reluctantly he let go.

The emptiness in his arms sent a shiver through him, the sudden absence of weight as startling as a plunge into darkness. His entire body trembled; only now did he truly feel the exhaustion sinking into his bones. But Jeanne did not look back. With a single, curt glance, she pulled him from his daze.

"Come with me."

Her voice was calm, steady, yet there was something beneath it. Something untamed, something raw, speaking in the silence that stretched between them.

Vanitas followed without a word of protest, a shadow caught in the wake of her determination. The manor’s corridors stretched endlessly, labyrinthine and ancient as time itself, their walls licked by the flickering gloom of torchlight, the shadows waltzing upon the stone like echoes of forgotten centuries.

Their footsteps rang hollow against the cold floor, a slow, ghostly heartbeat reverberating through the oppressive stillness of the mansion. The air was thick with a metallic scent, laced with the faint perfume of roses, while an intangible, chilling presence seemed to seep from the very walls themselves.

Vanitas' gaze fell upon Noé in Jeanne’s arms, his laboured breaths a burning reminder. Each passing second was a thief, mercilessly stealing away what little time remained.

Deep within, Vanitas fought against a truth he barely dared acknowledge. He wanted to believe. He wanted to hope. And yet, he feared that even the smallest breath, the faintest whisper of doubt, would be enough to snuff out that fragile spark.

Jeanne’s eyes, soft yet unwavering in their resolve, were a silent reassurance, a promise without words. He felt the quiet between them like an unspoken vow, a whisper in the vastness of uncertainty.

Her movements were urgent, yet in her gaze lay a tenderness that, if only for a fleeting moment, allowed him to hope.

"Ruthven will save him," she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath in the cold air.

Ruthven.

A name like a dagger in the night. A politician, a manipulator, a silent architect of the inevitable. A man who never acted without cost, whose debts were paid in blood and secrets.

The only one with the power to save Noé.

The only one who would help without alerting half the aristocracy.

Vanitas let out a dry, bitter laugh, tension thrumming through his voice.

"He’d better."

Jeanne hesitated, just for a fleeting second, and when her gaze met his, it was sharp as a blade, an ice-blue tempest that stole the breath from his lungs.

"You don’t trust him."

"Of course not," he murmured, a dark smile ghosting at the corner of his lips, "That’s why I’m here."

Vanitas knew he could never trust Ruthven. More than that, he expected him to seize any opportunity to ensnare them in a web of debt and dependency. Nothing about this bargain was selfless. That much was certain.

Ruthven would want something.

And yet, he was their only chance.

His hands curled into fists, nails biting deep into his palms as he forced himself into composure. He had brokered worse deals. He had drunk with monsters and stared into the abyss without blinking.

But this time... this time, it was not his own life on the scales.

Noé could not die.

Something cold uncoiled in his chest, a nameless tightness, a weight like invisible fingers closing around his throat. It was not mere fear, it was something else, something deeper, something that gnawed at the very core of him. A desperate, all-consuming dread.

Jeanne halted before a massive door of dark, ancient wood, and for a single, fleeting heartbeat, they lingered in silence, with only Noé’s uneven breaths breaking the stillness.

Moonlight, pale and spectral, streamed through a high window, painting silvered reflections across her features, casting her skin in an otherworldly glow. Vanitas saw her lips part slightly, as though she were about to speak – something urgent, something forbidden.

But she did not.

Instead, she lowered her gaze, pressing her lips into a thin line. And Vanitas saw, in the flickering candlelight, the fragile, unspoken fears shimmering within her.

"Be careful," she whispered, her voice scarcely more than a breath, yet it sliced through the silence like a blade of frozen glass.

For the briefest fraction of a second, an ephemeral, fleeting eternity, something tangible flickered within it. A faint tremor, an echo of weakness that should never have existed.

Vanitas swallowed hard. The fire within him stood in agonising contradiction to the icy fear nesting in his bones, creeping like frost along his nerves, making his breath heavy. He gave a curt nod as Jeanne tightened her hold on Noé.

With a single, resolute motion, Vanitas pushed open the heavy doors and at once, an icy wind tore through the corridor, setting his coat billowing. They stepped inside with dignity, each step heavier than the last.

The moon's silver light seeped through the high windows in gentle, fractured rays. The night’s shadows cast flickering patterns across the polished marble floor, while the deep red velvet curtains swayed languidly in the breeze, as though alive, breathing in silent anticipation. A faint scent of old parchment, dried blood, and the rich aroma of red wine lingered in the air, a blend of timelessness and transience.

Vanitas and Jeanne entered, their footsteps a quiet echo in the almost sacred silence, Noé’s fragile form unconscious in their arms. The twilight painted delicate patterns upon his pale skin, rendering him like a figure from aged parchment, on the verge of fading into nothingness.

Ruthven sat in a grand chair, its dark leather devouring the scant light, a black hole at the heart of this august scene. A slender wine glass, filled with the deep, ruby-red sin of sweet blood, rested in his hand, his fingers loosely curled around the fragile stem. The shimmering liquid caught the moonlight, making it dance like liquid fire.

He looked up. Calm, measured; yet in his eyes, something glimmered. A silent spark of surprise, that dangerous blend of curiosity and amusement. Fascination at the audacity of a mortal standing before him.

Vanitas felt it in his bones, in his chest, in his very soul. The damnation that haunted him.

"Vanitas," Ruthven spoke, his voice so quiet it was like the last breath of a dying wind, a whisper of cool, unattainable indifference hanging in the darkness.

His gaze slid slowly to Jeanne before lingering on Noé, a consideration neither pitying nor scornful, but the detached interest of one who viewed the tragedies of others as nothing more than moves upon a chessboard.

Noé hung between consciousness and oblivion, his body exhausted, his mind a flickering spark in a sea of shadows. Beads of sweat glistened on his pale skin like dew upon withered grass, while damp strands clung in disarray to his forehead. His chest rose and fell irregularly, as if each breath were a hesitant, painful decision not to slip into the abyss.

“I need your help.”

Vanitas’ voice sliced through the oppressive tension. It was resolute, yet beneath it trembled a barely veiled panic, a tremor of fear vibrating through his words like a taut string on the verge of snapping.

Ruthven remained motionless for an endless heartbeat before, for the briefest instant, the mask of restraint slipped and true anger flickered across his features. In one smooth, sinuous motion, he rose, his movement imbued with the ominous grace of a predator, while Jeanne flinched almost imperceptibly. Her fingers clenched into the fabric she held, a barely perceptible shudder coursing through her shoulders.

The candlelight cast restless shadows across Ruthven’s face, but as swiftly as his fury had surfaced, it was subdued. When he gathered himself once more, a cool, almost amused smile played on his lips, a performance, a game meant for no one but himself. His fangs glinted like silver.

Jeanne knew his moods, his masks, his perilous shifts between irony and menace, yet that fleeting moment, however brief, set her instincts on edge. She unconsciously inched closer to Vanitas, her gaze fixed warily upon Ruthven.

“My help?”

The echo of his words hovered in the taut air as his slender fingers let the wine glass drift down to the marble table with a soft chime, almost like glass upon ice. His eyes wandered lazily to the window, where the blue moon loomed over the horizon like a cold, celestial deity. Its silver strands of light threaded through the tall windowpanes, weaving over the dark silk of his coat, steeping the scene in an otherworldly gravity.

“Tell me, Vanitas…” His voice was barely more than a whisper, steeped in dark amusement. “What did you hope for? Did you truly believe I would so readily take your side?”

Vanitas’ lips pressed into a thin line, his fingers clenching into the fabric of his jacket, yet he did not falter. In his eyes burned a fire that neither mockery nor pride could quench.

A silent, unyielding determination.

A prayer that needed no words.

“It’s about Noé.”

His voice was quieter now, more urgent, as if he could compel Ruthven to act through sheer force of will.

“He has been poisoned.”

Ruthven arched a single brow.

“Poisoned?” he echoed, his tone unhurried as he turned back to the human, “And you, Vanitas, have no idea how to cure him?”

Vanitas’ gaze darkened, frustration and anger flickering in his expression, but Ruthven caught the faintest tremor in his eyes. The unspoken truth roiling beneath the surface.

Not pride. Not arrogance. But a desperate plea.

A silent, yet deafening cry for help.

“You must know what to do,” Vanitas’ voice was impatient, almost frantic, “I need a healer. But you… you have influence. You can help. If you don’t – he will die.”

Ruthven ran a gloved hand slowly across the marble surface of the table as he stepped forward, too smoothly, too calmly.

“You came to me,” he murmured, amusement curling at the edges of his words, “You know I can save him. But tell me, why should I?”

Jeanne stepped forward, her gaze a tempest of unguarded emotion and Ruthven came to a halt.

“Please,” she pleaded, and in her voice lay an unfamiliar rawness, a rough edge carved by fear.

She clutched Noé even tighter, as though her touch alone could tether him to life.

Ruthven regarded Jeanne with an expression poised between indulgence and curiosity. Her stance was resolute, but her eyes flickered between fear and hope.

“Jeanne,” he murmured at last, his voice almost fatherly, “why do you bring me a plea you do not fully understand?”

She swallowed, her throat tight. She had spent years striving to earn his approval, accepting his words as unassailable truth. Yet now, she stood before him as a supplicant, with a human at her side.

“I understand perfectly,” she replied, her voice softer, but steady, “Noé is in danger and I will not let him die. Please, my Lord Ruthven… I beg you.”

A quiet laugh slipped from Ruthven, not mocking, not cruel, but… almost gentle.

He stepped closer, raised a gloved hand and rested it lightly upon her head. It was a gesture that had once brought her comfort in childhood. Now, it felt heavier, burdened with unsaid words.

“You are stubborn, my dear girl.”

His hand drifted away. Then, inhaling deeply, he filled the room with something unspoken, something balanced between power and something far more elusive.

“Lay Noé upon the chaise longue.”

Jeanne hesitated, then obeyed, setting him down with careful reverence.

“Now leave. I will take care of this."

Jeanne looked as if she wanted to protest, but then she bowed her head slightly. With one last, worried glance at Noé and Vanitas, who returned her gaze with equal concern, she left the room.

Ruthven slowly turned towards the unconscious vampire and knelt beside him. His hand moved gently to Noé’s forehead, his fingertips resting motionless for a moment on the cool skin. A barely audible sound escaped his lips, almost a hum, a quiet flicker of thoughtfulness.

Then, with unhurried grace, he rose to his feet, his posture relaxed as he turned back to Vanitas. His smile remained, yet in the golden depths of his eyes, a sharper gleam lurked.

"And you..." His gaze grew colder, though his voice was as smooth as velvet. "You are truly a nuisance. Fascinating, certainly. But not as valuable as you seem to think."

Vanitas’ eyes darkened, his hands curling into fists, but he said nothing. Ruthven played this game with an elegance that was almost admirable. Almost. But Vanitas knew the dance of intrigue. He understood that words could be weapons, sharper than any blade.

"Perhaps that is exactly what you need, Vanitas. A lesson. You are not the only one vying for power." Ruthven stepped closer, his silhouette a fluid shadow in the flickering candlelight. "But I suppose you do not wish to hear that, do you?"

Vanitas' lips curled into a smile that concealed none of his contempt.

"You forget one thing. I am not here to negotiate," he replied, his tone edged with quiet menace.

Ruthven chuckled softly, a cold, razor-sharp amusement flickering in his gaze.

"You have no choice, Ruthven," Vanitas went on, his voice deep, carrying the weight of an unspoken threat. "You know what I am capable of. And if he dies, you lose more than just him. You lose access to what truly interests you."

A flicker of something passed through Ruthven’s eyes.

"Dying, hm?" He tilted his head slightly, as if savouring the word on his tongue. "You humans cling to the concept of death, to desperate hopes in search of answers. But to a vampire, it is something else entirely. An end far worse than you can imagine. And what if I were to tell you that, by invoking it, you are stepping onto a battlefield that will consume you?"

Ruthven’s voice was calm, almost indulgent, yet the undercurrent beneath it left no doubt that he was utterly unmoved by Vanitas’ urgency. Vanitas' jaw tensed, but he held Ruthven’s gaze. Two predators circling each other, their hatred hidden but palpable.

"If there is one thing I understand, it is this.," Vanitas said darkly, " Noé’s death would be the death of my plan, the death of your own ambitions. Perhaps he is my friend, perhaps to you nothing more than a weapon. But above all, he is a bargaining piece in this game and his death would shake the board."

"Ah, Vanitas," Ruthven murmured, his voice infinitely measured, "you do not understand politics as well as you think. The Elders' Council is not the only faction with a stake in this game. The Montclairs are but one part of a greater whole. But Noé… he is the key. His death could expose the weakness that has crept into our ranks. His death could serve as an example."

A nearly imperceptible smile ghosted across Ruthven’s lips as he weighed the situation.

Noé was more than a valuable political instrument. He possessed a power Ruthven could harness, a force that could solidify his control over the shifting tides of vampire affairs.

Perhaps Noé was precisely what Ruthven required to secure his position in the coming war for dominance. His decision has long since been made.

Suddenly, Vanitas smiled, though there was nothing warm about it. It was the smile of a gambler revealing his final card.

"Ruthven," he said softly, almost offhandedly, "what if I were to offer you something even you could not refuse?"

For a moment, the air in the room seemed to still. Ruthven’s eyes narrowed slightly, his curiosity piqued.

"Oh?"

Vanitas leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"I know where the Book of the Damned is. And I can bring it to you."

A crack appeared in Ruthven’s perfectly composed expression. It was slight, no more than the barest flicker in his gaze, but it was there.

For a few heartbeats, he said nothing. Then, at last, he spoke, quietly, his voice colder still.

"You are playing a dangerous game, Vanitas."

"I always do," Vanitas replied.

Ruthven exhaled a soft, amused laugh.

"Very well," he said, his voice an exquisite balance of mirth and command, "Let us hope that his trust in you outweighs your betrayal."