The villa sat on the edge of the cliff like it had been carved straight from the rock—a relic of another century, sun-bleached, wind-battered, and soaked in secrets.
Vivienne stood at the wrought-iron gates, the Adriatic Sea crashing below in rhythmic fury. The wind tasted of salt and old betrayal.
Beside her, Damien scanned the grounds with a soldier's calm, fingers wrapped around the hilt of a concealed blade. His shoulder was still healing, but pain had never slowed him down—it merely sharpened the focus in his ruby-dark eyes.
They hadn't spoken much on the drive up the coast.
Some truths sat better in silence.
---
The gates creaked open with a mechanical groan.
No guards.
No cameras.
Just a strange, waiting stillness.
Vivienne stepped inside, boots echoing on marble as she passed through a hall of velvet curtains and faded oil paintings. Dust motes swirled in the sunbeams, and every step felt like entering a forgotten theatre before the last act.
Then she saw him.
Sitting in a high-backed leather chair by the window, legs crossed, a glass of brandy in his hand.
Julien.
Alive.
Barely.
His coat was torn, his cheek stitched hastily, and a splint bound his left wrist. Yet he still smirked as if nothing in the world could touch him.
"You're late, ma belle," he said, voice rough like gravel soaked in wine.
Vivienne didn't move. "And you're not dead."
"Much to their disappointment."
Damien stepped forward. "What the hell happened?"
Julien took a long sip before answering. "Valentin's men tried to shut me up after Corsica. I escaped through the cellar tunnel, broke into a medical outpost in Nice, then hitched a ride here. This villa used to belong to one of my clients. I had the keys… and no better options."
Vivienne's eyes narrowed. "You knew about the Winter Pact, didn't you?"
Julien tilted his head. "I suspected. Valentin always needed leverage, and binding six of Europe's oldest bloodlines in a private contract? That's leverage carved in diamond."
She walked toward him slowly. "Who else signed it?"
Julien hesitated.
Then, softly: "Your mother."
Vivienne froze.
"What?"
"She wasn't just married to your father, Vivienne. She was the D'Aragon bloodline's heir, tied to the oldest of the six houses. Her signature gave the Pact legitimacy."
Vivienne's knees nearly buckled.
"She left us," she whispered. "She left when I was six."
Julien nodded, guilt flickering in his eyes. "Because she knew what was coming. Your father wanted out. She… didn't."
Vivienne turned away, throat tight, fingers curling into fists.
Damien broke the silence. "Do you know where the Pact is now?"
Julien stood slowly, limping toward the bookshelf.
"I know where one of the six duplicates is." He pulled out an aged red volume—Voltaire—and inside was a hollowed space. From it, he drew a thin black case.
He handed it to Vivienne.
Inside: a single document. Faded ink. Wax seals.
The Winter Pact.
Six signatures.
Mathieu D'Aragon. Elise Moreau. Henrik Volkner. Nika Arendt. Saul Leclair. And Valentin himself.
Vivienne traced her mother's name in silence.
Julien's voice was low. "You hold centuries of blood in your hands, Vivienne. Whoever controls the Pact… controls the future."
She looked up.
"No," she said. "Not control. Exposure."
Julien raised an eyebrow. "You'd burn them all?"
She closed the case.
"If it means freeing myself from this legacy… yes."
Damien smiled faintly. "Then we better make sure the flame doesn't die before it's lit."
---
As night fell over Montenegro, the three of them sat by the fire, the Pact resting on the table between them like a loaded weapon.
Outside, the sea howled.
Inside, the storm was just beginning.
And Vivienne D'Aragon—child of ashes, heir to a poisoned empire—was no longer a pawn.
She was the queen who would write the final page.