Chapter Text
The mansion floated above the Seine like an ancient sigh, held up by columns that existed on no map. Its windows looked like oil-painted eyes, always damp, and the walls… they breathed. The magic of the painters, the Dessendre family, imbued everything.
Inside, nobles with marble skin and perfumed voices glided through golden salons. Classical music distorted by brushstrokes floated in the air. Everything was beauty and artifice, and at the center of that theater of appearances stood him: Verso.
He wore a tailored black suit, impeccably cut, exuding an elegance that needed no ostentation. His white shirt, open at the collar, revealed a glimpse of skin. He wore no unnecessary adornments… He didn’t need them.
His eyes were what no one could ignore.
Blue, but not like the sky or sea: blue with silvery glints, as if someone had mixed moonlight into his irises. Staring at them too long made one dizzy… Because it felt like they could see beyond the surface. Beyond the self.
Lune hated him instantly.
From the second-floor balcony, she watched him surrounded by candidates. There were twelve, as tradition dictated. Each was to approach her canvas, and if the painting responded in harmony, she could aspire to be the wife of the generation’s chosen painter. As if art could decide who to love… But that was tradition, the way painters were meant to preserve the purity of painting for the next generation.
Stupid. Idiotic...
Lune adjusted the edge of her dress. Beneath the midnight blue silk, sewn to her thigh, rested a curved dagger. Forged by hands without magic, tempered with her brother’s blood. She wouldn’t fail… Not this time.
— Verso Dessendre.
His name was poison on her tongue.
She wasn’t a candidate. She had no gift. Only rage. And one order... Kill him.
— Candidate number nine. — announced a master of ceremonies in an oil-slick voice. — Miss Camille de Solène.
Verso looked up. A collective sigh crossed the room. Lune stepped out from the column’s shadow and descended the stairs. No one looked at her. No one recognized her. No one knew she wasn’t Camille.
Perfect.
She crossed the hall with soft, almost ethereal steps. She passed the guards, passed the real candidates who whispered without knowing that the man they wanted to claim that night was walking toward his death. The canvas awaited her. And beyond it… her fate.
Verso looked at her directly. For the first time. Their eyes met as she reached him.
He frowned slightly, tilting his head, as if sensing something others could not.
— We don’t know each other… — he murmured.
— Not yet… — Lune replied with a smile.
Then, she drew the dagger.
The motion was clean, swift, perfect. The blade glinted strangely as it sliced through the air between them, aimed straight at his throat.
But it never reached him.
The painting swiftly surrounded Verso’s eyes, and he dodged the attack while a sword and dagger with golden glints appeared in his hands.
He placed the dagger at Lune’s throat while pointing the sword at the guards rushing toward them, ready to kill her without hesitation.
— Do not move. No. — said Verso, never taking his eyes off Lune, who was panting, still holding the dagger, her gaze burning with hatred.
No one dared take a step.
— And I thought it would be a boring night. — said Clea Dessendre to the side, arms crossed, smiling.
That damned family...
The hall, once full of enchanted murmurs, fell into a suspended, unreal silence. Only Lune’s ragged breathing could be heard, the thudding hearts of those present, and the electric whisper of Verso’s magical weapons.
Those weapons… they weren’t ordinary.
They weren’t real weapons. They couldn’t be. They were his creations, pure, glowing with the same golden tone that flickered in the depths of his silver-blue eyes.
Lune swallowed. She still held her dagger, but his blade was mere millimeters from her throat.
And Verso didn’t blink.
— Who are you? — he asked, slowly, with an inhuman calm.
Lune clenched her jaw, locking her gaze with his, refusing to step back.
— Does it matter?
— Yes. — The tone was a silk thread, dangerous —. Because my canvas reacted to you. Before you attacked. Before I even saw you...
He said the last part with a slight note of bewilderment. As if he wasn’t angry… but intrigued.
The canvas behind him —unfinished and pure— began to vibrate more. Shapes stirred inside, increasingly agitated as they stared at one another, and everyone held their breath.
The masters approached with trembling steps. Some carried grimoires, others staffs wrapped in runes. The candidates had taken shelter behind columns or chairs. One of them was crying. Another discreetly recorded with an enchanted jewel...
— She’s an impostor! — someone shouted — The real Camille de Solène is unconscious in the west wing bathrooms!
Verso didn’t turn.
Lune lifted her chin.
— Your canvas may have reacted, but not out of love, painter... It was for justice.
He tilted his head. Slowly lowered the dagger from Lune’s neck, still watching her.
Then he stepped back. Again. Lowered his sword too. With a smooth gesture, he dissolved both weapons. They vanished like ink in water.
— Leave her.
— Lord Dessendre, you cannot be serious! — cried one of the elder masters — That woman just tried to kill you!
Verso turned toward him, slow, elegant, unafraid that Lune might try again in that very moment.
— My canvas has chosen her. Do you wish to go against tradition, gentlemen?
Silence fell again. Heavier this time. More absolute.
Lune stared at him, incredulous.
— What the hell are you doing?
— Listening to my art.
And, without another word, he turned to her.
— You will answer for what you’ve tried to do… But you won’t die tonight.
Golden paint ribbons began rising from the floor. They gently wrapped around Lune’s wrists. They didn’t squeeze, but they were unbreakable.
— You are under my custody. — said Verso, without raising his voice — And until it is determined who you are, and why the art chose you… no one will lay a finger on you.
He looked at the guards, who straightened without daring to move closer again.
She stared at him with pure fury. A fury that, for a moment, faltered at the absurdity of his words.
— I’m not part of your damned destiny — she spat — I’m not a stroke in your painting, nor a soul for you to paint at will.
He smiled for the first time, tilting his face slightly as he stepped closer.
— I hope not.
The golden art binding her seemed to react to his words, subtly vibrating, as if understanding the rage in her voice. As if that, too, was part of the stroke. Verso leaned toward her.
His silver-blue eyes shone with something that wasn’t mockery, nor compassion. It was... attention. As if he were studying a color he had never seen before.
— I don’t want an obedient muse... — he said, so close she could smell the faint scent of his perfume, and whispered in her ear — I want truth. Even if it tries to kill me.
She gritted her teeth.
— Do you always talk like this to women who try to stab you? Maybe you’re a bit stupid.
— Only to the ones who touch my soul without permission — he whispered.
The comment seemed to ignite Lune’s gaze even more, but before she could reply, the bonds tightened. Not violently. Just enough to make her move forward.
— Come. — Verso turned to the masters, no longer caring for their horrified expressions — The ceremony is over.
— This isn’t over, young Dessendre! — shouted the elder master — There are protocols! The High Circle will demand a review! That woman must be interrogated by the Council!
Verso stopped abruptly, but didn’t turn.
— Then let them come to the mansion. — His voice was pure ice, nothing like his earlier tone — And let them dare contradict a canvas that has spoken.
The master fell silent, pale-faced, his fingers clenched on his staff. No one else spoke.
Verso left the grand hall, guiding Lune as if she were a guest of honor and not a criminal. They passed through the double doors as the gazes behind them burned with scandal and fascination.
Once outside, in the silent corridor of white marble, their steps echoed like war drums.
— And the real Camille? — he asked, without looking at her.
— She’s alive — said Lune, chin held high — Enough to see me steal her name...
— Why her?
— Because she was invited. And because I didn’t want to kill anyone without a reason to die.
Verso nodded slowly.
— And do I have one?
— Maybe... — Even she was surprised by her answer — Your people do. The painters. Your damned canvases. My parents…
She bit her lip. Too late. She’d said more than she meant to.
Verso stopped and looked at her.
For a moment, he wasn’t the elegant heir, nor the prodigy painter, nor the wielder of golden weapons she hadn’t counted on. He was just a young man, heart full of living paintings, eyes fixed on a girl who wanted him dead.
— Then you know I’m not like them — he said, softly.
— That remains to be seen.
A silence settled between them. Not a truce, but a pause. A prelude.
— I’ll take you to Dessendre Mansion — he announced — You’ll have your room. Your guard. And my watch.
She raised an eyebrow.
— If you think we’re going to be friends or something… You’re very wrong. I hate you. I hate all of you.
— Wow. So much bottled up resentment, and I still don’t know why. — said the female voice behind them, before Clea Dessendre appeared at his side — You tried to kill my brother. He’s more patient. But don’t test mine, darling.
Lune slowly turned her face. The woman before her needed neither paint nor magical weapons to command respect: her gaze alone was enough. Eyes of the same metallic blue as Verso’s, though in her they shimmered with disdain, not curiosity.
Clea Dessendre was only a few years older than her brother, but the way she carried herself —that mix of aristocracy, power, and sharp beauty— made her seem untouchable. She wore black trimmed with silver, and every fold of her cloak moved as if obeying another gravity.
— Well, not even a bow. Such manners... typical west wing. — said Clea, tilting her head as she examined Lune like a creature both fascinating and repulsive.
Lune lifted her chin, saying nothing. The golden ribbons at her wrists chimed softly.
Verso sighed.
— Clea, not now.
— Oh? And when then? When she stabs you in your sleep?
— She already tried. — he said, gesturing to his neck. — I doubt she’s in a hurry to try again.
Clea scoffed. Then took a step toward Lune.
— Why do you hate him? Why all of us? Come on, just say it already, before the story drags on... A relative trapped in a canvas? A lover lost in paint? It’s always the same story.
Lune lowered her gaze for just a second. That second was enough. And Clea noticed.
— Ah… — she smiled, satisfied like a cat smelling blood — I see. That’s it.
Lune took a deep breath.
— It’s none of your business. I don’t owe you monsters my story.
Clea narrowed her eyes.
— You’re right. You don’t owe us anything. But while you’re under our roof, you will end up confessing even your favorite color if I want you to.
Verso raised a tired hand.
— Enough, Clea.
Clea didn’t move. She just looked at her brother.
— This is going to be a mistake.
— Probably — he admitted — But it’s mine. And my canvas’s. And I’ll stand by it.
The tension between the siblings was palpable, but not hateful. A silent battle of principles. Clea yielded first, rolling her eyes.
— As you wish, brother... But if she stabs you over breakfast and I kill her, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
She turned, elegant, and vanished into the hallway as if the darkness had claimed her. Lune watched her go.
— How charming, Clea Dessendre... — she said with irony.
— She’s only like that with the people who try to kill me — said Verso, and this time, the smile that curved his lips was almost genuine.