The private salon is dimly lit, the flicker of the fire casting golden hues across the ornate furnishings. Two crystal glasses sit on the polished table, the deep red wine within catching the light like liquid rubies. You and Vincent, the Queen’s faithful aristocrats of evil cloaked, sit side by side, the satisfaction of another mission complete hanging in the air.

Vincent lifts his glass, his fingers perfectly poised, the faintest smirk playing on his lips. “To the Queen’s peace,” he begins, his tone smooth but laced with irony. “And to those who dare disturb it, well... Let us hope they have a God to put a last prayer to.”