Vienna was colder than Vivienne remembered.
The wind whispered down the alleys like a memory laced in smoke, and the bells of St. Stephen's Cathedral tolled midnight as if mourning something already buried.
Vivienne stood on the balcony of Julien's apartment, her coat drawn tightly around her shoulders. Below, the city moved with elegant indifference—carriages of modern wealth gliding over cobblestones once soaked in blood. The world didn't care that one more devil had been dragged screaming into the dark.
But she did.
Damien stepped outside behind her, bandages visible beneath his unbuttoned shirt. His dark eyes flicked toward the sky.
"You haven't slept," he said.
Vivienne didn't look at him. "I didn't come back to rest."
Julien had gone silent since Corsica. No calls. No signals. His flat was clean—too clean. Not a trace of clutter, not a smear on glass. Vivienne knew what it meant.
He was either in hiding… or dead.
She held the USB Camille had slipped into her coat back at the Zurich gallery. She hadn't opened it yet.
Damien noticed. "You trust her that much?"
"No," Vivienne whispered. "But I trust that she wanted something from this mess to matter."
She plugged it into her laptop.
---
A single video file.
Grainy. Surveillance style.
It showed Valentin… alive.
Bandaged, limping, but unmistakably him. Sitting across from a new figure. One Vivienne had never seen before—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a priest's collar.
They were in a church. Somewhere old. Russian Orthodox, by the decor.
The man's face was hard to make out, but his voice carried clearly:
"You've failed. The D'Aragon girl is no longer manageable."
Valentin coughed blood, wiping it from his chin. "She's a child chasing a ghost. I clipped her wings long ago."
The man leaned forward, his voice calm and terrifying.
"You didn't clip them. You taught her to fly."
Static cut in. Then silence.
Vivienne stared at the blank screen for a long time.
Damien spoke first. "He wasn't the top. Someone else pulled the strings."
Vivienne nodded slowly. "The real game wasn't about my father."
"Or your name."
"No. It was about control. Legacy. They wanted a weapon."
"And you refused to be one," Damien said softly.
Vivienne stood, her voice flat. "No. I just chose my target."
---
That night, she visited her father's grave.
It was hidden in a forgotten cemetery outside the city—no flowers, no visitors, just cold stone and colder silence. She knelt before it, gloved fingers brushing the engraved name:
Mathieu D'Aragon
Born in shadows. Buried in silence.
She closed her eyes.
"I know why you did it," she whispered. "You weren't trying to sell me. You were trying to protect me from becoming this."
Her voice broke slightly.
"You didn't fail."
Behind her, Damien stood watch. Silent. Letting her speak to ghosts.
Vivienne reached into her coat and placed the torn contract pages she'd salvaged from La Gueule Noire at the base of the grave. Then she lit a match.
As the flames rose, so did the past.
Gone.
Finally.
---
Back in the city, she made a decision.
If someone else sat above Valentin, if another hand had written her fate in crimson, then she would find them.
And she wouldn't bring justice.
She would bring ruin.
The first clue was in the video.
The priest.
Julien would know. If he was alive.
"Next stop?" Damien asked as they packed the last of the gear.
Vivienne looked up, eyes fierce beneath the soft glow of the chandelier.
"Moscow."