In an abandoned art deco estate at the city's edge — once owned by a minor noble family, now reclaimed by mold and moonlight. The chandeliers still hang, but dust fills the crystal. The curtains never open here. Time has been stopped on purpose.
This is Veritas's personal stage.
She awoke to silence.
---
A golden silence—not warm, but brittle. The kind that cracked if you breathed too hard.
The room was large but airless, as though time had stopped breathing here decades ago. Dust clung to the walls like memory. Faded portraits watched from above the fireplace—faces she didn't recognize. Heavy curtains swallowed the light, and a strange, floral perfume still lingered in the cracks of the old wood.
The velvet chaise creaked as she sat up. Her head ached. Her shoes were gone.
Then the door opened with a soft click.
Veritas stepped inside wearing gloves.
"You're awake," he said, like it was a social call. Like they were about to discuss weather and wine.
She blinked. "Where…?"
"This place belonged to an actress once," he said. "Famous in the 30s. Retired young. Died alone."
His tone was mild. Practiced. But when she rose, she heard the unmistakable sound of the bolt sliding into place behind him.
She moved toward the window. Barred.
"You're keeping me here?"
"I'm protecting you," Veritas replied smoothly. "The world outside is complicated. Here, you're safe."
She turned toward him, fists clenched. "Safe from what?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he set a small recording device on the vanity.
"We need to make a statement," he said gently. "Something to… encourage resolution. You understand."
"No."
"You will."He pressed play.
The red light blinked. Then stayed on.
Veritas looked at her calmly, arms crossed.
"Say your name."
She didn't move.
"Say it."
"...Lyselle Fontanne."
"The rest."
She hesitated. Her voice was trembling.
"I've… I've been taken. I won't be released…"
Veritas's gaze didn't waver.
"...until the Fontanne debt is paid."
The device beeped. Recording saved.
She stared at him. Fury beginning to boil in her chest.
"You knew," she whispered. "You always knew where they were."
"I've always known many things," he replied, casually removing the tape. "Including who took what. Who owes who."
He sealed the tape into a lacquered black envelope and tucked it into his coat.
"You're not the performance, Lyselle. You're the finale."
And with that, he left her there—alone, in silence once again.
Only this time, she wasn't just scared.
She was angry.
---
It was past midnight when Veritas returned to the study.
The estate had gone still again, save for the wind rattling the old stained-glass panes. Somewhere downstairs, a pipe groaned like a distant cello, low and aching. He moved with practiced care—removing his gloves, brushing dust from the black-lacquered desk. The fire had long since burned to embers, casting only the faintest flicker across the lion-emblazoned crest carved into the mantle.
With a soft click, he opened a small lockbox.
Inside: ribbon, wax, seal.
And the tape.
He handled it like a priceless object. Reverent, but without warmth.
The lacquered black envelope was waiting. He slid the cassette inside, then folded the flap down with care. His fingers moved methodically, as if this were any other night. Another transaction. Another move on the board.
He pressed the wax seal into place—the sigil of House Verlaine glinting faintly in the low firelight: a weeping stag pierced by gold arrows.
The mark of old wealth.Old grudges.Old debts.
He slipped the envelope into a matching satchel, then stepped into the corridor. The courier was already waiting in the foyer—tall, lean, coat buttoned to the neck, eyes hidden behind mirrored glasses.
No words were exchanged.
Veritas handed the satchel over like a ritual offering.
"To the address I gave you," he said simply. "Tonight. No detours. No delays."
The courier nodded once and disappeared into the misted dark.
Veritas lingered at the door, one hand on the warped wood, listening to the crunch of boots on gravel fade into nothing. The city of Amorélline stretched before him in velvet shadows—fog curling between streetlamps, ghosts asleep behind shuttered windows.
He lit a cigarette with a silver match.
The tip glowed red.
The ember flickered.
And then, to no one at all, he whispered:
"Let's see if guilt buys silence."
The match dropped.The door shut.
The smoke curled upward—then broke against the night air.Veritas didn't move.
He leaned against the doorframe, cigarette balanced between two fingers, untouched for a beat. Eyes half-lidded. Listening. Not for footsteps—but for something else. Something older.
And then—a flicker behind the eyes.A memory.
---
Years Earlier
Age: 13The manor was cold that day.
The windows were open. Always open. His mother claimed it "kept the past moving."Dust never settled in that house—only watched.
Veritas sat at the foot of the stairs, coat too big, shoes scuffed, hands clasped neatly in his lap. He wasn't allowed to fidget.
From the drawing room came the low rumble of men's laughter. One voice stood out—warm, deliberate. Mr. Fontaine, a visiting creditor.
He watched the man as he entered: black-gloved, gold watch, a single cigarette between two long fingers.
Veritas stared.
Mr. Fontaine noticed. Smiled lazily.
"You want one?" he asked, teasing.
The boy didn't blink. "I'm not allowed."
"Good answer."
But Fontaine lit the cigarette anyway, slowly. Elegantly. He took a drag, then leaned down—not cruelly, but curiously—and held out the match.
"Try lighting it," he said. "No smoke. Just the match. It's all about the pace, boy."
Veritas took it with steady hands.
Struck it once. Failed.
Struck again.
The flame danced.
Fontaine watched him with interest."Hmm," he murmured. "Neat fingers. You'll do well in business. Or trouble."
Then he ruffled the boy's hair and walked away, leaving ash behind on the marble.
Veritas stared at the matchstick until it burned too close to his fingers.
He never forgot the sound.
The snap of sulfur.
The flick of flame.
The way control could look like elegance.
---
Back at the threshold, Veritas took the first drag.
Coughed—just barely.
Then tried again, smoother this time. More natural. Like he'd always done it.
Like the memory tasted better than the smoke.
His eyes drifted to the city once more. Somewhere out there, the envelope would be arriving.
Somewhere out there, the ghosts would stir.