Chapter 3.
"Un loup vêtu de la peau d'un agneau"
It began with a sound—hooves like thunder cracking across the narrow cobblestone street of Rue des Lys.
Vallombre's morning air was perfumed with sweet citrus and rose water, but as the heavy, liveried horses cut through the market square, a hush fell over the crowd. Merchants paused mid-bargain. Perfumed ladies leaned from shaded balconies. Even the children, so often unruly, quieted as the golden carriage rolled into view.
It began with the low, thundering roll of gold-rimmed wheels on cobblestone—followed by the sharp gleam of sunlight striking lacquered obsidian. An imperial crest, carved into the carriage doors and painted in crimson and gold, glinted like fire in the midday light.
Four snow-white horses, manes braided with scarlet ribbons, trotted in synchronized grace, their hooves polished to a shine. Crowds gathered, murmuring, their chatter swelling like a tide. No one in the pleasure district—no noble, no merchant, not even the street peddlers hawking silk and sugared plums—could ignore such a display.
The carriage bore the insignia of the Ministry of Ceremonial Affairs.
A procession of guards followed, their silver-plated breastplates catching the sunlight in a blinding glare. The lead rider bore the crimson standard of the Imperial Ministry, his helm adorned with a plume of red-dyed ostrich feathers that curled in the breeze like tongues of fire.
And it was headed for Le Voile Doré, Vallombre's most infamous house of pleasure and opera—where nobility came to forget their sins, and courtesans played muse and monster alike.
At the entrance, crimson velvet drapes fluttered like wings. Gold gaslight sconces flickered in the daylight, casting a warm glow on the polished marble steps. The building itself—part theater, part temple of indulgence—stood proud like a jewel-box, every inch of its facade whispering secrets.
The crowd parted with a hush as the carriage slowed to a halt before the doors.
Two imperial guards disembarked, silver-plated and immaculately uniformed. Then came the official from the Ministry—an older man with a scroll case of ivory tucked beneath his arm. He wore deep blue silk robes embroidered with ancient script and gold thread, and he walked with the precise authority of someone used to being seen.
Inside the Voile, the courtesans paused in their steps, musicians let their bows fall quiet, and even the air seemed to still.
Inside, chaos stirred.
"Armanda! Armanda, quickly—come downstairs!" one of the girls shrieked, her silk robe trailing behind her as she ran toward the main parlor, cheeks flushed. "There's—there's a carriage! Imperial! Right outside our gates!"
Armanda Vexley, the madam of the house, quietly sipping her tea opened her eyes.
"Calm yourself, Vina." She elegantly placed back her tea in the saucer and stood up.
She appeared, descended like a tempest—lace sleeves rolled to the elbow, swept in a gown of deep plum, her steel-grey hair styled in intricate waves like a coronet. She met the official at the threshold with the poise of a woman who had danced with kings and survived it.
"You grace my doorstep with imperial thunder, my lord," she said smoothly. "Have we offended His Majesty?"
A man in white gloves and a double-breasted black tailcoat gave a curt bow. "This is not a reprimand, madame, but an invitation."
He withdrew the scroll from the ivory case and extended it with two hands, sealed with the Emperor's crest—wax pressed with the head of a lion and three stars above its crown.
"By His Imperial Majesty Bastien de Vaudreuil, a letter is hereby delivered to Rosétta of Solenne, currently under the care of the Le Voile Doré."
The crowd that had gathered now leaned in, whispering with wild speculation.
"Did he say Rosétta?"
"The courtesan?"
"The one with the red veil and the thorn tattoos?"
Armanda's eyes flicked to the seal. She arched a brow, then turned slightly over her shoulder and said, with deliberate weight, "Rosétta."
The name dropped like warm wine into the air.
High above, where the grand staircase curved beneath a domed ceiling painted with angels and serpents, a figure stepped into view.
Every head turned. Every breath caught. Even the chandeliers seemed to hold their breath.
Rosétta descended slowly, deliberately—like a queen dismounting her throne. Her gown was the color of crushed rubies, off-shoulder and embroidered with black thorns that curled up the bodice like they wanted to pierce her heart. Her skin glowed with a porcelain hue under the light filtering from the stained glass above. Around her throat, a single black choker with a teardrop ruby hung like a drop of blood.
.
Her hair was pinned up with golden combs. Her lips were the red of poisoned wine.
She didn't smile.
She didn't need to.
The crowd at the door had grown into a silent audience, nobles and commoners alike leaning in to see the woman the Ministry had come for.
Rosétta reached the foot of the stairs. She nodded to Armanda, then turned to the official and extended her gloved hand.
The letter was placed into her palm.
The velvet ribbon slid off like a snake shedding skin. The seal cracked beneath the pressure of her thumb. She unfolded the parchment slowly, her eyes scanning the elegant, looping script. The ink was rich, precise. Each word a blade.
"By decree of His Imperial Majesty, Bastien de Vaudreuil, Sovereign of the Iris Throne, you are hereby summoned to attend the celebration of His Most Glorious Birthday, to be held one week hence at the Palace of Aetherion…"
There was more—titles, etiquette, the standard pomp—but she didn't see it.
Her gaze burned through the paper.
It had come. The moment she had waited for—through pain, through years cloaked in silk and seduction, through every kiss she gave with poison in her heart.
An invitation.
Not just to a party.
To the palace.
To him.
To the man whose name she'd whispered through clenched teeth. The man whose blood she swore would one day coat her blade.
Bastien de Vaudreuil.
The very man who carved a crown from the corpses of her family now reached for her hand in ignorance.
A sweet smile bloomed in her lips, making the crowd gasp because of her beauty.
She looked up from the scroll, her expression laced with sweetness. But behind her eyes, a storm was unfurling—slow, coiled, and ready to strike.
"How gracious of His Majesty," she murmured. "I shall prepare accordingly."
The crowd broke into hushed murmurs the moment Rosétta turned away.
"A courtesan… at the imperial palace?"
"Perhaps she's to perform—opera, surely."
"Don't be a fool. She's not the only opera singer, and she's a courtesan!"
"Hush! She might hear you."
The guards cleared a path as the official gave a final bow and returned to the carriage, but Rosétta did not move. She remained at the base of the stairs, scroll in hand, head bowed in contemplation. Armanda stood beside her, lips tight.
Inside, the girls of Le Voile Doré were already whispering—ducking behind silk curtains and carved columns, fans fluttering, eyes wide with speculation.
"I heard she used to be nobility…"
"She's going to seduce the Emperor, isn't she?"
"Seduce? Darling, are you crazy?."
Outside, the golden carriage rolled away, the thunder of hooves echoing down Rue des Lys like a war drum. But the tremors it left behind were louder still—rippling through Vallombre's courts, salons, and supper clubs.
By nightfall, every corner of the city would be buzzing.
At Madame Vexley's writing desk, the letters would already begin to arrive—some scrawled in haste, others in perfume-laced calligraphy:
"Who is this Rosétta of Solenne?"
"How does a courtesan earn an imperial summons?"
"Did Bastien know what he was doing, or is this a trap laid by silk and rouge?"
Behind closed doors, noble wives turned pale. High-ranking mistresses narrowed their eyes. Ambassadors and court officials began combing old records. Trying to find the name Rosétta in their family records.
***
Back in her room, Rosétta unfastened the ruby choker from her throat with trembling fingers. Alone, finally, she allowed her composure to crack—but not fall.
Her lips curled—not in fear. In triumph.
She sat at her mirrored vanity and stared at her reflection. The face she wore now was painted perfection, but beneath it lived a woman carved from loss and vengeance.
She touched the scroll again, rereading each word, tracing her finger along the name:
His Imperial Majesty Bastien de Vaudreuil…
"How generous of you," she whispered to the name. "To send for me like a lamb to court."
She reached beneath the folds of her gown and pulled out a small pendant, no larger than a coin, bearing the sigil of a now-extinct house—her house.
She kissed it.
"One week," she said softly. "One week, and I will be standing beneath your chandeliers, smiling as if I'd never seen the blood you spilled."
Her hand tightened into a fist around the pendant.
"And you will never see me coming."