Moscow greeted them with ice on its breath.
Snow fell in fine, whispering sheets as the city loomed in muted tones of grey and white. The golden domes of St. Basil's Cathedral shimmered like relics from a forgotten empire, and the streets below churned with fur coats, silent security, and secrets thicker than the clouds.
Vivienne adjusted the fur-trimmed hood of her coat, her honey-brown eyes scanning the Red Square with a predator's stillness. Damien walked beside her, his black overcoat dusted with snowflakes, lips set in a line.
They had come chasing a ghost—a man in a priest's collar, a thread Camille had left dangling on purpose. She knew it. Camille always played games with endings she never intended to write herself.
Now, it was up to Vivienne to finish this chapter in blood.
---
They followed the trail to a crumbling cathedral on the edge of the city—abandoned by the Church, but not by power.
Inside, beneath frescoes of dying saints, they met a man known only as Father Lev.
He wasn't dressed like a priest.
Black turtleneck, leather gloves, and eyes like glass waiting to shatter. His silver beard was trimmed, his every word deliberate.
"You've come far, mademoiselle D'Aragon," he said, voice echoing in the frost-laced pews. "Even Valentin did not expect you to last."
Vivienne didn't sit. "Then you knew Valentin."
"I trained him," Father Lev replied. "And several others."
"Like Camille?"
His smile deepened. "She was one of my better mistakes."
Damien stepped closer. "We're not here for riddles."
"No," Lev said calmly. "You're here for truth. And truth is the most expensive currency of all."
Vivienne's gaze narrowed. "Then name your price."
Lev walked to the altar, where a decanter of wine sat untouched.
"I want what Valentin took from me: the Pacte d'Hiver. The Winter Pact."
Vivienne's brow furrowed. "That's a myth."
"No," Lev said, "it's the backbone of the network Valentin built. A document binding six houses—European bloodlines who fund the trafficking, laundering, and war economies. One of them betrayed me. Valentin took the Pact and used it to consolidate control."
He turned slowly, face as still as a statue.
"Find it. Deliver it to me. And I will tell you who killed your father."
Silence filled the cathedral.
Vivienne met his gaze without flinching. "Why should I believe you?"
"Because," he said, "I was there when your father signed the first draft of the Pact."
Her blood ran cold.
Damien stepped forward. "What do you know about Julien?"
Lev chuckled. "Your French friend has many enemies. But I suspect he's still alive. Valentin never liked waste."
He tossed a small envelope to Vivienne.
"Coordinates. Montenegro. A villa on the cliffs. You'll find your next piece there."
She took it, jaw tight.
"I'll get you the Pact," she said. "But I'm not delivering it for power. Only for one thing."
Lev tilted his head. "Vengeance?"
"No," she said, walking toward the exit.
"Closure."
---
Later that night, back at their safehouse in Arbat, Vivienne sat by the fire, legs tucked under her as Damien cleaned his gun beside her. Neither of them spoke for a while.
Then she asked quietly, "Would you kill me… if you had to?"
Damien looked up, startled. "What?"
"If I became like them. If I let the power sink into me. If I stopped fighting for the right reasons."
He met her gaze, deadly calm.
"I wouldn't let you fall that far."
"Then what would you do?"
"I'd remind you of who you are," he said. "And if you didn't listen…"
He paused.
"I'd burn the world with you."
---
Vivienne closed her eyes, exhaling slowly.
The Winter Pact.
Montenegro.
And a name buried in snow and silence.
This wasn't just revenge anymore.
This was war.
And she was ready to wear the crown of ruin.