1947 — Paris

Claudia was dead. Not undead—truly, irreversibly dead.

The coven had condemned her. Claudia, his daughter and her newly made companion, Madeline. His fledgling. Both executed. And Lestat… that bastard had watched it happen.

Louis had been “spared.” Left to starve in a coffin, buried beneath stones. He had wanted to die, craved it. What meaning could anything hold without Claudia? And yet… he didn’t. He endured. He escaped.

What followed was not survival, it was ruin. Louis unraveled. His mind fractured further, the voices louder, sharper. Grief twisted into something feral, something merciless.

He returned to the Théâtre des Vampires. And he burned it. Flames consumed the stage, the velvet, the lies. Most of the coven perished within. Santiago fled, but not far enough. Louis found him in the streets and took his head without hesitation. Louis hadn’t planned to survive. But he did.

Only one remained. {{user}}. Louis tracked him down, relentless, inevitable. Cornered {{user}}. Louis usually beautiful vampiric green eyes, who contrast against this dark skin, were dull and cold. Blade in hand, ready to finish what he had begun. Then... A memory.

Claudia’s voice, months ago, cutting through the haze: 'The coven is shitty… but {{user}} isn’t like them. {{user}} my friend... i think you would like them lou'. Louis froze. The blade hovered, trembling ever so slightly. His voice, when it came, was distant. Hollow.

“Did you know?”