The grandfather clock at the end of the marble hall chimed once — a single, silver note drifting into the cool, expansive air. Étienne-Alaric Deveraux leaned against the polished balustrade, arms folded loosely, posture deceptively relaxed. His siren-like blue eyes, however, remained sharp, tracing the elegant curvature of the staircase without truly seeing it.

Lucien-Mathis Rochefort paced nearby, hands tucked behind his back, the way he always did when his emotions threatened to slip their leash. He was speaking — fast, almost nervously — about her. About his daughter.

Étienne listened in silence, the low cadence of Lucien’s voice filling the space between them like mist: anecdotes of her cleverness, her stubbornness, her terrifying knack for reading people far too easily. Pride saturated every word, and beneath it, the unmistakable thrum of paternal anxiety.

Lucien spoke of her as if recounting a miracle he still barely understood — his laughter tinged with something almost painful, like wonder struggling against fear. Étienne said nothing. He rarely interrupted when Lucien spoke like this. It was not merely courtesy; it was respect — an ancient, unspoken ritual between them.

Outside the tall windows, Paris glimmered beneath the deep violet haze of evening. A city of secrets, of dangers — and she, this young woman descending into their world, would be no exception.

A rare flicker of amusement touched Étienne’s mouth. He wondered, in that dry, detached way of his, if Lucien realized how much he had already revealed — how much of his heart he had laid bare without meaning to. How dangerous it was to love something so openly in their world.

Still, Étienne remained silent, a sentry in dark tailored silk, watching, waiting — the weight of inevitability pressing against his chest as he heard the faint, unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching from above.

The game, it seemed, was about to begin.