The town of Luminelle, tucked to the east of the Kingdom of Élysia, looked peaceful by midnight. A soft wind blew through the cobbled streets, and the lamps flickered gently like they had secrets to whisper. On the corner of Rue des Lys, stood a bar called Le Cygne Noir — The Black Swan. From the outside, it looked like any other bar. But inside, it was different.
It was alive.
The room was thick with perfume, laughter, and smoke. Wine glasses clinked. A violin played somewhere in the back. There was music, warmth, and the sort of soft chaos only night could bring. Men leaned back in their chairs, drunk and loud. Women whispered behind fans. Cards were dealt. Bets were placed. Money passed from hand to hand.
But in the middle of all that noise sat a man in his thirties.
A nobleman. Tall. Sharp suit. Clean cut.
And completely distracted.
He wasn't drinking. He wasn't gambling. He wasn't talking. He was just staring—staring like he'd never seen a woman before. And the woman he was staring at stood behind the bar with her back turned, laughing softly with one of the barmaids.
Vivienne Moreau.
Raven-haired. Icy blue-eyed. Twenty-eight. She looked like a scandal waiting to happen. She smiled like she knew every man's weakness and wore her corset like a weapon.
The man could barely breathe. His fingers drummed nervously on the table. His mouth was slightly open like he wanted to say something but didn't know what. His eyes never left her.
And Vivienne?
Vivienne noticed.
She let out a soft laugh, like a girl surprised by attention. Her cheeks even turned pink. Or so it seemed. But that wasn't a blush. That wasn't shyness. That wasn't romance. That was victory. Because tonight, Vivienne had found her prey.
You see, Vivienne didn't run Le Cygne Noir to serve wine or give men hope. She ran it to steal from them. Not all of them—only the ones who deserved it. The arrogant. The rich. The greedy. The ones who couldn't keep their eyes to themselves.
This man was perfect.
She watched him. Not lovingly, not nervously—coldly. She watched how he walked in and checked the time with a gold watch that shone like it belonged to royalty. She saw the silver and emerald ring on his index finger. The topaz cufflinks catching the candlelight. Even the shine of the coins in his pocket. She could smell money from across the room.
He was full of it.
And now, it would be hers.
Vivienne whispered something into the ear of her barmaid and then walked away, disappearing up the staircase that led to the balcony. The man watched her go. His face fell. He looked confused, maybe even disappointed. Had she left? Was that all?
The barmaid approached his table.
"This one's on the house," she said, setting down a cocktail with a little smile. "The Madame made it herself."
The man blinked. "She did?"
The barmaid leaned in just a little and added, "She's waiting for you. Up on the balcony."
He didn't need to hear more. He tossed back the cocktail like it was holy water and stood up so fast he nearly knocked his chair over. He smoothed his coat and started for the stairs.
Behind him, the barmaid sighed and shook her head.
Upstairs, the balcony was quiet. Only the sound of the wind.
Vivienne stood near the edge, leaning on the wooden frame. Her hair blew gently around her shoulders. The moonlight made her skin glow soft and pale. But her eyes were empty.
Empty like something inside her had been gone for a long, long time.
The man stepped onto the balcony and hesitated. Then he walked slowly toward her. He adjusted his collar, wiped his palms on his coat, then said gently,
"Bonsoir."
She turned around slowly. Her whole body softened, like she was shy now. Her lashes fluttered. She looked down and turned away a little.
"Good evening, my lord," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He stepped closer. "Good evening, my lady."
"I'm not a lady," she said with a small smile.
He blinked. "Oh. Apologies. It's just… you're so beautiful, mademoiselle, I thought surely—"
"You flatter me," she whispered.
He lifted his hand and touched her cheek. Gently. Almost like he thought she might vanish.
"My God," he breathed. "You're so beautiful."
Vivienne tilted her head slightly. Her eyes were half-closed. Her lips parted.
And then he kissed her.
Softly. Slowly. Like he meant it.
But something was wrong.
His hands trembled. His grip loosened. Then, suddenly, he collapsed forward.
Vivienne caught him slightly but then shoved him off. He dropped to the floor like a sack of flour.
Her smile disappeared. Her eyes turned cold.
She wiped her lips like his mouth had left poison. Then, calm and focused, she knelt beside him and slipped the ring off his finger, unhooked his cufflinks, and unstrapped the gold watch.
She pocketed everything. Then stood up, fixed her dress, and walked back toward the bar like nothing happened.
As she reached the foot of the stairs, one of the barmaids rushed toward her, face pale, breath short.
"Madame—" she began, her voice shaking.
Vivienne frowned. "What is it?"
But before the girl could speak, Vivienne felt something cold and sharp press against her throat.
A sword.
Her body went still.
And then came a voice.
Smooth. Strong. Cold like winter.
"Vivienne Moreau," the voice said. "It's been two years."
Vivienne's heart stopped.
"I have been looking everywhere for you."
She knew that voice.
She knew it too well.
Her lips parted. Her eyes widened. But she didn't turn.
She didn't have to.
She knew exactly who was behind her.
And for the first time that night—maybe even the first time in months—Vivienne felt something real.
Fear.