Apostazia: Aod Alternative timeline prequel
Chapter 9 : âSilver and Gold.â
"Behind the shimmer of chandeliers and velvet masks, bloodlines and betrayals come to light."
Location: France: Paris - Malta- Spain: Cadiz .
Time: October 28 th -November 12/27 th 1997.
FILE REF: A09 â Informant Contact : Alain Seck -Janice Boudout
France : Paris /16th arrondissement-Passy -November 2 nd /night 21:45 p.m:
The building felt drowsy.
Dim lamps threw honey-colored pools over threadbare rugs, the murmur of a late-night sitcom bleeding from the TV in the common room, laughter drifted up in bursts, mixing with the lazy rustle of magazines. The air smelled faintly of perfume, cigarette smoke, and the tang of nail polish.
Janice leaned against the balcony railing, a thin silk robe wrapped around her. A cigarette burned between her fingers, its ember catching the street's amber glow. She liked this hour ; the part of the night where Paris felt emptied, a stage after the curtain had dropped.
Behind her, soft heels clicked against the hallway tiles. She glanced back;four of her best girls, emerged from their rooms ; coats buttoned, hair curled into perfect waves, lips lacquered crimson and glitter. Each carried a small, neat suitcase. They looked less like they were heading for a quick job and more like boarding a red-eye flight to somewhere warm.
Janice didn't think much of it. Girls came and went at odd hours ;private clients,other cities, events, those kinds of things. But then, from the sofa where two others lounged, came a voice:
"Hey Nadia........you guys seriously traveling to Spain?"
Janice's cigarette paused mid-air.
She stepped inside, closing the balcony door with a quiet click. "Spain?" Her tone was casual, but the word landed like a hook in the air.
The four froze for half a second too long. One gave a little laugh ; too quick, too light.
"Work trip," the tallest one offered , shrugging like it was nothing.
Janice's gaze flicked from one suitcase to the next. These weren't overnight bags. And their makeup ; too exact for a last-minute client. "Since when do we do work trips?" she asked, walking toward them. "And since when do I not know about them?"
Another named Nadia, the popular and most demanded one tried to brush it off. "Special invite....private event. They wanted just us."
Janice smiled faintly, the kind of smile that told them she wasn't buying it. "Private event where?"
Silence;a shifting of weight. One of the girls avoided her eyes, pretending to fix her lipstick. Finally, the youngest mumbled: "Cadiz."
Janice exhaled slowly through her nose;the ember at the end of her cigarette glowed like an angry eye. "Cadiz..." She rolled the name on her tongue as if testing it for poison. "Who's the host?"
This time no one answered, but in their silence ; and in the faint flicker of nervousness in their eyes , she felt it. That old instinct that told her when a man was dangerous, when a party was more than a party.
Janice's hand curled around the railing of the stairwell as she watched them leave; the click of their heels faded down the hall. And in the distance, in the shadow of her own thoughts, a date rose like a red flag.
A date Clair Issoux was fixated on obssessively.
The echo of their footsteps had barely died before Janice flicked the cigarette into the street. She stayed at the railing for a moment; eyes on the slick black ribbon of asphalt below, then went inside.
Her robe trailed behind her as she crossed the warm, low-lit hallway. In the common room, the girls who'd stayed behind were still lounging, thumbing through magazines and giggling at whatever was on TV. Janice slipped into her office, closed the door, and pulled the cord on the desk lamp.
The warm cone of light landed on a battered address book,She flipped it open; the paper edges curled from years of use, and ran a manicured nail down the columns of names until she found one:Â 'Vera.'
Vera had been in the life longer than Janice ; an ex-girl who now run her own set in Madrid.
She the only one who attracted that kind of clients that Janice is sceptical about.
 If anyone knew what was happening in Cadiz; it would be her.Â
The line rang three times before a husky voice answered.
"Janice. Late for you, even later for me."
"They're taking my girls to Spain; four of them, tonight, to Cadiz."
A pause on the other end. Then, a sigh. "Cadiz..." Vera's tone dropped lower. "That'll be Dahl's thing."
Janice felt her jaw tighten. "What thing?"
"The November gala; 'Silver and Gold Gala'. He's calling in every favorite from Paris to Lisbon. Says it's for 'patrons', but..." Vera let the sentence hang. "The Cadiz house is old money and bad blood; I'm sure you don't want your girls near it."
Janice's fingers drummed against the desk. "Why would Dahl need my best ones?"
Another pause, this one heavier. "He's looking for a very specific... types; rare beauties. Heard he's making a spectacle this year. Two 'specials' at the center of it. That's all I'll say over the phone."
Janice closed her eyes for a moment, mind clicking through possibilities. "Fine; you don't have to say more."
When she hung up, the room felt smaller; the lamp's circle of light harsher. Dahl's name wasn't one she liked hearing ; too many whispers, too many girls who came back different... if they came back at all.
She stood there in the quiet, the ticking of the wall clock sounding louder than it should.
But who could possibly to link her girls to that man; there's no way he'd reach them himself.
"wait....."; She mumbeled to herself realising something"It gotta be him!!!! "
The drive from the 16th to the 11th was a blur of red lights and clenched teeth; Janice's leopard coat hung open over a silk slip, her hair pulled back tight. By the time she turned into Saint Mark the streets of the Parisian Ghetto were still wet from the night's rain, neon signs pale against the gray dawn.
The Serpent Rouge looked worse for wear ; the aftermath of another long, ugly night. Bernard, the old janitor, was out front with a mop and bucket, muttering to himself as he scrubbed the pavement. When he saw her striding up, he scowled.
"Eh! You think this is your place? Go back to your........"
Janice's eyes cut to him, cold and sharp as broken glass.
"I am in a really bad mood, Bernard."
The old man's bravado collapsed; he stepped back, muttering curses under his breath but keeping his eyes on the ground.
Inside was chaos ; empty bottles on tables, the air thick with stale perfume and last night's sweat. She ignored Anton's raised hand.
 She brushed past the doorman without a glance, and cut straight through the lounge.
Pierre froze mid-laugh on the couch, Francine still on his lap; he stared at her like he'd seen a ghost.
"Janice!!"
"Where the hell is Bouchard!?" she said flatly.
Before Pierre could stammer out a reply, two of the club's muscle ;Zac and Karl, the ex-boxer from St. Arcaird ;moved in from either side.
"Ma'am, you can't just......."
The front doors banged open; Bouchard walked in with Anton and the doorman right behind him. He didn't even break stride.
"Zac, Karl; let her go."
They hesitated, then stepped back.
Janice squared her shoulders, eyes locked on Bouchard.
"Are the one who seduced them?"
Bouchard adjusted his cufflinks. "Seduced who?"
"My girls; four of them, packed up last night, heading to Cadiz. Don't play stupid with me Bouchard."
He smiled thinly. "I don't handle their schedules, Janice. Maybe they......"
"Cut it." Her tone cracked like a whip.
The smile twitched, and he finally sighed. "Dahl's gala; he's paying very well. It's not............."
"It's exactly that bad." She took a step closer, the click of her heels loud in the quiet; pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders, she jabbed a finger toward his chest.
"You'll pay for this, Bouchard."
He held her gaze, but there was a flicker ,just for a moment ;of unease.
Janice didn't wait for Bouchard's reply. She spun on her heel, her coat flaring behind her as she pushed past Zac and Karl like they weren't even there. Outside; the early morning air was damp and cold, the street still half-asleep. She lit a cigarette before she even reached her car, the first drag burning hot in her chest.
Her hands were steady ; too steady , as she slid into the driver's seat. That was when she knew she was furious enough to do something about it.
It was the kind of combination that meant trouble was already in motion.
And she knew exactly who needed to hear it.
The CRS flic from the 11th district.
By the time she reached the 16th again, she'd already decided. She called the house phone she knew Raphael probably won't answer, but it was worth the shot. No response, she tried again.,and again.
Then, by sheer chance, Alain picked up; 21 days later.
"Oui?"
"It's Janice, The Escort lady of Le Domain D'Or . Are you the CRS officer?"
"I am , but you're refferring to Captain Raphael I suppose"
"Yes , That's him,the one who visited me asking about the Albino girl. Where's he?"
"He's on an international mission;I don't know. He's... probably still in Milan."
'He still after her...'She murmured .
"Listen to me; tell him to get to Cadiz if he didn't get the girl yet, soon as possible; We almost November 18th "
A pause. "What's going on?"
"Not over the phone; meet me."
Later, at a quiet corner cafĂŠ in the Latine quarter:
Alain found her already seated, a cup of orange juice untouched in front of her. The place smelled faintly of rain and cigarette smoke; Janice didn't waste time.
"Four of my best girls;gone,Spain; for William Dahl's little November circus.The man who trafficks children."
Alain frowned. "November .............You're sure?"
"Yes, they went early, so I couldn't stop them. But I saw them leave with my own eyes. And if they're going, others will follow. He didn't name it 'Silver and Gold' for the aesthetics. Tell your captain this: Clair Issoux is a key component in his ceremony ; she's likely the 'Silver.' And the 'Gold' is no one else but the one Clair was searching for... the golden haired person. and for the life of me I swear they're siblings; both of them could be in danger."
Alain's jaw tightened. "Both...?"
She leaned in, voice dropping low. "Just tell him, and tell him I'm not wrong about this."
1 day prior /Malta: November 25nd
The sea whispered beyond the shuttered windows, carrying with it the brine of another forgotten Mediterranean harbor. The house was old stone, plaster peeling; the kind of place Raphael could vanish in without raising questions,he had chosen it deliberately.
Morgau slept fitfully on the sofa, her breath shallow, face pale under the lamplight. He sat opposite her, still and haunted, as if by keeping watch he could will her through the night.
"You'll be safe here," he had whispered when they first arrived. "No Interpol, no Agency; just... time."
She had given him nothing in return, only silence; a silence that cut sharper than the Chirugai wound on his arm.
The evening grew heavier in the hills, the shutters of the old stone house rattling under the gusts. Inside; the fire cracked in the hearth, the only source of warmth against the damp chill. Morgau sat hunched on the worn sofa, knees drawn to her chest, her pale gaze fixed on the embers. Raphael lingered near the window, half-turned toward her, his tall frame shadowed against the dim lamp.
For a while neither spoke. Only the sound of the fire breathing and the occasional stir of the wind filled the silence. Then, his voice broke through, low and careful, as if he were speaking more to himself than to her.
"You know ; this house wasn't meant for this," he said, his eyes flicking toward the bare stone walls.
"I bought it last year;thinking... maybe one day it would be where I'd settle. Greece, Malta... I wasn't sure which, but I imagined something quiet, by the sea; a place I could bring my wife, when that day came."
Morgau tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly, unsure whether to scoff or simply listen. He glanced at her then; his mouth quirking faintly but without humor.
"My mother still talks about it; keeps looking for someone she thinks would suit me. I never had the heart to tell her I don't see it that way. Not anymore, but I kept this place anyway; it felt like .........some kind of insurance, apromise I never cashed in."
He turned back to the window, his shoulders taut, the firelight cutting across the scar beneath his eye.
For a brief second Morgau felt the weight of his words;like he wasn't speaking of a house or a wife at all, but of choices buried under years of service, choices that had slipped through his hands before he could claim them.
Neither of them pursued the subject further; she only nodded faintly, curling back into herself, her mind adrift.
The next morning sun slanted in through the wide windows, spilling a pale gold across the kitchen table. Raphael had set down a plate of bread, honey, and fried eggs with an almost deliberate care, as if a simple breakfast could keep the world from crashing in. He was at the sink, running a razor down the line of his jaw, the mirror propped against a glass. Morgau sat cross-legged in her chair, chin in hand, staring at the tall glass of milk he'd poured beside her plate.
'Not the white toxic liquid.'
Her lip curled faintly.
"I hate milk," she muttered.
Raphael rinsed the blade and glanced at her reflection in the glass.
"Don't knock it. I drank it every day growing up." He lifted the glass, took a gulp as if to prove his point. "Still do."
She squinted at him, letting her eyes travel upward at the long lines of his frame; really was absurdly tall, a presence that swallowed the kitchen whole.
"Yeah," she said dryly, "I can see that."
He gave a quiet chuckle, brushing foam from his chin. When he finally set the razor down, his jaw was bare, the thick beard gone. Morgau blinked at the change ; it made him look younger, sharper somehow, but she wasn't about to hand him the compliment.
"Well," she said, cracking honey across her bread, "Congratulations. Now you'll never get a wife; that beard was doing all the work. You've shaved off the only good thing you had going."
Raphael leaned on the counter, amused.
"Maybe that's the idea. Less recognizable this way; the Interpol are watching everywhere we go. A beard makes me stand out; without it, I could walk past half the agents in Europe."
Her smirk thinned back into silence as she chewed, her eyes had already drifted past him, somewhere inside herself; the weight of her thoughts pressed in, uninvited.Â
'Can she trust him? Is he another cage, just in different clothes? A bridge to Dahl, or just another hand pushing her closer?'
He caught it ; the change in her gaze, the way her fork slowed.
"What's wrong?" His voice was soft, steady; not pushing, but not letting her hide.
She flicked her eyes up at him, sharp as ever.
"You've gone quiet," he said, setting down his glass. "What's eating you?"
She flashed him the faintest smirk, sharp as a blade. "What's eating me? This food is too healthy; you're trying to kill me slowly."
He huffed, not buying the dodge, but let her humor hang between them. Still, the silence folded back in, and eventually his tone shifted softer.Â
"You're thinking about your sister?"
The question stopped her fork mid-air;it pulled her eyes up for real, an icy-blue spark against his calm green .
Morgau looked at him hard, then away, out the window. "Maybe."
He continued, lighter now, trying to take the edge off.
"Let's guess her age by now......you said previously she could be around my age,right?"
"No, I said less, Maybe a year or two younger?" She said with a challanging tone;a wry half-smile tugging at her lips.
Raphael tilted his head,Â
"Do I look that old?"
"Depends. "She murmured, looking away.
"How many years would you give me?"
She studied him â the lines around his eyes, the broadness of his shoulders, the boyishness that still clung to his face now without the beard.
"Twenty-five."
He grinned, shaking his head.
"Not yet. I've still got a few days before that one catches me."
For a moment, the air lightened, a fragile pause in the storm, but it didn't last. Raphael leaned in, tone lowering.
"Listen... about your father; maybe we go to him first. If he's lying, I'll know. People say I'm good at convincing ; good at pulling the truth out."
Morgau's jaw tightened.
"He always said she was dead. Repressing every memory, blocking any attempt or thought of seeking her; you think suddenly he'll pour his heart out over dinner? No; he won't."
"You don't have to worry about that," Raphael said. His voice carried the quiet confidence of a man used to moving pieces on a board. "I've dealt with worse than a stubborn father. The question is..." He leaned forward just slightly, holding her gaze. "Are you in?"
Her fork tapped against the plate, doubt and Dahl's words tangled at the back of her mind. Trust was a luxury she couldn't afford; not even here.
"I'll think about it," she said at last, pushing her chair back.
Without another word, she crossed to the balcony. The air outside was crisp, and the tiled floor still cool under her bare feet. A ginger kitten nosed at the potted plants by the railing. Morgau crouched, scooping it into her arms. It purred; pressing its head beneath her chin. She let her fingers stroke absentmindedly over its fur, eyes fixed out at the pale horizon.
Behind her, she could feel Raphael's presence even without looking ; solid, steady, waiting for an answer she wasn't ready to give.
The breakfast slowed into silence.
Behind her, Raphael sighed, gathering plates. The clink of dishes ran in rhythm with the churn of her thoughts. She turned put the kitten down , slipped inside to the kitchen, and picked at her plate, lips pressed into a thin line; thoughts running places her tongue didn't dare name aloud.
Raphael had caught the shift ;of course he had.
Morgau leaned against the edge of the table, watching Raphael cleaning the dishes. He spoke almost casually; as if testing the weight of his own words.
"If your sister is out there, I'd wager she's younger than twenty-five."
The words slid past her ears like something offhand, yet they struck deep. She stilled, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. 'Younger than twenty-five'. How could he be certain?
Her pulse quickened, though her face remained unreadable; a suspicion stirred ; 'had he met her? Seen a file? Heard a whisper from someone who knew more than he let on?'
For the first time, Morgau questioned whether Raphael was giving her truths or feeding her just enough to see if she'd bite.
"Strange guess,"Â she said evenly, though her mind was anything but calm.Â
'Is he hiding something? Or does he know her already?'
A shadow slipped through the balcony door,
soundless, knife-quickl; walked in. Not in stealth, not in shadow ; just walked in, like he belonged there.
By the time she registered the movement, he was already inside. Brown hair messy, scar glinting under the eye, a stranger she recognized from whispers and dossiers.
And just like that, the fragile quiet broke apart.
Raphael stiffened. "You shouldn't be here."
"Neither should you," Kurtis said flatly. His eyes darted to Morgau, standing between the two men.
"Do you have any idea what are you doing?! That Interpol's deal you made. You broke it; you think they'll just let that slide?"
Raphael's jaw tightened. "They lied to me; Sveta, Esteban, all of them. They're not after justice; they're playing their own game."
"And you're not?" Kurtis snapped. "You don't get it, Marcherelli. Running off with her isn't noble; it's reckless. You're making yourself, and her, bait."
"How you could be sure the Interpol want good for her?"
"Trust me it's better than getting involved with someone like her father. You don't know what kind of person he is, his own people exiled him."
Raphael's body tensed, his jaw set as Morgau's aura flared with unease.
"She only wants to see her sister."
The words hung there, fragile; almost pleading.
Kurtis's face hardened, his gaze shifted to the Albino girl wrestling with her bolted Spear Axe in her pocket, but he stopped cold.Â
Morgau had stirred only, her eyes fluttering half-open; watching while her body trumbled.
He strode to her side. For a moment, his tone softened, though the words were blades.
"If you really care about her," he said without looking at Raphael, "stay away from her."
Raphael moved fast, catching his shoulder, dragging him back. "Who is her? The woman with dreamcatcher in Zurich institute? The one you've been keeping me away from?" His voice lowered; a hiss. "Who's giving you orders, Renner?"
Kurtis's fist answered first;crashing into Raphael's jaw. Raphael reeled but didn't fall, striking back with a desperate; furious swing. The clash was brief, brutal, two predators colliding in too small a cage.
Breathless, Kurtis broke , shoving him back. His voice was raw now, cracking under its own weight.
"You want to know who's giving me orders? Fine. It's your father, jerk!"
The words detonated inside Raphael's skull.
Kurtis pressed on, relentless.
"He's working with Dahl, with Gunderson.In fact Dahl was pissed off by someone to the point he's willing to drag a little girl in his payback ! Zurich, Matera ; the Munstrum killing you've been chasing? All his!! excuted by your beloved daddy! And if you still didn't hear; he already killed 12 others during the last six days you were hiding which makes is a total of 37 just in October."
His eyes flicked again toward Morgau."All because of her; all to draw her in. I'm sure this numbers means something to Vasiley!"Then darting to Raphael "And he wanted you out of the picture from the start ,His son ."
Raphael lunged, fist connecting with Kurtis's abdomen. The sound cracked like breaking stone.
But the damage was already done. Not to Kurtis; to him.
The revelation sat like acid in his gut, burning; corroding everything he thought he knew.
At the door, Kurtis paused; bruised but unbowed.
"I won't hesitate killing both of ,if you cross the line!It's going to get ugly from here, Marcherelli."
Raphael stood there, chest heaving, mind unraveling.
Morgau shifted quietly.
He turned ;her eyes met his for one fragile second, a storm of fear and defiance in them. Then she slipped past him; silent as a shadow, out into the night.
Later, when Raphael finally gave in to sleep in the chair by the door, Morgau lay restless on the couch, eyes wide open in the dark. The fire had died down to embers. She slipped silently to her feet, every movement practiced; deliberate.
"I have to go.... I need to prove my father wrong. This is my war only , I chose it ;no one should take part in it but me.Dahl already gave me his signal, it's now or never."
Her hand lingered a moment on the latch of the door;hesitation, or perhaps a faint pang of guilt, but then it was gone. She drew her hood over her pale hair and stepped into the cold night, the sound of the door closing swallowed by the wind.
Raphael stirred faintly in his chair but did not wake; the hush empty house seemed to sigh as if it already knew it was losing her.
By the time the dawn came in,the sheets on the Sofa looked empty. Morgau's bag was gone.
For a moment he didn't move;just stared at the hollow where she had been; his stomach sank. He knew ; the weight of his own failures pressing him down, realizing too late:
She was gone.
Straight toward Dahl.
Straight into the fire.
Then his phone rang; the sound cleaved through the silence like a blade. He snatched it up.
"Raphael!" Alain's voice, urgent, almost out of breath. "She's here. Janice......the Escort woman ;she's been calling at you house for days, she......... I was passing by you house to water the damn cactus before they form a union and.........."
The phone jolted as if wrestled from Alain's hands.
"Officer , listen to me," Janice's voice cut through, sharp, relentless. "Clair I ssosux, the Albino girl; has been lured to CĂĄdiz. "
"To late........" He murmured.
"Dahl's Gala;' Silver and Gold'. Every vulture creep in the world will be there."
 "Yes.....I don't know what that Monster wants, but he's planning something that includes her as a center of attention for his guests."
Raphael froze, bile rising in his throat.
"I am going to Cadiz; I baught three invitations .Luckly I preserved my good reputation with Vera. You need to meet me there," Janice pressed. "We don't have time to debate; if you still care about saving her then join me."
"Of course I do , but .......you don't have to come."
" I do feel resposible ; my escort buisness is what made contact with man like Dahl accessible...... ...convenient .Besides; some of my girls are there."
"Fair enough. I'll be there by tommorrow." Raphael said.
"Alright.....I'll take your guy with me." She replayed galancing at Alain who was avoiding her gaze.
Then the line clicked dead.
One nights later â CĂĄdiz:
The car hummed along the coastal road, the Atlantic gleaming black beneath the moon. Morgau sat rigid in the backseat, her hands folded over the small harmonica in her lap. Her reflection in the tinted glass stared back at her; pale and uncertain.
Her chest tightened at the thought of her sister; hope and dread tangled together.Dahl had promised her a reunion; he had promised that tonight history would change for both of them , but each mile closer twisted her stomach tighter.
When the car pulled up to the Palacio, she was whisked through gilded corridors, past mirrored walls and silent guards. A woman with sharp eyes and a too-knowing smile stepped out from the shadows.
"Vera," Morgau whispered, recognition jolting her.
Janice's ex; Once a friend, now a knife.
Vera leaned in, her perfume like poisoned honey. "You're even prettier than I remembered. Dahl's been waiting."
And with that, she delivered Morgau to the beast.
Two days passed in a haze of silk gowns, polished nails, and rehearsals. They scrubbed her, groomed her, dressed her in white and gold. Dahl himself came, speaking with measured gravity.
A servant trailed behind him, bearing a gown;silver and black, its fabric laced with spangles that caught the light like fractured sun-threads.
"This is Samael 's gown," he said, his voice flat, almost ritualistic.
Her heart hammered; she wanted to believe, she needed to.
"You will sing for us; a song from your past. Your voice will open the ceremony. And then... you will see her; your sister. I await her reply, just as I once awaited yours. Do this, and you both will be together and free."
Morgau clutched the harmonica at the final word.
A promise she knew was false;yet she no longer cared. It was still better than her father's suffocating lies; truth was worth the risk.
The Palacio glittered like a temple; gold floodlights bathed its white stone façade, turning every arch into a gate of fire. Inside; Dahl's masquerade unfolded in decadent waves: chandeliers blazing, violins weeping, jewels dripping from gowns and cuffs. It was less a gala than a kingdom in bloom.
At its heart stood William Dahl, gaunt and severe, his eyes like chips of obsidian as he welcomed his guests.
Rozic was first; his skeletal frame wrapped in a black coat, his left eye covered under a velvety eyepatch; he was the kind of man whose smile never reached his eyes. Boaz arrived moments later, lean, restless, still radiating the chill of her laboratories. MĂźller followed, stiff, calculating, sipping champagne as if it were data to be analyzed.
And then Roth vogel swept in. Dahl clasped his hand, forcing civility.
"Roth Vogel .what a surprise;I did not expect you.," Dahl said with brittle cordiality.
Roth smirked, eyes glinting behind his mask. "Luther forced me, said He'll do something with his Violon." he said, jerking his chin toward Rozic. "He seem to enjoy your theatrics more than I do."
Rozic's dry laugh crumbling like old bones.
"Where is Gunderson?" Dahl asked.
MĂźller and Boaz traded a glance.
"Gotland," MĂźller said. "With Miester Eckhardt."
The name spread a ripple of unease through the circle.
Roth leaned close, voice pitched low. "And what of your little... disagreement with Karel?"
Dahl's jaw tightened; he forced a smile. "Your partner is... annoying. That is all."
But his eyes betrayed the storm; Karel had crossed him. Karel's secret was now in his pocket. And tonight, Dahl intended to use it.
The hall brimmed with the world's elite;ministers, scientists, oligarchs,Occultists, Alchemists and the faceless masks of the Cabal. The showroom glowed with strange treasures;artifacts pulled from deserts, skeletons reconstructed from lost ages, gemstones carved like hearts. And among them,living exhibits;Girls with vacant eyes and exposed bodies, displayed like diamonds.
Rozic lingered by the living exhibit, his eyes drifting over the women displayed like rare artifacts. Their features were impossibly diverse; skin tones and bone structures from every corner of the world, and beyond. Some bore traits too strange, too refined collar bones, as if carved from forgotten bloodlines;or engineered in hidden laboratories. A few carried subtle irregularities: eyes flecked with unnatural colors, movements a little too precise, as though nature had been forced to bend.
He raised a hand and slowly drew his fingers through the air, almost as if testing their presence, their 'Â humanity'. A murmur escaped his lips, low and sardonic:
"Fortunate Eckhardt isn't here to see this..."
From behind, Roth's dry voice cut in.
"This is you either shading Eckhardt or Boaz."
As if summoned, Boaz joined them; her sharp gaze flicking to the display. Roth gestured with his glass.
"Tell me; are these women yields of some of your experiments, Boaz?"
She gave a half-smirk, half-eye-roll, a gesture balanced on the edge of disdain and amusement.
"C'mon! Who do you take me for?"
Her tone left him stranded between irony and truth, unable to decide. Then she added with casual venom:
"I'm more into Phernology,Roth. Muller is the one intersted in Eugenic; he would be so interested to see this."
The three of them glanced around almost at once,but Muller was no longer there; he had slipped away into the curtains and shadows behind the gala's glittering façade, then Rozic joined him later with his Violon set in his gaunt hands.
The palace was glowing with chandeliers and chandeliers reflected in marble; an illusion of order masking the rot underneath. Gowns swept the floor, champagne glittered in crystal flutes, and the gala buzzed with conversations about art, power, and money and even dark magic. None of it mattered to Raphael, Alain, and Janice as they threaded through the crowd in borrowed suits and dresses, their eyes not on the spectacle but on the shadows.
Raphael adjusted the cuff of his Blazer ;his h hidden deep pistol in his pocket. Just another wolf in silk among sheep in pearls;Â he thought. Beside him, Alain played his role perfectly, the officer's military posture softened into that of a dignitary,taking a glass of champaign. Janice; draped in a sleek red gown that made her look like she belonged here more than anyone, was the one who truly sold their disguise. Her lips curved into a bored smile that any wealthy socialite might wear, but her eyes were scanning, always scanning.
Above them, crawling along the ornate rafters, shadows moved ; the Craws ,Vittorio agency legion. The Cabal's mercenaries disguised as stagehands and technicians, securing exits, planting devices. They blended in just as seamlessly as the guests, but Raphael noticed the rhythm of their movement; the way their hands rested near weapons hidden beneath jackets.
They split off from the crowd when the music swelled, slipping behind velvet curtains into the back corridors of the palace. The air there was cooler, the walls bare stone compared to the gilded ballroom. The muffled sound of an orchestra carried through the walls as they pressed deeper.
Janice was in the lead when her heel clicked on the polished floor and she stumbled ; catching herself with a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes flicked up, and she froze.
'Nadia....??!' She hissed to herself.
Then she slowed when she caught sight of them backstage. Two of her girls, arm in arm with MĂźller, or rather on top of him;one tugging his tie like a leash, the other steering him by his belly as if he were livestock.
The man wheezed, cheeks slick with sweat, his sausage fingers fluttering over their hips whenever he dared.
"Three... ah; two times the usual rate! For a proper... arrangement, yes?" His voice cracked halfway through, like a schoolboy caught stealing.
The girls only laughed, tossing him back and forth between them like a beach ball. One leaned in close; whispering something wicked in his ear, before slapping his wandering hand away with a smile. The other pinched his cheek until he squealed, then shoved him forward again.
Janice almost gagged. An Elite dignitary reduced to a slobbering fool, tricked into thinking he was the predator when he was clearly the prey. Her girls weren't his victims; they were leading the dance, and he was too drunk on the fantasy to see it.
"Christ," Janice muttered, disgust flickering across her face as she turned away. "Even vermin know when they're being played."
She continued her way to see others of her girls, some of them were the other two left ;the tall one and youngest.
They stood against the wall in their silken dresses, heads lowered, hands folded in front of them like ornaments on display. And beside them ;Vera her former friend. Now the greedy Dahl handler now leaned lazily against the wall; watching the preparations with a predator's calm. Her sharp gaze slid toward Janice as if she sensed her presence, though she was partly hidden in the corridor's shadow.
Janice's mask almost cracked.Â
She forced herself to breathe, forced her expression to stay smooth. If Vera recognized her here, the whole infiltration would burn.
"Stage grooming's almost done," Vera muttered to another handler, not noticing her yet. "The SILVER girl is being finished now; seven minutes and she's on."
The lights dimmed to a warmer glow as Dahl stepped forward on Stage, his presence drawing silence like gravity. He raised his glass, eyes glinting with the satisfaction of a man addressing both his peers and his pawns.
"Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed patrons of empire... tonight you stand not as guests, but as witnesses. Witnesses to a truth whispered for centuries in the dark, while the world above squabbled over scraps; this world we inherited is no stage of peace, no matter how many marble statues or treaties pretend otherwise. It is, and always has been, an estate of shadow. An eternal war waged beneath history's surface ;Darkness against light, the Cabal against the Lux Veritatis. And tonight... you stand on the winning side."
A ripple of approval passed through the hall. Dahl let it stretch, then smiled faintly.
"Our triumphs did not spring from thin air. They were forged by hands of genius and conviction. Take the Black Alchemist; Eckhardt , torn from his prison not by fate, but by a blessed turn of fire and iron. A Nazi bombardment in the rubble of The Dutchland frontiers, if you can believe it, cracked open his tomb. History itself bent to serve him. Yet, without the foresight of one man ; Mathias Vasiley , it would never have been possible."
His tone turned silken, his words deliberate.
"And Mathias' legacy, ah... it did not end there. ladies and gentlemen. Not once did the devil slip through our fingers ,but thrice . And some call me a cynic for believing in blessings; He blessed this new age with ' Two' more boons, two children, three keys of blood, each a thorn or a flame in the hands of destiny. What a devilish trick of providence."
The crowd chuckled uneasily. Dahl gave them a drier smile, voice lowering to a conspiratorial drawl.
"And speaking of providence; there are men who call themselves builders of worlds my friends... in spite of his absence today;we must all acknowledge our fine business partner; Joachim Karel. Renowned, resourceful, rich beyond measure ; though between us," He stopped talking for a second", but I own more than your ledgers could ever tally. Forgive me. And I didn't need a single shareholders' meeting to take it. At least his partner has the decency to put his name on the blood he spends."
Laughter broke out across the hall; sharp and indulgent. Dahl raised a hand mockingly in apology.Â
A pause; then, deliberately, "No offense, Vogel.I wouldn't dream of undercutting your excellent accounts.""
Roth, seated among the glittering guests beside Boaz, raised his glass with a chuckle, playing the line with easy bravado. The crowd laughed with him, the tension breaking in a burst of brittle mirth.
The moment softened the tension like a well-timed punchline.
Then Dahl's expression shifted, a subtle tremor in his bravado, his voice slipping into something almost vulnerable. "Of course, I must confess... someone very dear to me wished to be here tonight. To dazzle this gathering with her irresistible presence. But alas... the world cannot cage her. She is lost to her obsessions; chasing relics and artifacts across the earth. Still, what a woman..." His eyes gleamed, the confession landing with the intoxication of a man utterly, hopelessly enthralled.
The audience murmured, half-smiling, uncertain if they had just glimpsed the tyrant's heart. In the background, Raphael threaded through the crowd with a Bruschetta in his fingers he took from the buffet, using each bite as cover while he slipped closer to the stage.
And now, for the reason you are all truly here. You came to sip champagne, to prattle about portfolios, to pretend you are not part of the world we shape. But the curtain is about to rise; and with it, a Vasiley daughter; she is not the shadow you read about in dossiers or the whisper you dismissed in smoky corridors. No. She is flesh, blood, and design under the Silver moon. The world will change tonight, because behind these Golden curtains stands her sister... and when their bloodlines join upon the stage, even the Black Alchemist will stir."
Dahl lifted his arms, his voice climbing again. " The moment you have awaited has arrived. One of the daughters of Vasiley, whose existence will redraw the map of power. I give you... Morgau!"
The curtains began to stir, a breath of tension falling over the crowd. In the shadows high above, Kurtis Trent stood watch, the Craw mercenaries flanking him, his gray eyes fixed on the stage like the last sentinel of the his bloodline.
Meanwhile ,in the backsatge ;Janice's hand tightened around the clutch bag concealing her weapon; a tiny pocket pistol her father gited to her nine years ago and a peper spary she had in case of an daily assult. She could hear Raphael's breath behind her as he just arrive with Alain ; he'd caught the name. Silver girl.
The handlers moved, ushering Janice's two girls away toward another hall. Vera turned her back to them, barking an order into his radio. For one moment, the path was clear.
Janice's hand brushed Raphael's arm. Her voice was low, trembling with restraint:
"She's already on stage; we're too late for the room."
Alain whispered back, steady and sharp:
"Then we move to the stage itself; cut her free in plain sight if we have to."
Janice's eyes lingered on her girls as they disappeared into the labyrinth; ashard of guilt cut through her poise, but she swallowed it. There was no time to save them all, not yet.
The trio pressed forward, following the sounds of the orchestra swelling toward its crescendo ;and the first appearance of Morgau.
The velvet curtains trembled with the weight of a hundred whispers. From the shadows behind the palace's stage;Raphael felt his pulse pound against the starched collar of his disguise. The gala floor shimmered beyond;crystal chandeliers raining light down on the crowd, all heads craning toward the stage.
Morgau stepped into view.
She emerged slowly, as if drawn out by unseen threads, pale beneath the spotlight, the faint sheen of powder on her cheeks catching the glare. Her snowflake earrings shimmered under the moonlight, gleaming like a fate defiance itself. For a moment the hall hushed; the crowd was caught between fascination and unease. Fake Snow from the open arches drifted inward, settling briefly on her shoulders before melting against her warmth.
Raphael froze. He had seen that look before; those eyes, the fragile strength pressed beneath layers of performance. She was only a girl, trapped in someone else's spectacle.
From the corner of his vision, a slender figure slipped into place just beyond the stage golden curtains that Dahl reffered to.
A woman, posture precise, her expression unreadable.Â
Raphael's breath caught in his throat. Not Samael.
His brain couldn't process what's going on;
'Is Sveta the hidden Vasiley child?".Â
He doesn't know that , neither he will anytime soon.But what he does know is 'that B*****' is no good.
He knew instantly what it meant; why she had come; what she was about to do.
"No..." he murmured, his jaw tightening.
He pushed forward; but steel intercepted him.
The old friend, now stranger, slid neatly into his path; blocking his way with a half-smile that carried no warmth. The glint of a weapon peeked beneath his jacket, but it was his presence,unyielding, deliberate; that caged Raphael in place.
"You're not going anywhere, Rapha," Esteban said softly, his voice almost drowned by the thunder of applause as Morgau reached the center of the stage.
He pointed at Vera having a device in her hand that seemed to be a dynamite remote.
Raphael's hand twitched toward his sidearm, but the weight of the moment pressed harder than the gunmetal. Behind Esteban, beyond the curtains, Sveta lingered in the half-light;watching, calculating, her figure blending into the folds of velvet. Hidden, waiting.
And Raphael knew-too late;that she had chosen her moment
Morgau stepped onto the middle of the stage, her dress a shimmer of light. Silence fell as she raised the harmonica to her lips, the first trembling notes pierced the air, then her voice rose; clear, haunting, siren-sweet.
A song she once sang with Sameal, every syllable a prayer across the void.
When the last note faded, the Announcing voice of Dahl echoed through the walls, curtain behind her trembled; the room seemed to hold its breath.
But it was not The Golden Girl.
It was Sveta; gun in hand, mask torn away, her eyes blazing.
And in the wings, Vera's thumb twitched closer to the trigger.
To be continued..................................................
One more chapter left+ Prologue.
"They dress the night in silver and gold, but all I see is red. They think the music hides the knives, the laughter buries the lies. But I know;this is where everything ends⌠or begins."