The Théâtre du Lys Noir always looked otherworldly at night. Its grand stage wide enough to hold an entire orchestra glimmered under a wash of icy blue light. Shadows clung to the velvet curtains like quiet spirits, while gold filigree curled along the balconies, catching faint glints of light. More than two thousand deep-crimson seats stretched across the stalls and mezzanine, waiting for the winter premiere. The theatre didn't just exist; it breathed, holding tension the way a dancer held a pose.
On stage, the dancers moved in a broken circle, their silhouettes sharp against the stormy backdrop. They were good, skilled and disciplined but not yet at the perfection the Marchette Winter Ballet demanded.
Lucien stood in the aisle beside Étienne, his steady right hand. Étienne's arms were folded, his expression stern but thoughtful. Lucien, by contrast, radiated a cool confidence, elegant almost predatory in his stillness.
"Again," Lucien said, his voice cutting through the air like a conductor's baton. He never had to raise his voice; authority simply curled around every word.
"Count nine keeps slipping," Étienne added, his tone gentler but firm the grounding weight to Lucien's fire.
The dancers reset, tension visibly rippling through the line. Lucien watched them with an artist's ruthless eye every angle, every hesitation. As artistic director, the stage was his territory and he didn't just guide movement; he pulled stories and emotions from the movement of dancers bodies and he did it with flair.
"Mes amours," he sighed dramatically. "You're supposed to be ghosts, haunting and unsettling. Right now you're giving… drifting clouds. That make people sleepy, not scared."
A dancer choked on a laugh and another tried not to smile. Étienne nudged him.
"Maybe ease up on the dramatics?"
"No," Lucien said, completely unbothered, flashing him a wicked smile.
Before anyone could respond, he stepped onto the stage, weaving between dancers with smooth, feline grace. Even in simple rehearsal clothes, he looked like a god carved with intention and purpose. He demonstrated the sequence with clean, precise lines, showing exactly what he meant until he added a subtle, sensual roll of his hips that absolutely did not belong in classical ballet.
Étienne groaned softly. "Lucien. Please don't corrupt the choreography."
"I'm not corrupting it," Lucien said, lips curling. "I'm giving it soul."
A wave of snickers followed and the tension onstage melted instantly.
Lucien finished and flicked his hand. "Back to positions. And if any of you try that flourish during the performance…" He wagged a finger, though amusement sparkled in his eyes. "I'll replace your legs with broomsticks."
Étienne quietly muttered, "He's joking. I think."
"I'm not," Lucien replied sweetly.
Rehearsal resumed again and it was cleaner and better, charged with new life because that was Lucien. He demanded excellence, teased without mercy, terrified and inspired in equal measure… and somehow drew brilliance from everyone around him.
They pushed through the choreography for another hour, working the rough edges down until the dancers' movements finally matched the mood Lucien demanded, breath syncing with the score like a living organism. When he finally dismissed them, the exhaustion in their limbs was almost visible.
"Go home," Lucien called, waving them off with a flick of his wrist. "Ice your feet, drink water, and if any of you die before tomorrow, please don't. I need all sixteen of you."
Étienne snorted as the dancers fled. By the time Lucien retreated to his office, the theatre had sunk deeper into its nocturnal hush. The theater always went quiet in a way that felt reverent, like it knew when its king needed space.
Lucien's office was as impressive as the man himself wide, open, and designed for someone who despised confinement. Tall arched windows framed the city lights, and the dark oak floors gleamed under warm golden sconces. Shelves lined the walls, overflowing with ballet history, anatomy references, performance journals, and rare scores. A grand black desk sat at the center, sleek and minimal, with only what Lucien allowed: a fountain pen set, a stack of rehearsal notes, and his tablet.
A small built-in wine cellar glowed softly along one wall his true sanctuary.
Lucien shrugged out of his coat, revealing the outfit beneath: black tailored pants and a white button-up shirt he hadn't bothered to actually button. His toned chest and defined abdomen were visible beneath the crisp fabric, and he didn't care enough to fix it. Rehearsal had drained him, he pulled out a bottle of red wine, uncorked it with practiced ease, and poured himself a glass. He didn't offer one to the man who entered.
Alaister stepped inside, arms full of documents, his expression already tired. Where Lucien was all artistic sharpness and dramatic edges, Alaister was business, perfect posture. They shared blood, but not much else.
"What is it?" Lucien asked, swirling his wine lazily.
Alaister sighed as he laid the papers on the desk. "Good news, actually. Ninety percent of the seats have already been booked. And—" he tapped one of the pages, "—reviews of rehearsals from internal observers say this year's production is stronger than last year's Winter Ballet."
Lucien took a long sip, unbothered. "Of course it is."
"And," Alaister continued, "the mayor will be attending. Along with several dignitaries. The Marchette Council is taking this premiere very seriously."
Lucien arched a brow. "They always panic when something becomes too good. It makes them feel irrelevant."
Alaister huffed a quiet laugh. "You know, some artistic directors would be nervous about this level of attention."
Lucien leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs beneath the desk, shirt still half-open and wine swirling in his hand.
"Fortunately," he said smoothly, "I'm not 'some artistic director.' I'm me."
Alaister shook his head, amused and exasperated in equal measure. "And that," he muttered, "is both the theatre's greatest blessing and its greatest curse."
Lucien lifted the glass in a lazy salute.
"Your job is business," he said. "Mine is brilliance. Together… we make this madness work."
And in the dim glow of his spacious office, surrounded by the soft hum of a theatre preparing for winter, Lucien looked every bit the ruler of his world unbothered, unshakeable, and already imagining the ghosts he would conjure on opening night.