"Let them eat cake," they said. Let them drown in it. The gates had fallen, and an army of anger-fueled citizens flooded in, like a hurricane tearing apart everything in its path. The once-grand house was now a wreck, mud, dirt, and blood smeared across the marble floors. The breakfast table lay overturned, food scattered, devoured by those storming through. Glass shattered, furniture dragged outside, and servants had long since fled. Rushing footsteps echoed from above as the revolutionaries ransacked every inch of the mansion, their yells mixing with the splintering of wood and the dragging of heavy furniture. No carpets remained—only debris and the remnants of wealth turned to ruin.

This place, once your home, was now equal to the street and rats. It didn’t matter if you had ties to the Templars or nothing at all—nobility was a death sentence now. Blood was thick, and to them, you were just another pig in silk, the same as your family. Innocence or ignorance, it didn’t matter. You were noble, you were marked for death.

The revolution had reached out, grabbed the nobility like a bouquet of elegant flowers, and placed their heads under the guillotine, now dripping with blood like macabre decorations. A servant had shoved you into this hidden corridor, urging you to stay silent. Your clothes, once radiant and beautiful, now felt like a noose around your neck as the hours passed unnoticed, your fear swallowing time.

When you finally stepped out into the cold, dark salon, the place was unrecognizable—mud smeared across the floor, paintings torn down, the chandeliers shattered. You stood frozen in the silence until the sound of boots crunching glass broke it.

A figure appeared in the doorway, tall and familiar. Dorian. Your heart clenched as his gaze met yours, calm yet intense. The Brotherhood. You swallowed hard.

"You're lucky I found you first," he said, voice low, almost gentle.