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Chapter Text

The Painter’s hall was meant to be a cathedral of colour.

Today, its hues seemed muted, bruised by silence.

It was a grand space, fitting of the painters’ stature in society. Daylight filtered in through a stained glass oculus high above, casting fractured patterns across the floor.

The walls were alive with the paintings. Frescoes and murals centuries old, whispered in pigment and motion. Each brushstroke breathed with subtle energy. They shifted with the room’s mood, faded with its grief, and flared with its fury. Today, most of them were still, a sense of anticipation in them reflecting the nervous tension in the hall.

At the centre stood the council’s roundtable — a wide, lacquered disc, glistening faintly. Along its rim were the sigils of the great ateliers, some forgotten, others disgraced, and a handful still standing.

Eleven seats circled the table.

Ten were filled.

One remained empty.

“The Dessendre manor was supposed to be untouchable,” Patrick said, his fingers drumming slightly against the table.

“And yet the Writers managed to strike them in the heart,” added Vivian, her voice lacking edge but not concern.

“We don’t even know for sure if it was them,” another councillor countered.

A pause, as they evaluated the situation.

“Still no word from her?” Hector grumbled. “She hasn’t returned to the council since…” He trailed off, knowing that the name did not need to be spoken. It lingered unspoken above the table like incense.

“She lost her son,” Clair said sharply, glaring at him. “And surely, having lost your own, you could have some sympathy.”

Hector glanced away, but his jaw tightened.

Luarc shifted forward in his seat, interlacing his fingers. “We know, Clair. But she’s been absent,” he said. “Grieving, yes — but absent. And if the Writers could breach their place, then how safe are the rest of us?”

A wave of discomfort rippled across the table. Some nodded. Others looked away.

Arthur exhaled.“They strike one house, and we call it a war? We don’t even know what they were after. For all we know, it was personal.”

Silence again—until a voice spoke from the far end. Quiet. Unsure. “Are we sure they didn’t use the girl?”

The weight of the sentence settled around the room as the murals around them grew darker.

No one responded. But no one refuted it either.

“Well,” Vivian said eventually, folding her hands with crisp finality. “We’ll find out soon enough. Renoir should be here any minute.”

Everyone glanced, almost in unison, at the empty seat at the head of the table.

Aline Dessendre’s seat.

Untouched since the fire.

*************

The doors of the great hall opened.

Clea Dessendre walked in without ceremony.

The conversations halted as the council stared in silence. The tension that had occupied the room until then gave way to something tighter, more focused, more immediate.

She walked down the hallway with unhurried steps, each one a deliberate rhythm against the polished floor. Her footsteps echoed, steady and sharp, each louder than the last one. Demanding attention. She reached her mother’s chair and stood beside it. Her hands folded loosely in front of her, gaze cool and unreadable as it swept across the room.

For a moment, the room held its breath.

Then, Luarc addressed the eldest child of the Dessendre family. “Clea," he said carefully. "We were not expecting you.”

“And I wasn’t planning on being here, Luarc,” Clea replied, her tone cool and unshaken. “But here I am. Because the situation calls for it.”

She scanned the table again, slowly this time. These were the people she must convince. She was ready to fight this war alone if she had to. She would do it for Verso.

The council simply looked at each other, unsure what to expect. Finally Arthur cut the silence.

“How’d they gain access to the manor, Clea?” he asked, breaking the tension with bluntness.

Clea didn’t blink. Good. Straight to the point. “That is my family’s concern.”

“Speaking of, “ Hector leaned forward. “Where is Aline? It’s been weeks, and she’s still not spoken to the council.”

The questions were coming thick and fast now. “And Renoir? He was supposed to address this meeting.”

Not you.

The words hung unspoken in the air.

Clea hardly attended council meetings. She found them tiresome and laborious. On the few occasions where she’d accompanied Aline or Renoir, she’d gained a new level of respect for her parents, how they endured these meetings.

But both of them had been out of the picture since Verso’s death, which meant that it had fallen on her shoulders.

Verso.

Her brother. Was she grieving? Maybe. Definitely. She felt his absence. Every hour of every day. Clea shook her head. She couldn’t afford to dwell on it.

There would be time enough for grief.

After the reckoning.

“—Alicia?”

Her sister’s mention snapped her out of her thoughts.

“Was it—” Luarc began tentatively. “Was it Alicia?”

Clea’s face darkened. The implications of the question were quite clear.

Yes.

She wanted to say it.

Because it was her fault. Wasn’t it? How could she be so naive? Even if Alicia hadn’t known what she was doing, even if the Writers had manipulated her—what did that change? She’d let them in.

And now Verso was 

No.

Clea couldn’t say any of that. Not here. Not to them. There were already murmurs about Aline’s absence. If the council found out what Alicia had done.

That would be the end of the Dessendre’s. And she would not allow that.

Clea’s voice cut through the hall like glass. “I won’t tolerate accusations against my sister. And I will not let the council question my mother’s absence.”Her gaze hardened. “If you’ve forgotten, I would like to remind you that the position you enjoy in society is because of Aline Dessendre.”

The murals behind her blazed scarlet, reflecting her rising fury. “And now, when she mourns her son, you speak as if she’s forgotten her place?”

Vivian immediately lifted a calming hand. “Clea, you know Luarc and Arthur. They get carried away sometimes. We didn’t mean any offence.”

Clea let out a slow breath, reining her voice back into measured stillness. “The conflict didn’t start with the fire,” she said. “It’s been simmering, spreading, slowly but surely. She stepped forward slightly, placing her palm on the edge of the table. “And now the Writers have shown their hand.”

Arthur frowned. “This could easily have been personal, Clea. We can’t start a war for that.”

Personal.

It was personal for Clea. She would try to rally the painters. She would fight for their survival. But make no mistake, she would burn the Writers for what they took.

“You say it was personal?” Her voice was a whip. “What if it was? The fact that they dared to breach our home should be indication enough that none of you are safe.”

Some of the councillors led by Vivian started nodding in agreement. Others like Arthur and Luarc looked on hesitantly.

Clea sighed and decided to use her final weapon. “We may share some similarities with the Writers. We create. We shape. We bring worlds to life. But what separates us is the how and why.”

The council sat in silence. No more interruptions. No more accusations.

“If the Writers can write over our canvases, they don’t just challenge our craft; they threaten our very existence. We either respond, or we let them rewrite everything the painters have stood for.”

For the first time that morning, the council listened. No arguments followed. No voices rose in objection.

“You’ve made your position clear, Clea,” Luarc said, measured and diplomatic. “But if the council is to act, it must be decided formally.”

Vivian nodded, a guarded expression on her face. “We’ll cast a vote. You’ll have our answer soon.”

Clea’s face was a mixture of disbelief and weary expectation. Of course there would be a vote. Another round of deliberation. Another delay while the world moved faster than their caution could follow.

But she said nothing. There was nothing left to say.

“Very well,” she replied curtly. Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “Do what you must.”

She stepped back from the table and gave them one final look. Not pleading, not expectant. Only to make sure they saw her.

Then she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing down the hall. Behind her, the murals shifted once more, their pigment stirring like a storm behind glass.

Chapter Text

The Dessendre manor was the crown jewel of the Painters. Its halls wide enough to echo footsteps into memory. Magnificent chandeliers hung from its ceilings, casting a soft golden light that danced across the floors. Its walls covered with stunning paintings, perhaps the best in the country. The windows held murals too, their pigments never still, always swirling with the light. Even now, after the fire, it rose from the heart of Paris like a wounded monument.

Regal. Defiant.

Renoir had overseen reparation with care, while Clea herself had repainted the walls. But no matter what they did, the manor still felt hollow. Echoes didn’t bounce the way they used to.

Some ghosts could not be painted over.

Clea stood in front of the Dessendre family portrait. She remembered the day. The frame itself was scorched at one corner. It would serve as a constant reminder of the fire.

Footsteps echoed softly behind her. She didn’t need to turn. She knew the rhythm—the slight hesitation, the careful placement of the cane against the marble.

“It was a good day, wasn’t it?” Renoir’s voice was soft, as he came to a stop beside her.

Clea acknowledged his arrival and the question with the slightest nod, her eyes still fixed on the portrait. Her painted self stared back at her. A hint of a smile tugging at her lips. She couldn’t remember what Verso had said to her that morning to make her stand still long enough for the fleeting expression to be captured.

“Alicia wouldn’t even come out of her room that morning,” Renoir said gently, studying the portrait. His gaze lingered on his youngest daughter.

“She was reading,” Clea murmured.

“Wouldn’t even look up.” Renoir’s chuckle was faint. “I asked her three times to come out. You tried dragging her. There was screaming, if I recall correctly.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across her face and faded as quickly as it had appeared.

“She only came out when—“ Renoir’s voice caught slightly, the words hanging incomplete in the space between them.

“When Verso went to get her,” Clea finished. “Only he could convince her to do anything.” The two of them stood in silence, watching the painted versions of themselves. All of them smiling, unscarred, unbroken. Alicia in the centre, as she had insisted, her small form radiating confidence. Verso by her side, like always. Aline and Renoir, together, their love evident in the way they seemed to lean into each other’s space. And Clea, her arms by her side, a half-smile she couldn’t remember giving.

There won’t be another family portrait, Papa, will there?

The thought drifted into her head. She couldn’t bear to speak it out loud. The space where Verso should stand would remain forever empty, and Alicia…Alicia might never smile like that again. “How did the meeting go?” Renoir broke the silence at last.

“About as well you’d expect,” she replied flatly, turning to face her father. “The council was expecting you.”

His hands tightened slightly on the handle of his cane and he sighed. He looked older. The last foray into the canvas seemed to have added years to his face. Or maybe it was the weight of everything since the fire. “I had to be with your mother,” he said, the apology already baked into his tone.

Clea’s gaze remained impassive, but something flickered behind her eyes. She waited, giving him space to explain what they both knew couldn’t be adequately explained.

“She’s just returned from the canvas, Clea. She’s … she’s not herself. Not yet. I need to be there for her. I have to be there. ”

Her jaw tensed. “And what about me, Papa?” she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop herself. Clea’s vocie had been controlled. Until now. “I needed you too.”

He blinked, startled at the sudden intensity.

“You disappeared into the canvas after Maman—” “I wasn’t going to lose her too.“

Renoir cut her off, his voice fierce with the memory. “Not after—” The words died in his throat.

“You left me to pick up the pieces.” Each word was precise, surgical in its delivery. “Of everything. Of everyone.”

“I know.”

The admission was barely a whisper.

“Do you?” Her voice trembled now, her anger simmering. “What about Alicia?”

Renoir flinched. He said nothing, partly because there was nothing he could say.

“She was broken, Papa.” Clea’s voice cracked with emotion.

“She couldn’t move. She could barely breathe. Her face…”

He lowered his head, unable to meet his daughter’s eyes.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

The words came out sharp and cutting. “You were there at the beginning, yes. You sat beside her. But the moment Aline was gone too long, you left.”

“Clea, I—”

“You weren’t there when she couldn’t sleep because the burns hurt so badly. When she tried to speak and could only choke on her own breath. When she begged me—begged me—to make it stop.”

Renoir didn’t argue. He couldn’t. He knew he had neglected both of his daughters when he went after Aline. Alicia, to deal with her guilt and grief, Clea to pursue her solitary war. The Hauler. That was Clea’s axon in the canvas. Being the oldest, she had always been forced to carry the burden of the Dessendre family, even more so after the fire. He knew what he had done. But what choice did he have?

She turned back to the portrait, her voice quieter now. “I blamed her, you know? Alicia.”

“Clea, “ he whispered. “Do you still?” His question was barely audible.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Her voice wavered. “I was so angry. I still am. At her, for being so naive. At Verso, for sacrificing himself. At you and Maman for abandoning us.”

“I know you grieve, “ she continued, her voice softer now but no less firm. ”I know Maman does too. But while you two were lost in the canvas, I had to face the council’s questions. I had to defend our family’s name.”

She stepped away from the portrait, her boots clicking softly against the floor. She reached out and brushed her fingers against a cracked section of the wall which she had repainted herself.

Renoir looked at his eldest daughter, really looked at her. He realised how much Verso’s death had affected her. Gone was the playful child who used to tease her sister by pulling her hair, who used to spend hours playing with Verso in his canvas, who used to be Aline’s shadow as she mastered her painting talent.

“I will find them,” Clea said, her eyes glowing with steely determination. “I will make the Writers pay for what they’ve taken from us.” The question slipped out of her, quieter, almost fragile in contrast to the words before. In her heart, she knew the answer but she asked anyways. “Will you help me?”

Renoir recognised that look. She would not let this go until she had her revenge. “Clea…I want justice too, but I can’t leave Aline. Not right now.”

Clea nodded slowly, her expression that of weary acceptance. “You do what you need to do. Be with her. I’ll do what I’ve always done.” She paused, her smile sharp as broken glass. “Shoulder the burden.”

With that she left Renoir alone standing before their family portrait. The painted faces smiled back at him, frozen in their moment of perfect happiness. Renoir wondered if they would ever feel whole again.

Chapter Text

“Maelle?”

When she opened her eyes, she was in the arms of another person.

A soft warmth surrounded her, familiar and safe. She looked up to see familiar, kind brown eyes looking at her. Gustave.

“Hey, Maelle?” he said gently. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, breath catching in her throat. Around them, lanterns swayed in the evening air, glowing gold, red and green. The square was filled with music and laughter. The Lumiere Festival.

Maelle looked down. She was wearing her favorite dress—a gift from Emma and Gustave. He spun her once, clumsily and flashed a sheepish smile. She couldn’t help but laugh. The way only Gustave could make her laugh.

Laughter. Why did it feel so foreign?

Alicia woke up with a sharp breath that cut through the silence in her room like a blade. She immediately knew it was a dream. The ceiling above her was stark and motionless. No swaying lanterns. No music. Only the suffocating weight of reality pressing down on her.

Because Lumière didn’t exist anymore. Gustave didn’t exist anymore. Maelle — the girl she had been within the canvas didn’t exist anymore.

Out here, she was Alicia. Scarred inside out, a fractured reflection of who she once was. It had been weeks since she had returned from the canvas, yet the dreams came relentlessly. Not all of them were bad. She saw them all in her sleep. Gustave, Verso, Esquie, Lune, Sciel, Monoco, even little Noco.

She felt an emptiness that she couldn’t quite describe. And even if she could find the words for it, who could understand? Papa spent almost all his time tending to Maman, and Clea, she had  stopped considering the canvas real. Maybe she never really did.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. It swung open before she could summon the strength to answer.

“You’re awake,” Clea said simply, stepping inside. “Good.”

Alicia pushed herself up slightly, groaning from the effort. Her questioning gaze met that of her sister’s.

“I need to ask you something,” Clea continued, her tone firm yet not entirely unkind. “About that night.”

The words hit like ice cold water. Alicia stiffened. Her fingers instinctively clutching at the blanket as if it could shield her from what was coming.

“Look, I know it’s not easy,” her sister added quickly, recognizing the fear and guilt flickered across her scarred features. “But I need you to try. You were the only one there. The only one who might have seen something we missed.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken trauma. Alicia blinked slowly. Her hand shifted across the blanket, fingers curling tightly in the fabric. A low groan escaped her throat, raw and hesitant.

Clea sighed. This was not going to be easy.

“Don’t do that. Don’t pretend like you don’t understand what I’m saying.”

Another rasp emerged from the bed, shorter this time, almost defensive. The sound carried undertones of hurt that made something twist in Clea’s heart, though she refused to let it show.

The elder Dessendre daughter folded her arms and began pacing around the room. “You know what I mean. You’re not stupid, Alicia. You know what happened to Verso. If there’s even one detail that you remember—a name, a face, anything—I need it.”

Alicia exhaled shakily, her throat struggling to push out a sound that might have been Clea’s name, but emerged nothing more than a whispery croak. The effort sent visible pain across her features.

“I’m not doing this to punish you,” Clea said, her voice hardening with frustration. “But you can’t just lie here and waste away either. Aline and Renoir are already doing enough of that.”

Alicia nodded slowly, something shifting in her expression. She drew a careful breath and rasped something in return, her voice barely more than air.

Clea leaned in, brow furrowed as she parsed the fractured sound. “Antoine?” she repeated slowly. “Is he a writer? Was he in the manor as well?”

Her sister shook her head, then attempted speech again, each syllable a visible struggle.

“A letter?” Clea deciphered, then looked sharply at her sister. “Did Antoine give you a letter?”

Alicia nodded meekly, then turned her eyes away, unable to meet the intensity in her sister’s eyes.

“That’s something, atleast.” Clea murmured, her mind already racing with possibilities. “Is there anything else you can remember? Anything at all?”

She waited a moment but when she saw no response coming, Clea straightened, her jaw setting with determination which had become all too familiar recently. She hadn’t expected much from Alicia, but she had proven surprisingly useful. A part of her wanted to push her sister for more answers. But she had a lead. It would have to be enough for now.

“Rest,” she said curtly, already turning toward the door. “I’ll look into this Antoine.”

But as she reached for the handle, she felt a tug on her dress. The touch was so light she almost missed it. Clea turned to find Alicia’s eyes fixed on her with a strange intensity. Her sister’s lips moved soundlessly, forming words that died before they could find a voice. Then, with visible effort, she managed to push out a rasp.

The words struck Clea like a physical blow. “What did you—”

She had to have misheard her sister. “Did you just…ask me to paint over you?”

Alicia nodded and let out another groan. This one was urgent.

The room seemed to tilt around them. Clea felt the blood drain from her face as the full weight of the request settled over her. Alicia was talking about how she had painted over the Clea in the canvas. She still remembered when she found out what Aline had created. It was bad enough that she had hidden herself in the canvas but then she went and created obscene fake copies of their family. Clea had flown into a rage and painted over her fake self, condemning her to a gruesome fate.

”Alicia, no. I can’t.”

But her sister’s eyes blazed with a fierce clarity that was at odds with her broken state. Her rasps grew more urgent.

“That was different!” The words exploded from Clea with more force than she’d intended. “That was in the canvas. This—” She softened her tone and gestured at her sister’s scars. “This is real. It’s impossible to paint over it.”

Alicia gripped her elder sister’s arms, her eyes now pleading. She whispered, each sound taking a monumental effort.

Clea stared at her sister. Don’t know if possible but if anyone could do it, it’s you. That’s what Alicia had just said to her. The magnitude of what she was asking, the desperate trust it implied, left her reeling.

“The risks—” she began, but then stopped, because how could she explain the dangers of something that she didn’t know was possible. The few archives that talked about painters using their gifts on the real world tell that nothing good ever comes out of it.

Her sister started to respond but Clea interrupted her. “I know you feel like your life is a shell, but nothing is worth that risk.”

Alicia shook her head vehemently, tears forming in her eyes.

Clea felt something crack open inside her chest. A fissure in the armor she’d built around her heart since the fire. For weeks she’d seen Alicia’s refusal to engage as her withdrawal from the world. Now, for the first time Clea saw how her sister had been existing, not living, but merely enduring each day as an accumulation of moments too painful to bear. She thought of her own times in the canvas, moments with Verso, Esquie and François that had felt more real than anything in this world. But they weren’t real, were they? Then why did she still long for those days sometimes?

“I don’t even know if it’s possible,” Clea whispered finally, her voice thick with emotions she was trying to hold at bay. “And if something goes wrong—” She met her sister’s gaze. “I could lose you entirely. And I can’t—” Her breath caught. “I can’t lose any more of our family. Do you understand?”

Alicia stared at her elder sister with a stunned expression. Then she gave a hint of a smile and nodded slowly.

The admission hung in the air between them. For the first time since the fire, Clea had allowed a glimpse of her deepest fear to show, not the righteous anger that fueled her war for revenge, but the deeper terror of someone who had already lost too much and couldn’t bear to lose more.

Chapter Text

Late afternoon light slanted through the tall arched windows of the Dessendre estate. Clea stood by the far wall of her study, arms folded, one foot tapping a restless rhythm against the floor. Her eyes flicked to the clock. It had been hours since the council meeting, and yet there had been no word.

She wasn’t expecting good news, but the silence gnawed at her patience. Despite her speech, the Painters were notoriously risk-averse. Their prolonged status at the top of the hierarchy had made them soft, oblivious to threats.

A canvas leaned half-finished beside her desk. The strokes were jagged, interrupted. Directionless. Just like everything had been since the fire. She hadn’t touched it in days. Everytime she tried, all she could think of were the flames engulfing Verso.

She heard footsteps followed by a knock on her study door.

Vivian entered with the careful grace of someone bearing unwelcome news, closing the door behind her gently.

Clea turned to face her, reading the answer in Vivian’s guarded stance before a word was spoken. “Well?”

“They agree there’s a threat,” Vivian replied, her tone even. “But they’re split. Again. Hector and Luarc say that there’s no cause for escalation just yet.

The sharp breath that escaped Clea’s lips held no surprise, only the bitter satisfaction of confirmed expectations. “Of course they did.”

“They want to wait,” Vivian continued. “Until after the Masque d’Artes.”

Clea blinked. “The masquerade festival?”

“It’s in three days. Apparently, Hector argued that acting before the city’s most celebrated cultural event would be…” Vivian paused. “Politically unwise.”

“Politically unwise,” Clea’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “My brother is dead, my sister is broken, and they fret about their reputation.”

“I’m just telling you what was said.” Vivian’s gaze dropped to her hands, and Clea caught the subtle shift in her bearing. Was that guilt or frusration?

“Why wasn’t this brought up during the meeting?” Clea’s voice carried a dangerous undertone.

Vivian visibly tensed. “Luarc suggested it after you left. He said the timing was too delicate, that we needed to consider all angles.”

“All angles,” Clea shook her head in disgust. “You mean they decided I was too consumed by grief to listen to their excuses.”

Vivian lowered her head and admitted. “They didn’t want it on record. Didn’t want to be seen admitting fear or inaction.”

“Then why are you here?” Clea narrowed her eyes.

“Because I was among the few who agreed with you,” the councillor sighed with a wry smile. “I believe that the Painters have to stand together to survive this war. The others can do what they want. I am done waiting.”

Something eased in Clea’s chest and her gaze softened a bit. “I have news too. Do you know someone named Antoine?”

Vivian tilted her head, considering the name. “Antoine…” she murmured. “The name does ring a bell. There is a family—Dervailles. Rich. Always seem to keep their hands clean. But there are whispers—”

“What kind of whispers?” Clea raised an eyebrow.

“They are rumoured to have been supporting the Writers Guild. Not publicly of course. And Antoine,” Vivian paused. “Well, he is close with them. Maybe taking lessons.”

Clea’s mind began to race, pieces of a larger puzzle shifting into focus. “The Masque d’Artes is in three days.”

Understanding dawned in Vivian’s expression. “You want to use the festival.”

Clea nodded slowly. “I wasn’t planning on being at the revelries especially considering…,” she trailed off, unable to speak it out loud. “But now,” she considered for a moment. “It’s too good an opportunity to miss. And the Dervailles are sure to be there. Maybe this Antoine will make an appearance too.”

“So how are we doing this?” Vivian asked. “The festival will be crowded, chaotic. Perfect cover for us but also for him too. So how do we find him in a sea of masks?”

Clea paced around the room, the beginnings of a plan forming in her head. The restless energy that had plagued her that afternoon transformed into something sharper. Finally they had a lead and they could start doing something.

“We don’t, “ she said. “Not directly anyway.” She stopped and faced the councillor. “I’ll think of something.”

“You already have, haven’t you?” Vivian arched an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” Clea allowed a small, knowing smile. “Let me think on it. But Vivian—” her expression grew serious. “After this, we will be operating outside of council protocol. Now, I don’t particularly care for that. But I know you do.”

Vivian didn’t answer right away.

“I do,” she said. “But I’ve also come to understand that the council’s rules were made in a time of peace. That time is over.”

Clea met her eyes and flashed an understanding nod. Vivian lingered for a moment longer, then turned to leave. The door clicked shut behind her.

Clea remained alone, but the silence no longer gnawed at her. She had a plan. She turned to the windows and glanced out at the city. Preparations for the festival were already starting. It was their only lead to find the ones responsible for what had happened to her brother. And if she was to draw out Antoine, only one person could help her. She would need to tread carefully. It was time to go talk to her sister.

****************************************************

The hallway outside Alicia’s room was quiet, save for the distant hum of preparation for the upcoming festival spilling in through the open windows.

Clea paused with her hand on the doorknob, inhaling slowly before entering.

Inside, Alicia sat curled on her chair, glancing outside the window. Glancing at the world which felt alien to her since the incident. Her hands rested in her lap, still as stone, but her eyes turned towards her sister the moment she stepped in.

“Hey, “ Clea said softly, crossing the room. “Mind if I sit?”

Alicia’s head turned fractionally. She paused, startled by the gentleness in her sister’s tone, then gave a faint shrug.

Clea took it as invitation and lowered herself into the chair across from her sister.

“So,” Clea began, her tone deliberately light. “The Masque d’Artes is in three days.”

Another pause. A slight tilt of Alicia’s head, curious but cautious.

“I was thinking…maybe we could go, together,“ Clea continued, not trying to press too hard. The words felt strange after weeks of tiptoeing around Alicia’s silence. “Not for long. Just walk through the square. You used to love it, remember? The art, the lanterns, the masks.”

Something flickered behind Alicia’s eyes. The litle girl who loved going to the festival was still in there somewhere. Beneath the silence and the scars.

“I know it won’t fix anything,” Clea added, leaning forward slightly. “But maybe it would feel good. Just for a while. To live instead of just…existing.”

The sisters sat in silence for a moment. Then Alicia reached out and tugged gently at Clea’s sleeve. Her gaze narrowed, focused with an intensity that reminded Clea of their childhood, when her sister could see through any lie or half-truths.

Clea sighed, already knowing what the look meant. She sees through this but she couldn’t see through the Writers.

“I’m not lying to you Alicia,” she said quietly. “But it’s not the complete truth either.”

Another tug, more urgent this time. Alicia’s eyes demanded honesty.

“You mentioned Antoine.”

The effect was immediate. Her sister froze hearing the name.

“I talked to Vivian,” Clea continued quickly. “She said he might be at the festival. If we can find him, we can finally get some answers.”

But even as she spoke, Clea moved to the edge of her chair, and took Alicia’s hand in hers. “That’s not why I came here though. I came because I want you to get out of this room. So that you can feel something other than fear and loneliness.”

To Clea's surprise, her voice softened with genuine emotion. This was in contrast to how she had viewed and treated her sister after the fire. But something had changed since their earlier conversation.

“I don’t want to drag you into anything, Alicia. But I want to help you, and you can help me too…if you’re ready.”

The silence that followed was different. Alicia’s breathing slowly steadied as she studied her sister’s face. Then, she squeezed her sister’s hands.

Clea blinked, clearly taken aback. “You’ll come?”

The nod that followed was slow, solemn but defiant.

A breath escaped Clea’s lips, half-laugh, half-sob of relief. She’d braced herself for rejection, for the blankness that had characterized so many of their interactions. Instead, she’d found something she’d thought was lost forever, her sister’s will.

“Okay,” she whispered, feeling a smile tug at the corners of her mouth for the first time in weeks. “We’ll go together.”

Across from her, Alicia turned to face the window again. But this time, she wasn’t staring through the glass as if it were a barrier between her and the world she could no longer touch. She was watching the festival preparations with the careful attention of somone planning to participate in life again.

Chapter Text

“You’re not like them, Alicia.”

Antoine’s voice echoed in the quiet garden behind the gallery, persuasion dripping in his tone. “You see things differently,”

She hesitated, fingers curled tightly around the edge of her book. “My sister wouldn’t understand,” she murmured. “She thinks writing distorts what’s real.”

Antoine smiled gently, the expression never quite reaching his eyes. “But you’re not her. You can prove her wrong.” He slipped a folded letter into her palm, sealing the gesture like a contract.

“Come back tomorrow. You’ll see how powerful words can be.”

Alicia stood before the tall mirror in her room, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound as she adjusted the dark ribbon behind her head. Two masks lay in front of her. The first was familiar—geometric lines and a stark monochrome pattern, an exact replica of the one worn by her painted self in the canvas. Had she worn it to hide the way Maman painted her?

The second mask was gentler in shape, though no less striking. Crafted from ivory porcelain and etched with delicate gold. It bore feathers, flames, a subtle crest of red curling up the edges like rising smoke. The phoenix. A symbol of rebirth.

Her fingers hovered between the two, trembling slightly. The painted mask called to the part of her that still remembered the canvas. But the phoenix represented something else…a way forward. She picked it up carefully, tracing the edges with her fingers.

The door opened behind her.

“Alicia?” Her sister stepped inside, dressed in a deep indigo gown trimmed in golden. Serrated feathers fanned out from the hawk-shaped mask in her hand. “God, I forgot how long it took you to get ready—”

Clea paused as her gaze dropped to the mask lying on the table. Then to the one in her sister’s hand. “You’re going with that one?” The voice carried careful neutrality, but Alicia caught the undercurrent of hope beneath.

She gave a slight nod. The choice felt right in ways she couldn’t articulate.

Clea didn’t say anything for a moment. But the tightness in her shoulders eased, just slightly. “Good choice,” she said softly.

The younger sister looked up, brow raised.

Clea shook her head with a small smile. “Nothing. Just—come on.”

But Alicia wasn’t finished. She gestured towards her sister’s mask with an inquisitive rasp, tilting her head.

“This?” Clea lifted the mask, rotating it in her hand. “I figured if I have to stalk my enemies at a masquerade, I might as well look like I’m judging everyone.”

Alicia gave a soft rasp—half laugh, half scoff—and shook her head.

Clea grinned back, the expression transforming her face. “You sure you’re ready?”

Alicia met her eyes and nodded. Clea extended her hand, and she took it.

“Then let’s make an entrance.”

*************************************************

The Masque d’Artes had transformed Paris into something from a fever dream.

By early evening, the cobbled streets were alive with a celebration of art. Silk banners flowed from the balconies, catching the last rays of sun in shades of crimson and gold. Strings of lanterns hung overhead like fallen stars, casting pools of amber light that shifted and danced with each breath of evening air. Beneath their glow, masked faces moved like beautiful ghosts, each one a mystery wrapped in elaborate disguise.

Music spilled from every corner of the square, a symphony of competing melodies that somehow wove together into something enchanting. A trio of violinists in dove masks played a slow waltz near the carousel. Nearby, a singer crowned with painted roses sang a stunning aria which made the people pause mid-step as if enchanted.

The market stalls stretched endlessly through the maze of streets, each one a shrine to human ingenuity. One booth sold tiny crystal bottles of perfumes distilled from emotions. Another invited people to compose verses by rolling ivory dice carved with fragments of poems, letting chance and choice dance together in delicate partnership.

In the heart of the square stood a long curved tent bearing the insignia of the Writer’s Guild. Their space loomed larger than the others around them, a sign of their growing status and boldness in society.

Into this kaleidoscope of art and illusion, two figures emerged from a dark carriage. The Dessendre siblings entered the square.

Clea walked with the fluid grace of a predator, her indigo gown brushing against the cobblestones. The hawk mask settled against her features as if it had been crafted for her face alone, its golden feathers arching above her brow creating a silhoutte that was both regal and dangerous. But it was her eyes that carved a path through the crowd. They were sharp as winter wind, searching every face with methodical precision.

Beside her, Alicia moved cautiously, her demeanour a quiet contrast to that of her sister’s. Her steps were measured, each one a conscious choice to engage with the world again. She wore ivory silk kissed with subtle red accents, the phoenix mask gleaming beneath the lantern’s glow.

A group of children darted past them, their laughter echoing through the square. A woman with paint stained fingers pressed a ribboned card into Alicia’s palm, advertising a puppet show with breathless enthusiasm. Someone called out a compliment about Clea’s mask, their voice lost in the festival’s rising din.

Clea glanced sideways at her sister, and saw a glimpse of the child she once was. Alicia was looking around with careful attention, slowly taking in the beautiful chaos of the festival.

The two sisters moved together through the flow of masked guests. As they passed through an arch strung with garlands, Clea’s gaze caught on the Writer’s tent. A crowd had gathered there listening to a young man deliver a speech with dramatic flair to an eruption of laughter followed by thunderous applause.

Clea’s lips curled into a thin, unimpressed line. “Look at them,” she muttered, low enough for only Alicia to hear. “A year ago, they could barely afford a corner stall. Now, they have one of the biggest tents in the square.”

Alicia followed her gaze, lips pressed into a slight frown.

“They’re growing louder,” Clea added. “And the council doesn’t seem to mind.”

They moved on, navigating through the clusters of revelers. The familiar blue and silver banner of the Painters flickered ahead like a beacon.

“Clea!”

The voice cut through the festival, as both sisters turned to see Vivian approaching, her emerald gown transforming into something ethereal in the shifting light.

“Vivian.” Clea’s greeting held warmth tinged with a bit of relief. “I wasn’t certain you’d come.”

The councillor scrunched up her nose in mock annoyance. “After our conversation? I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Her eyes flicked to Alicia, who offered a small nod of recognition. “So, how are we approaching this?”

“Carefully. The Dervailles will be here, and they will make contact with the Writers. We just have to keep an eye on them, and see if this Antoine makes an—”

Vivian turned around to see what had caught her friend’s attention. She saw the other councillors, including Hector and Luarc coming out of the Painter’s tent. “Yeah. The council will be making their rounds,” she said, her tone carefully neutral. “Traditional appearances, diplomatic smiles.”

“So, the usual,” Clea replied drily. “Let them perform. I have no desire to exchange pleasantries with them. They can play their political games while we do what needs to be done.”

Vivian studied her friend’s face, reading the layers of hurt and fury beneath the mask. “And if we find him—Antoine—what then?”

“Then we get answers.” Clea’s voice was sharp. “One way or another, we find the truth about what happened.”

They made their way past the Painters’ space through the festival crowd. Performers spun past them in whirls of color, children shrieked with delight at puppet shows, and somewhere in the distance, bells chimed in harmonious chaos.

“The atmosphere really is intoxicating,” Vivian murmured, watching a pair of dancers move fluidly. “It’s easy to forget there are shadows lurking beneath all this beauty.”

“That’s what makes it the perfect cover,” Clea replied, her voice barely audible above the festival’s chaos. “Who would think to look for danger in paradise? Who would ever suspect—”

She stopped mid-sentence, her words dying like snuffed candles. The absence hit her like a physical blow—the sudden, terrible awareness of space where someone should be.

“Alicia?” Clea spun in a slow circle, her eyes scanning the immediate vicinity with growing panic. “Alicia?!”

Vivian immediately moved closer, her own gaze sweeping across the crowd. “Maybe she saw something—”

“No, she was right here.” Clea’s voice carried the sharp edge of fear breaking through careful control. “Right beside me, she was watching the dancers, and then—”

The festival continued its joyous chaos around them, but for Clea, the world had narrowed to a single, terrifying thought: in a maze of masks and hidden faces, her sister had seemingly vanished into the night. The crowd suddenly felt too dense. The music too loud. Someone laughed too close to her ear, and Clea flinched.

“ALICIA!” The name tore from her throat, desperate and raw, swallowed by music and laughter that suddenly lost all its joy. Somewhere in the distance, bells continued their innocent chiming, marking time that suddenly felt frighteningly fragile.

Chapter Text

The music was still playing.

Laughter still rose in waves from the festival, bright and oblivious, each note scraping against Clea’s nerves like broken glass. The festival continued its charade of joy while something cold and terrible coiled in her chest.

“She wouldn’t have just wandered off,” Clea muttered, trying to stay calm. “Not Alicia.”

“I know,” Vivian replied, but her eyes were already scanning the crowd. “I’ll sweep the western side and check the performer’s tent. You take the eastern stalls. Meet back at the fountain in ten minutes?”

Clea nodded curtly, grateful for her new ally. She turned and pushed through the crowd without caution. The masked faces around her blurred into a kaleidoscope of strangers. Dancers, painters, performers.

But none of them were her sister.

Think, Clea. Where would she go?

Alicia didn’t know anyone here. She was still trying to find her way back to the world. She wouldn’t trust anyone easily. Not after what had happened.

Unless someone found her.

The possibility hit her like ice-cold water. She stopped at the edge of the main square, her vision tunnelling as panic gnawed at the edges of her composure.

Breathe. Focus. Find her.

Then she caught a glimpse of the mask. The fiery red visible through the crowd.

Just beyond the lantern light, past the fountain, two figures stood locked in tense conversation. Her heart lurched with sudden recognition.

Alicia—rigid as marble, her posture screaming tension. And beside her, a young man in a white, porcelain mask. It bore the sigil of the Writers and had intricate engravings, but it couldn’t hide the predatory lean of his posture as he leaned in too close, too intimate.

Antoine.

Clea’s blood boiled. She couldn’t hear the words drifting between them, but she didn’t need to. The language of their posture spoke louder than the whispers. Antoine’s voice was a low murmur that seemed to wrap around Alicia like chains. Her sister stood like a coiled spring, unmoving but trembling with barely contained energy.

Every instinct screamed danger.

Vivian materialised beside Clea, following her gaze to the fountain. “That’s him,“ she breathed.

Clea couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe. Her world has narrowed down to this moment. Her hands clenched into fists and took a step forward. Her body moved before her mind could catch up.

Then it happened.

Alicia raised her hand—small, pale—and shoved him. Hard.

The sound of palm meeting chest echoed in the sudden pocket of silence that formed around them. Antoine stumbled backward, his mask slipping off, caught completely off guard by the force of her rejection. A sharp intake of breath rippled through the few nearby onlookers who had turned to witness the confrontation.

Good girl, Clea thought fiercely, pride and terror warring in her chest. But even as relief flooded through her, dread followed close behind. Because she knew what this meant. What this could cost.

“Fuck, this is not good,” Vivian’s voice dropped to a sharp whisper, her political mind already calculating consequences. “The Dervailles will be close. And he’s their—.”

The implications were clear for Clea. They would not react well to their son being humiliated.

No. Not her. Not again.

Clea didn’t wait for Vivian to finish speaking. She was already moving, cutting through the crowd with a deadly purpose. Nothing else mattered right now. Not politics, not consequences, not the careful games they’d planned on playing.

Only Alicia. Only protecting what remained of her family from the wolves circling around them.

***************************************

Clea reached her sister in seconds, her hands finding Alicia’s shoulders with desperate gentleness.

Her sister stood frozen, chest heaving, her outstretched hand trembling ever so slightly. Her mask had shifted, revealing a stunned flush on her cheek.

“Alicia, are you hurt?” Clea’s voice was barely above a whisper, her eyes scanning for any signs of injury.

Alicia shook her head slowly. Her hand dropped, curling into her side as if realising what she’d just done. Her gaze darted to recipient of her shove, still on the ground, evidently as shaken as she was.

She made a small sound—half gasp, half sob— as she clutched at her sister. Clea’s eyes softened. “Don’t worry. You did the right thing. Let me deal with them.”

But even as she spoke the words, she could feel the air shifting around them. The curious onlookers were no longer pretending to ignore the scene. Whispers rippled among the crowd, as people began to recognise the figures caught in the spotlight’s glare.

They had perhaps thirty seconds before—

“How dare you?”

The voice cutting through the murmurs was deep and resonant, carrying the authority of generations. The crowd parted as if by an invisible command, creating a pathway for the figures fast approaching the scene of the incident.

The Dervailles had arrived. They came in haste, but also with the slow, terrible grace of power that expects the world to move aside for them. Leading the entourage was Etienne Dervaille, tall and silver-haired, his black and gold coat tripped in ink-dark velvet, the open collar revealing the gilded pin of the Writer’s Guild.

Clea’s sharp eyes noticed the pin immediately. So they had finally decided to publicly align themselves with the Writers.

Beside him, Solange Dervaille wore midnight blue gown. Her eyes gleamed, cold and precise and she regarded the situation with disdain.

And between them, moving with an entirely different energy, came their daughter. She was perhaps Clea’s age, but where Clea burned with barely controlled fire, this young woman moved like winter moonlight— cool, distant, observant. Her dress was simpler than her mother’s, a study in elegant restraint.

“Explain this,” Etienne commanded, his voice carrying the expectation of immediate obedience. “Explain why my son stands humiliated before half of Paris.”

Antoine straightened, attempting to regain some dignity as he adjusted his mask. “Father, It was nothing. I was just—”

“I wasn’t speaking to you.” The words were precise. Etienne’s gaze fixed on Clea for a moment before sliding to Alicia. “I was addressing this young woman who apparently thinks she can lay her hands on someone far above her station.”

Clea blinked. For a moment, the absurdity of the comment didn’t register. Then she narrowed her eyes. “Far above her—?”

Solange cut in, her voice dripping with aristocratic condescension. “Who exactly are you?” She turned to her husband. “I’ve told you many times, dear, but its about time we limit access to the Masque d’Artes.”

“Enough!” Clea’s voice was deceptively calm. “I would like to remind you exactly who you’re speaking to. I am Clea Dessendre.” The name fell between them like a gauntlet thrown down. “ Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but the Dessendre name still commands respect in this city.”

A flicker of something—surprise? calculation?—passed through the Dervailles’ face.

“The Dessendre legacy is indeed…notable,” Etienne conceded with a slight nod that managed to be both acknowledgement and dismissal. “Which makes this behaviour all the more outrageous. Surely a family of such an illustrious stature would have taught their children that disagreements are settled with words, not physical assault.”

“Physical assault?” Clea’s laugh lacked humour. “Your son approached my sister alone, without her permission, and did something that made her feel unsafe enough to push him away. If anyone should be explaining, it’s him.”

“Your sister, hmm” Solange gaze shifted to Alicia with newfound interest, as if seeing her clearly for the first time. “We have heard…quite a lot about her.”

The words carried an undercurrent that made Clea’s skin crawl. It was clear what they were referring to.

The tension stretched between them like a wire pulled to breaking point. The gathered crowd had grown larger, their faces a sea of masks turned toward the unfolding drama. In the distance, Clea could see other members of the Painters council beginning to take notice, yet they remained hesitant to intervene. No surprise there.

Then cutting through the silence, came an unexpected voice.

“What exactly did you say to her, brother?”

The question came from the daughter, the young woman who had been watching everything quietly. Her voice was soft, almost conversational, but it carried a weight that made everyone turn toward her.

“Amélie,” Solange’s voice held a sharp warning.

“I’m simply curious, Maman.” Amelie’s head tilted, her attention never wavering from her brother. “If this was just a normal conversation, surely there’s no harm in sharing what was said? Unless, of course, there’s some reason it shouldn’t be repeated in polite company.”

Antoine’s jaw tightened as he glared at his sister. “It was just a private conversation between myself and the lady. Nothing more.”

“A private conversation that ended with her shoving you hard enough to knock you backward.” His sister’s tone remained pleasant, almost amused. “How…illuminating.”

“Amélie. Enough.” Solange’s command cracked like a whip.

But the damage was done. The question lingered, impossible to ignore. Around them, the crowd murmured with renewed interest, no longer content to witness a simple confrontation. Now they scented scandal, secrets, the delicious possibility that there was more to the story than met the eye.

Clea regarded the Dervailles daughter with intrigue. Her question had taken the attention off the shove, atleast for the moment. Whether that was intentional or merely opportunistic remained to be seen.

Vivian took this opportunity to interject, her political instincts seizing the opening. “Perhaps,” she started delicately, “This isn’t the time or place for further conflict. The city watches. Let us not offer them a scandal to feast on.”

Etienne glanced towards his wife, who hesitated before giving the faintest nod. Amelie’s question had forced their hand.

“Come, “ Solange snapped, her composure finally cracking at the edges. “We’ve wasted enough time here.”

Antoine muttered something under his breath before falling in line behind his parents. Amélie lingered a heartbeat longer, her dark eyes meeting Clea’s across the charged space between their families. Then she turned to follow her family, but not before shooting the briefest of winks back at Clea.

As the Dervaille entourage began to withdraw, Etienne paused. He turned back, his voice pitched low but carrying clearly in the sudden hush.“This will not be forgotten. Legacies can crumble faster than you think.”

The threat hung in the air, visible to all who cared to see it. Then the Dervailles melted back into the festival’s chaos.

Clea stood motionless, her arm still protective around Alicia’s shoulders, watching them disappear into the crowd. Her sister trembled against her, whether from cold or the delayed shock she couldn’t tell.

“It’s over,” Vivian murmured, moving closer. “For now.”

Both her and Clea knew that this wasn’t an ending. It was the first move in a game that would determine not just their family’s fate, but perhaps the balance of power in Paris itself.