A couple of days had passed.
Viktor was busy in his study again, but with a new purpose. Viktor had grown tired of the endless cycle of noble obligations and shadow-haunted bureaucracy. He wasn't just managing ledgers or land—he'd started looking into remote cabins, small properties tucked away from noble eyes. Places meant for something quieter, something freer. Maybe even something safe.
Ayoka still brought him wine, and her attire had shifted—more domestic, almost wifely in style. Viktor didn't pay it much mind, but Sabine had started to notice.
Ritual had returned, but not without its shadows. Viktor had thought they were making progress—gentler touches, quieter moments—but she'd shifted again. Back to something rougher. More often now, she chose to wear her hybrid form when they were intimate, and truth be told, the perks were undeniable. He'd meant to ask about it, had tried, but she always brushed it off like it meant nothing.
So he let it be. For now.
He had other things to focus on—selling off land, balancing ledgers, and navigating legacy. You'd think with all the magic in the world, it would be easier. But no—there were still contracts, scrolls, signatures, and approvals. A Sonster came by to deliver word that the god of nature presiding over the territory had approved Viktor's request. Of course, due to his connection to shadow magic, there was an added fee. Then came the fae—arriving for a cleansing ritual to sanctify the soil. The land had to be hallowed for new arrivals, made comfortable and compliant.
Taxes at work. Viktor reminded himself this was the price of building something real—something maybe even worth staying for. He started to think about how she might actually like the shadows, how she didn't flinch around them. And if all went to plan, he'd have her first slaver brought to that land soon—for her to gut personally. Then maybe they'd make love on his soul, and call it justice.
Just then, Viktor coughed—and what came up wasn't phlegm. It sparkled black. Fairy dust. Thick and iridescent. He blinked, then exhaled slowly.
The Shadow Man had told him once: "Call me when you cough black fairy dust. You'll know it when you see it."
Viktor reached for the shadows without hesitation.
Later that night, the knock came—three taps in rhythm, deliberate and eerie. 6... 9... 9. A devil's calling card, wrapped in polite cadence.
When Viktor opened the door, there stood a doctor. Or at least, someone dressed like one. Clean linen coat, spectacles, a satchel brimming with outdated tools. But Viktor saw past the disguise. The Shadow Man had chosen to look like a werewolf this time—fangs just a little too sharp, posture a little too amused.
The Shadow Man stepped inside and closed the door. He performed a full examination with theatrical flair—pressing his fingers to Viktor's pulse, checking his eyes, tapping along his ribs. Finally, he stood back and gave his verdict.
"Your brother is truly free now."
Then, just as suddenly, he vanished—tools and all—into the flicker of candlelight
"Viktor?"
Genevieve had come back earlier that day. She'd seen his brother leaving—along with a few of the house's enslaved, quietly escorted away under his protection. She hadn't expected it to be so soon. Her father had promised her more time.
The reality had set in long ago. She was just playing her cards now—batting lashes, curtsying when needed, sweetening her tone like sugar in tea. All so she could keep her place beside her dragon. Not that he was hers, not really. But she was close. Close enough to pretend. Close enough to believe. The mirrors said if she followed the plan, everything would be hers. And mirrors didn't lie.
Except when they did.
She was the future that never quite arrived. A path painted in sweet mirage. And the more she chased it, the more she craved it. Faddiction—whispered like folklore at the edge of a mirror. A name born from the marriage of 'future' and 'addiction,' so sweet it almost sounded like a blessing. The real velvet trap for immortals. A sugar-coated sickness dressed in prophecy. The kind that wrapped itself around your ribs like a corset made of dreams and whispered, 'Almost there, sweetheart.' She wore it like Sunday silk and promised smiles.
Earlier that week, her father leaned back in his creaking chair, thumbs hooked lazy into his suspenders, and said in that syrup-thick drawl of his, "Darlin', you've been mighty dutiful, and I do favor a daughter who minds her role. So I'll let you carry on with this little house-dream of yours with Viktor—least for a while. But reckon it's time you earn your keep in another way. Got me a woman—well, more of a roommate with benefits—needs tendin' to. Skinwalker, just like you prefer. Go on now, charm her good. Ain't no sin in greasin' the wheels for family."
Genevieve didn't protest. She never did. But the sharpness in her cheekbones now had nothing to do with the stables—it was something deeper, knotted in the spine. She stood at Viktor's door like a storm gathering at dusk, her breath calm, but her eyes warning of lightning. When he said, "Come in," she didn't glide—she cut across the threshold like a blade wrapped in silk, standing tall before him with the weight of unspoken plans pressing behind her ribs.
Viktor was seated in his chair, the green silk of his waistcoat gleaming like moss in shadow, his expression unreadable as stone. He gestured calmly to the seat across from him—a chair with golden trim, its cushion the same yellow as late-stage autumn leaves.
Genevieve hesitated for a beat, her gown catching a shaft of light to reveal a deliberate choice—layers of lemon chiffon and viridian lace, blending into a stormy jade hue. Yellow and green, merged like a challenge. It wasn't subtle. It wasn't meant to be.
She knew what this was—envy draped in elegance, legacy armed in fabric. Green and gold, clashing like old flags raised in silence. The colors didn't just dress them; they collided. For the reader, it was clear—this was war in brocade. And Genevieve? She didn't like the weight in the air, didn't like the feeling creeping up her spine. Something was coming. She could feel it. And it didn't feel like victory.
She sat with practiced elegance, one leg folding over the other like a poised serpent. Her gown shimmered in layered lemon and green silk, catching the light with every breath. Back straight as a rapier, her lips curled into a smile too polished to be warm. The chartreuse netting at her sleeves rustled faintly as she adjusted herself—graceful, but just rigid enough to reveal tension. Her fingers, gloved in citrus-colored satin, rested gently on her lap like coiled questions.
She thought about spinning another lie—one of her favorites, even. Something lush and silk-spun to buy a few more days at his side. But Viktor didn't even grant her the stage.
Without a word, he lifted a small vial between his fingers, letting the black fairy dust shimmer like a curse caught mid-dream. It twirled once in the light, glinting with implication.
And for the first time in a long while, Viktor smiled.
Genevieve blinked, her throat tightening as if the lie she hadn't yet told had turned to ash. She dropped the act with a single, breathless curse.
"Damn it."
Viktor didn't flinch. "Genevieve," he said once—softly. Then again. "Genevieve." A breath deeper. "Genevieve." Each repetition landed like a bell tolling over years gone stale. "Genevieve," he said the fourth time, and a smile began to curl. "Genevieve." A sharper tone now, as if slicing the past in half. And then, finally, "Genevieve." He said it like a man setting a name down for good.
Six decades. Six times. A lost dream spoken into history.
She tried to hold onto that moment, maybe twist it, use it. Her smile curled like something gentle—almost pitiful. "You still owe our family by mortal law," she said, like a child quoting a bedtime rule.
Viktor started to smile—slow, unbothered, like he didn't know any better. But oh, he did. He wasn't the same fool she used to spin in circles. Not since the third time she tried to break him—when she served him dragoness eggs, yolks still warm and soft, shimmering with life. They weren't fully formed, but his magic told him the truth: they could've hatched. He only went through with it because she'd threatened worse—because she was set to kill a room full of children if he refused. Why she hated children, he never quite knew. Maybe he didn't want to. But that moment had changed him. That was the last straw.
He smiled wider, something volcanic beneath the polish. In a voice laced with mock affection, the kind of honeyed poison only the well-practiced could drip, he said, "I do hope you're ready to be separated, dear fiancée."
It rolled off his tongue like a velvet dagger—fake, flowery, and final.
There was history behind such partings. In many noble courts of old, a formal separation was more damning than annulment—it carried the shame of rejection without the relief of erasure. A suitor cast aside, not forgotten. And Viktor, who had once played the dutiful, quiet shadow of a partner, was now taking center stage.
"I already had a chat with sweet dear Papa about that," he added, sharper now. "Turns out, debts paid in blood speak louder than contracts."
Genevieve let out the biggest scream the house had heard in a decade—a guttural shriek that rattled the windowpanes and echoed down the hall like an omen.
"Faaaatherrrrrrrrr!" she cried, voice cracking with rage and betrayal.