Versailles – November 10, 1937 – 21:03 PM
The masquerade at the Château de Versailles was meant to be a display of diplomacy — French elegance, German rigidity, and English arrogance under one gilded ceiling. But Émile knew better. Behind every mask was a motive. And behind every motive, a blade.
He adjusted his own mask — a silver design shaped like a falcon — and scanned the Hall of Mirrors. Reiner had arrived fifteen minutes earlier, flanked by Ritter and a new face: a tall, raven-haired woman dressed in black velvet. Her mask covered half her face, but Émile noticed the way her eyes moved — predatory.
"That's not just a bodyguard," he murmured to Clara, who stood beside him in a crimson gown.
— "She's new. I heard whispers in Berlin — they call her Lorelei."
— "Lethal?"
— "More than necessary."
Émile's eyes didn't leave Reiner. The man smiled, toasted, nodded at diplomats — but there was tension in his shoulders. He felt it too. The noose tightening.
From the far end of the ballroom, a string quartet shifted to a waltz. Clara whispered:
— "He has fifteen minutes before someone makes a move."
— "You sure?"
— "Because I paid three thousand francs to the man hired to do it."
Émile shot her a glance.
— "Relax. I paid more for him not to do it."
Then, smoke.
A subtle gray spiral rising from one of the chandeliers. Almost invisible — almost.
Émile pushed forward, weaving between diplomats, hands in motion. On the upper balcony, a figure stepped behind a curtain.
He ran.
Up the side stairs. Past the guards. Through the corridor of golden busts. He reached the gallery in time to see a black glove drop something through the window.
A soft pop.
Then the air shimmered.
Reiner, below, froze mid-toast.
A glass cracked.
And the chandelier began to fall.
From the shadows behind Émile, a second figure moved — not toward the falling glass, but toward Reiner with a blade in hand.
— "Two of them," Émile growled.
He drew his weapon.
The masquerade was over.