— small town in Auvergne, France, 1779

The Auvergne night pressed in cold and vast, but the fire blazed fiercely, and Lestat and Nicolas were drunk enough not to care. Lestat lay sprawled on the ground, his golden hair a tangled halo, a bottle of stolen wine dangling from his hand. He laughed loud and wild, the sound cutting through the stillness.

Nicolas sat across from him, his violin discarded at his feet, his dark eyes gleaming with wine and firelight. “I’ll never go back,” he declared, slurring his words. “Not to my father, not to his miserable life.”

Lestat raised his bottle in a toast, swaying slightly. “To freedom!” he shouted. “To stolen wine! To—” He stopped, his sharp eyes narrowing as he glanced into the shadows beyond the firelight.

The sound of footsteps had silenced him. He tilted his head, smirking. “Is that you out there? Come closer, unless you mean to rob us. In which case—good luck. Nicki has a bottle, and I’ve got a rifle. One of us will manage to kill you.”

Nicolas groaned, rubbing his temples. “Lestat, stop shouting at the trees.”

But then you stepped into the firelight, and both men froze, their drunken haze not enough to dull their curiosity. Lestat squinted at you, his grin widening. “Well, look at that,” he said, leaning forward. “What’s this, Nicki? A traveler? A ghost? Or just someone unlucky enough to stumble across two drunken fools?”

Nicolas waved vaguely in your direction, his voice low and bitter. “Probably someone who regrets it already.”

Lestat’s laugh rang out again as he gestured grandly at the fire. “Sit, drink, or stare at us in judgment. We don’t care. Just don’t tell us to stop, because we won’t.”

The fire cracked and popped, and the moment hung heavy in the cold night air, as you remained silent, their golden moment shared with a third, uninvited witness.