The flight to Prague was silent.
Vivienne stared out the window of the small private jet, the lights of Europe glittering below like scattered ashes. Damien sat opposite her, his jacket folded over his lap, unreadable.
They were heading toward a trap.
And she planned to walk into it willingly.
Julien's latest intel placed Valentin's next summit at a secluded estate on the edge of the Bohemian Forest—an old manor once owned by nobles, now rotting under the weight of dirty secrets. The place was known by one name in the underground:
The Garden of the Damned.
It was where Orséa's elite went to plant roots in the blackest soil—brokers of war, blood diamonds, and human lives. Deals were signed in wine-stained parlors. Slavery repackaged in silk.
Vivienne intended to set it all ablaze.
---
They arrived at dusk.
The estate loomed like a corpse wrapped in ivy. Gothic windows stared like hollow eyes, and iron gates groaned open with a reluctant moan. Inside, golden chandeliers cast a sickly glow on velvet walls and oil paintings of men long dead.
Their host was waiting.
Gregor Malven, Valentin's political hound. A man whose smile was sharper than a blade.
"Miss D'Aragon," he drawled. "You're brave to come here. Or foolish."
"I've never believed in false choices," she replied.
Damien stayed close, silent. Playing the role of hired muscle. Watching everything.
Malven escorted them to the ballroom—where a masquerade had already begun. Dozens of masked figures swirled across the floor, champagne and laughter hiding the rot beneath.
Vivienne moved like a ghost through it all. Calm. Measured. But inside, her rage seethed.
This was where her father had once stood. Once bargained. Once lost his soul.
She would not repeat his mistakes.
---
They found their target near midnight.
Lady Kasimira Volkov—a former intelligence director turned arms dealer—was seated beside a marble fountain, her crimson mask glittering beneath the candlelight.
Vivienne slid into the seat across from her without invitation.
"Lovely night for treason," she said softly.
Volkov chuckled. "You've inherited your father's tongue. And his recklessness."
"I also inherited his ledger."
That silenced her.
"I know about Ankara. The shipments to Kalenga. The dossiers you buried in Vienna."
Volkov's expression didn't change, but her posture stiffened. "And what do you want? Money? Mercy?"
"I want names. Access points. Proof."
"And if I refuse?"
Vivienne leaned closer.
"Then I'll add your name to the list of things that won't survive the week."
A long pause.
Then Volkov reached into her clutch, pulling out a small crystal drive.
"Careful who you burn, girl," she murmured. "Fire doesn't care who's holding the match."
Vivienne took the drive without a word.
---
Outside, the wind howled.
She and Damien slipped away before the final waltz began, ducking through the garden maze behind the manor. Thorns tore at her coat. Statues loomed like ghosts.
"Do you know what they used to call this place?" Damien asked.
She shook her head.
"The Garden of Lost Gods."
Vivienne stopped walking. "Fitting."
They reached the edge of the property just as sirens began to wail in the distance.
The data had been uploaded to Julien twenty minutes prior. Dozens of operatives were on the way. By dawn, the Garden would be raided.
Vivienne turned one last time, watching the manor lights flicker.
Damien spoke softly behind her. "Do you regret it?"
She exhaled slowly. "Not a thing."
Then, as the sky began to lighten, she whispered:
"Let them come."