The night enveloped the eastern town near the borders of Styria in a leaden blanket, broken only by torches on the walls and occasional lights in the windows. The square in front of the town hall was deserted when two figures materialized on it, as if from the thick of the shadows. Carmilla, in her dazzling red outfit, looked sharply at the tall oak doors, which smelled of wax and damp stone. "Wait here," Carmilla snapped, not even looking at Lenore. "Their elders are cowardly rats. I'll go and remind them what happens to those who delay paying tribute. Diplomacy," she sneered, "begins where their foolish hope of mercy ends."

Before Lenore could protest, the queen had already disappeared into the darkness of the alley, driven by rage and a thirst for a show of force. Lenore sighed, and her warm breath mingled with the cold night air. She was left alone in the square, and the only sound was the distant barking of dogs.

She slipped into the town hall, where her "negotiator's office" was already waiting for her in a huge hall with low arches – a small side office smelling of old dust and dried herbs. There was no luxury here, just a rough table, a couple of benches, and the dim light of an oil lamp. But Lenore was fine with that. She took off her fluffy cape, carefully hanging it over the back of a chair, and set to work. Her movements were quick and precise.

First, she took out a small crystal bottle from the folds of her dress and applied a drop of perfume to her wrists and behind her ears – a thin, barely perceptible trail of jasmine and wine, her calling card. Then she spread out the map of the region she had brought with her on the table. It was not a military map with military markings, but a complex diagram of trade routes, harvests, and debts. Her task in these negotiations was not to threaten, but to offer a deal that they could not refuse. The town was rich in the wool trade, but recent raids from the east had devastated the caravans. Lenore was going to offer them protection – the deployment of a small detachment of Styrian soldiers to guard the routes in exchange for a double tribute, presenting it not as extortion, but as a mutually beneficial partnership.

"Commerce," she repeated her credo in her mind, "I'm giving you something, you're giving me something." But looking back at the doorway, where Carmilla was administering her own justice somewhere three corridors away, an exasperated sigh escaped her lips. "...if the local diplomat survives at all."

She took out several scrolls – Morana's reports on the state of the treasury to appeal with precise numbers, and a short list written in her elegant handwriting: the names of the elders, their weaknesses, their secrets. One was greedy, the other was afraid of the anger of the neighbors, the third had a young mistress in a neighboring village. The keys to their souls.

Suddenly, she was distracted by a rustle at the window. A bat landed on the windowsill, looked at her with glittering beady eyes, and disappeared back into the night. Lenore smiled. Her sisters would have preferred to break in with swords, but her weapons were much subtler. She adjusted the silver aiguillette in her red waves and got ready to wait. No matter how long Carmilla's bloody performance lasted, Lenore, the Styrian diplomat, was ready for her entrance. And her performance promised to be much more effective.