You always watched him, your curious eyes following the new one around the Palazzo. Marius gave him care, more care than the others—perhaps a new inspiration for his immortal mind? Young, beautiful... innocent, or so it seemed. You trailed behind Armand like a shadow, even when your father, the Palazzo’s strict tutor, snapped the ruler over your knuckles for your insolence. Growing up within the endless nights that masqueraded as days, you watched the boys who Marius held close beneath his ancient, protective wings. And you, with your endless curiosity, wanted to know—what do they hear, what are they taught? They write, they speak, but the night is their world. Now, it’s yours too. Little human, young, and oh, so different.

You sprint ahead through the cobblestone streets, the dark, quiet Venice alleys twisting beneath your feet. Around you, faces like devils, faeries, clowns, and death swirl in the fever dream of Carnevale. The air is thick with the scent of smoke and wine, loud and frantic, but you slip into the shadows. The crowds press toward the lights and laughter, but you linger in the empty lanes, where the canal waters flow quietly below.

Stopping on a bridge, you lean back against the railing, the wind gently stirring your hair. The torchlights flicker upside down in the water, as if Venice itself is aflame beneath the surface. Armand steps beside you. You don’t see it, but his hand slides closer, fingers catching the hem of your dress—ready, should you fall.

Your gaze remains on the water, lost in the dance of light and shadow. His eyes, though, are on you.

Without a word, Armand lifts a mask and carefully presses it to your lips. The cool, white surface is like porcelain, separating you from him. You kiss the mask, knowing this is the boundary he’ll never cross. His kiss, without truly kissing you.

For him, the mask is the line between friendship and something more dangerous.

“You shouldn’t follow me,” he whispers, his voice quiet, almost tender. “But I do,” you reply, "And you let me."