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Chapter Text

February 1752 was surprisingly warm.
In the palace, where intrigues wove behind marble walls, the fireplaces were barely lit, and the scent of wax candles made from expensive beeswax mingled with the aroma of amber, musk, and spicy tobaccos. The air was thick, heavy, as if laden with anticipation. In those days, something elusive hovered over Versailles—a light tension, wavering like the flickering flames in the candelabras. It seemed that the mirrored halls reflected not only the gleam of gold but also the shadows of conspiracies slipping across the luxurious tapestries.

Count Théodore d'Alien was not among those who actively wove intrigues. He was a man of loyal service, knew his place, and had mastered the art of staying clear of others' schemes while skillfully navigating the bursts of courtly conflicts. It was precisely this skill that kept him invisible to those accustomed to using people as pawns in their games. However, fate had other plans—and by sheer chance, he came into possession of a fragment of information he perhaps should never have known.

It all began with an ordinary walk in the orangery, where Théodore liked to retreat to enjoy solitude. Amidst tall palms, sprawling fig trees, and delicate citrus groves, the air was easier to breathe, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though the cruelty of court life could be forgotten. Here, the scent of fresh earth, damp from watering, mingled with the slight tartness of overripe fruit. Yet even in this fragrant haven, far removed from the palace corridors, conversations of no less danger took place.

Pausing near a stone bench, he involuntarily overheard a hushed whisper. Two men stood close by, hidden behind a column, discussing something of importance. They were clearly unaware that anyone might be listening.

— "...Three weeks from now, after the ball, he will be vulnerable," one voice said—dry, cautious.
— "Are you certain? The king is accustomed to discontent, but this... this is different," the second voice was younger, laced with unease.
— "It will be done. The key is not to draw attention."

The rest of the words became indistinct, as if the conspirators had moved further away. Théodore held his breath. His heart pounded in his chest. Carefully, he peered around the column, but he could not see the speakers. One thing, however, was clear: they were speaking of the king. And something was to happen in three weeks.

When the count returned to his chambers, his thoughts were in turmoil. The high ceilings adorned with stucco, the light of countless candles shimmering off gilded frames and polished furniture, could not dispel his unease. He knew that in Versailles, everyone played their own game, and such conversations could mean many things. It could be yet another political maneuver, an attempt to pressure someone in the king's circle—or it could be a real conspiracy. Louis XV had already faced assassination attempts. What if this was another?

But whom could he trust? In Versailles, trust was an expensive commodity. He knew the rules of this place too well: a careless phrase spoken to the wrong person could become a death sentence. Yet, in the following days, he realized that silence would not protect him. Someone already knew that he had overheard something.

Rumors spread faster than the wind. By pure chance, Théodore began noticing strange things. Servants lingered in corridors under the pretense of adjusting candelabras, yet seemed to be listening in. People who had once passed him without a glance now watched him with curiosity. And then, one day, as he entered the Hall of Mirrors, where sunlight danced in the crystal chandeliers, he was approached by the Marquis de Châtillon.

— "Count, you are a reasonable man, are you not? You do not believe every rumor you hear?" The marquis tilted his head slightly, as if hinting at something more.

Théodore froze. Was this a test? Or a warning?

— "That depends on the rumor," he replied cautiously.

The marquis smiled, but a shadow flickered in his eyes.

— "Indeed, indeed. There are so many foolish tales in Versailles. For example, some say that a certain count overheard something... Pure nonsense, of course."

Théodore felt his fingers tighten on the edge of his coat. They were testing him. Someone wanted to know how dangerous he was.

The question now was this: was the conspiracy real, or was someone using it to pit people against each other? Perhaps they were trying to frame him, make him a pawn in a game where the real conspirators remained in the shadows.

He began to watch more closely. At the next gathering, Théodore noticed how certain courtiers exchanged glances—glances filled with unspoken meaning. The Marquise de Pompadour, dressed in meadow-iris brocade, seemed particularly attentive to certain officers. Théodore thought he saw her gaze linger on someone just a second too long.

Something was happening.

He felt like a swimmer in deep waters, where every move could lead to an abyss. He had to find out what was going on. Because now he knew one thing for certain: either he would uncover the secret plot, or he himself would become the target.

Chapter Text

February 1752 was unexpectedly warm.

In the halls of Versailles, scented with wax candles and tobacco, tension lingered—subtle, yet clinging like a web. Something was brewing. Muted whispers behind carved screens, fleeting glances exchanged in the mirrors of the Hall of Mirrors, a chill running down one’s spine—an atmosphere of foreboding filled the palace.

Count Théodore d’Alien was not one to seek out secrets, but Versailles placed them into his hands. A prudent man, accustomed to caution, he knew the value of words and the price of silence. He understood: in the palace, there were no chance meetings, no accidental conversations, no meaningless glances. Yet this time, he found himself at a crossroads.

It had all started by chance. The count enjoyed strolling through the royal garden’s orangery, among the fragrant citrus trees and exotic plants. The warmth embraced the glass vaults, teasing with its contrast to the February wind that swept through Versailles’ alleys. The air was filled with the scent of soil, fresh leaves, and something spicy that reminded him of his travels to Italy many years ago. He ran his hand over the smooth trunk of a lemon tree, his fingers brushing against the rough bark. Somewhere in the distance, laughter echoed—ladies enjoying their walk in the orangery—but Théodore was lost in thought.

He sat on a stone bench, absentmindedly brushing a crumb off the marble with his glove, when he caught the sound of voices.
— Everything will be ready in three weeks.
The voice was dry and assured, with a slight rasp, as if the speaker was accustomed to long nights of conversation by candlelight.
— And if someone suspects?
The second voice was younger, more uncertain, laced with worry.
— The king is used to empty threats. But this… this will be different.

Théodore held his breath. A conspiracy? Or just another palace murmur, of which Versailles was full? It should have been nothing unusual—intrigues were woven here as skillfully as lace—but there was something in the speaker’s tone that sent a chill down the count’s spine. Confidence, even a hint of amusement. They were not afraid. They knew what they were doing.

Carefully, he peeked out from behind a column, but he could not make out the speakers. Only the brief gleam of a cloak’s buckle, the scent of strong tobacco… and nothing more. Their footsteps faded, leaving behind only that peculiar silence—the kind that fills the air before a storm.

Théodore remained seated, feigning nonchalance. He took out his handkerchief, running it along the edge of the bench as if searching for a speck of dust, but his mind was already racing. Three weeks—what was to happen? And why had it been spoken just loudly enough for him to hear?

Back in his chambers, he pondered. France had no shortage of conspiracies—restless Jansenists, discontented aristocrats, supporters of Prince Conti… But if this was serious, why speak so openly? Was it meant for someone’s ears? And if so—whose?

The next day, he received an invitation to an evening reception at the Duke de Noailles’ residence. Nothing unusual—Versailles thrived on receptions and balls. Yet when he stepped into the hall, he was met with wary glances. Or had he imagined it? The feeling of being watched did not leave him.

— Count, — a velvet voice called.
The Marquis de Châtillon stood slightly in the shadow of a column, holding a glass of wine, though he did not drink. The candlelight reflected on the massive ruby of his ring, casting crimson flecks onto his pristine cuff.
— You are a reasonable man, are you not?

— I would hope so, — Théodore replied, inclining his head slightly.

Châtillon stepped closer, lowering his voice.
— Then I advise you not to believe everything you hear. Versailles is full of rumors.

Théodore did not flinch. He had heard this a thousand times before, but now, the words carried a different weight. A warning—or a threat?

— You are right, — he agreed lightly. — And some of them are quite fascinating.

The marquis narrowed his eyes slightly, assessing him. Théodore felt the scrutiny like the edge of a scalpel. Someone already knew that he had overheard something. But how? Had the voices in the orangery intended to be overheard? Or was the real trap only now being set?

Now he paid close attention to every glance, every word. He noticed how the usually indifferent Count de Laval suddenly took an interest in him. How the Marquise de Pompadour let her gaze linger on him a moment longer than usual. How the king’s chamberlain—a man not prone to gossip—dropped an ostensibly casual remark:
— There is always something happening in Versailles. The key is not to become a pawn in someone else’s game.

But whose? Who held the board? Who placed the pieces?

Late that evening, returning to his chambers, he found a note on his desk. A small, neatly folded piece of paper. No seal. No signature. Only one word:
— Silence.

Théodore stared at the note, his fingers tightening slightly around the thick paper. He knew: this was only the beginning. A storm was coming. But was he merely an observer—or already a part of the game?

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Chapter Text

The Path to Madame de Pompadour

February 1752. The palace trembled under the weight of gossip. In the corridors of the Hall of Mirrors, courtiers exchanged knowing glances, rumors spreading like spilled wine on a pristine tablecloth. Théodore d’Alien felt it—storm clouds were gathering over Versailles.

The air was thick with the scent of powder, amber, and the warm wax of candles. It seemed almost tangible, soft as the silk drapes that swayed with every step past them. In the distance, beyond massive doors, music played—muffled notes of a harpsichord and violin woven into the invisible web of palace intrigue. Beneath his heels, the polished parquet whispered faintly, reflecting the distorted shadows of nobles hurrying about their business, murmuring in hushed tones.

A conspiracy existed. Of that, he had no doubt. The deeper he delved into the truth, the clearer it became—too many knew that he was searching. But who had left these traces before him? Who had set the traps? His very presence in this palace was becoming part of the game.

Viscount de Bellefont warned him—Théodore was playing with fire. The Duke de Noailles advised him to stay in the shadows. But silence turned a man into a pawn. And Théodore was no pawn.

If there was anyone in Versailles who could shed light on this mystery, it was Madame de Pompadour.

Jeanne-Antoinette de Pompadour rarely received visitors without prior invitation. Her time was more precious than gold. Secrets and rumors flowed to her like water through the channels of fountains, filling her mind with knowledge no one else possessed. Théodore knew—an exception would be made for him.

When he entered her chambers, the air was laced with the delicate scent of irises and vanilla. The evening sun filtered through heavy drapes, gilding the tapestries and casting soft reflections on the inlaid furniture. In the corner, a gilded clock with an intricate dial ticked softly—a gift from the king.

Madame de Pompadour sat by the window, turning the pages of a leather-bound book. The candlelight played on her pearl earrings, transforming them into tiny moons.

— Count, — her voice was gentle, yet beneath it lay an icy undertone, like water beneath a thin layer of ice. — To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?

Théodore inclined his head in a slight bow but did not rush to answer. Her gaze, slightly amused yet sharp, was already studying him, assessing every detail—from the tight folds of his coat to the way he held his hands.

— I seek your counsel, madame.

She closed the book, allowing the soft rustle of its pages to fill the pause.

— The matter must be truly important if you have come to me.

Théodore held her gaze.

— They say that changes are coming to Versailles, — he began cautiously.

A smile touched the marquise’s lips, but in her eyes flickered something sharper—curiosity intertwined with caution.

— In Versailles, they always speak of change.

— This change concerns the king.

Her smile vanished, like the sun slipping behind a cloud. In the corner of the room, the clock’s pendulum clicked softly.

— And where did you hear such a thing, Count?

— I overheard a conversation. I saw certain signs. I know that some at court fear… the future.

She rose, walking slowly across the room, her slender fingers trailing along the carved table, as if feeling the thoughts hidden in the air.

— And now you wish for me to tell you whether you, too, should be afraid?

— I want to know what I should do, madame.

A silence stretched between them. Somewhere deep within the palace, the dinner hour struck, and laughter echoed faintly from outside.

She approached the table where glasses and a decanter of wine stood upon a silver tray and slowly filled her own glass, offering him none.

— Count, — she said, gazing into the crimson liquid as though it held the reflection of her thoughts, — I respect your caution. You are not the kind to leap into the abyss without knowing its depth. But tell me—why does this matter to you?

— If there truly is a plot against the king, I must understand who is behind it.

She took a sip of wine, holding it in her mouth before swallowing.

— Or do you simply not wish to be a pawn in someone else’s game?

Théodore smiled slightly.

— Perhaps both.

She nodded, as if in agreement.

— Very well. I will help you. But in return, I ask only one thing—do not be too quick to draw conclusions.

— What do you mean?

She stepped closer, her voice lowering, carrying a hint of amusement.

— Sometimes the enemy is not the one people point to. And sometimes rumors are created deliberately—to make people act.

A cold sensation crept down Théodore’s spine.

— You mean to say there is no plot?

She moved even closer, allowing the scent of her perfume to mingle with his breath.

— I mean to say that perhaps someone wants there to be one.

There was something more than a warning in her words. It was a challenge.

As Théodore left Madame de Pompadour’s chambers, twilight had already settled over the palace. The air outside was crisp, yet the lingering trace of her perfume still clung to him.

She had not given him a direct answer, but one thing had become clear—someone was not merely weaving an intrigue. Someone was shaping a reality that others were meant to believe in.

On the staircase, he felt a presence—a gaze from the shadows, unseen yet unmistakable.

The game had begun.

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Chapter Text

A Conspiracy Hidden Behind an Illusion
February 1752

Versailles thrived on rumors and intrigue. In halls where gilded candelabras reflected in mirrors, and the scent of musk and incense mingled with spilled wine, some players rose, others fell, and a few skillfully hid behind the glitter of gold and silk. In the cold winter air seeping through massive windows, hushed voices of courtiers carried, discussing the latest gossip with feigned nonchalance. Here, in this opulent labyrinth of power and illusions, every word could be a trap, every glance—a betrayal.

Théodore d’Alien knew all too well: not all conspiracies were real. Sometimes, the most dangerous ones were those designed to distract from true crimes. And now, he stood before just such a deception. The rumors fell around him like dice cast in a game where the stakes were too high. They spread, clinging to the ears of the gullible, flowing from mouth to mouth like poisoned honey. Something about them was too rehearsed, too precise to be true.

The count listened. He listened during card games, in the shadowed alleys of the park where statues seemed to watch every move. Beneath marble arches, in dimly lit corners where silk fans barely concealed smiles and ladies’ eyelids fluttered with laughter, he caught fragments of conversations. In private chambers, under the flickering glow of candlelight, he discerned words spoken with just the right touch of theatrics. Some spoke of a “plot against the king,” others of clandestine gatherings of discontented aristocrats. The more he listened, the clearer it became: it was too obvious. The rumors did not flow like an underground spring but spread like spilled ink—bold, deliberate. Someone wanted them to be heard.

— Count, you look troubled. — The voice of the Duke de Noailles pulled Théodore from his thoughts. The duke sipped his champagne absentmindedly, tilting the glass, where bubbles lazily rose to the surface. His impeccably powdered wig cast a faint shadow on his high forehead, while his slender fingers gripped the stem of the glass with effortless refinement.

— I am only troubled when rumors grow too loud, — Théodore replied, feigning indifference. He lifted his glass, gazing into the ruby depths of the wine as if searching for answers to unspoken questions.

— And what if they are true? — There was a barely perceptible challenge in the duke’s voice. His lips curled into a careless smile, but his eyes remained watchful.

Théodore smirked, but his smile was cold, like the February wind creeping through heavy tapestries.

— Oh, Duke, does it matter whether rumors are true or merely well played? What matters is who wants us to believe them.

The duke regarded him intently, as if weighing every word. At that moment, Théodore realized: he had already crossed an invisible line. It was not his imagination—someone was watching him. A chill ran down his spine as he caught a fleeting glance from behind a column. Perhaps just a coincidence. Or perhaps, he had already been warned that he had gone too far.

He took a sip of wine, feeling its sharpness, and sensed the tension tightening at his temples. Behind him, silk skirts rustled, soft footsteps brushed against the parquet floor, hushed whispers drifted in the air. Someone laughed, someone exchanged idle pleasantries, but beneath the chaos of sounds, there was something false—something rotten beneath the dazzling façade.

This was not just a game.
This was a gamble where the stakes were not only honor—but life itself.

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Traces Leading to the Money

He knew the conspirators hid in the shadows. But their true traces lay in the accounts.

The royal papers concealed more than their owners would have liked. The sums in the quartermaster’s reports didn’t add up. There were strange gaps in the food supply records. And the army received fewer rifles than were listed in the registers. Theodore methodically flipped through the pages, connecting the dots as if mapping an invisible trail. Somewhere, someone was juggling the numbers a little too skillfully. And he was beginning to suspect who.

Rumors of a plot against the king were spreading. Whispers in taverns, glances exchanged in palace corridors, cautious looks cast at the guards. But the more Theodore studied the documents, the clearer it became: the rumors were nothing more than an elaborate smokescreen. While some searched for imaginary conspirators, others were lining their coffers.

Gold was vanishing. Slipping through fingers into a bottomless abyss.

In one place, the army was missing hundreds of rifles. In another, the cost of repairing the royal palace had inexplicably doubled on paper. Elsewhere, funds meant for grain purchases had found their way into pockets whose owners were, for now, only a mystery. And all of it was happening with the knowledge of someone very powerful.

Theodore ran his palm thoughtfully over the yellowed pages, feeling the rough texture of paper soaked with ink and time. The air smelled of dust and something metallic—perhaps the scent of old coins that had once lain in the treasury but had now vanished into unknown hands. His finger traced one of the records—an irregular figure, hastily corrected. Clever, but not flawless. A mistake. And a mistake meant a trail.

Theodore knew exactly who to question.

Count de Saint-Clair was a name whispered in the corridors of power. He didn’t just know who was stealing—he understood who was allowing it. A man accustomed to the shadows.

The count’s reception hall was steeped in gloom. Thick candles in silver candelabras cast long shadows over the dark oak table draped in deep crimson brocade. The walls were paneled with dark wood, and in the fireplace, logs crackled, releasing the rich scent of burning cedar. The air was heavy, thick with the aromas of wine, parchment, and a faint trace of dampness.

"What nonsense is this? Are you accusing me of something, Monsieur Theodore?" The count’s voice was serene, but something flickered in his eyes—something wary.

Theodore smiled, as if savoring the moment.

"Of course not," he said, lazily running his fingers along the rim of his glass. The crystal was heavy, refracting candlelight into crimson reflections on the dark tablecloth. "I just find it odd that a man of such high esteem is suddenly so interested in rumors of a conspiracy. They do, after all, provide such a convenient distraction from more… tangible matters."

"Such as?" Saint-Clair didn’t blink.

"Such as the dwindling royal treasury."

Silence stretched between them like a taut string. Theodore watched the count, noting how his fingers tightened, how the slightest change flickered across his face. In the fireplace, a log cracked, sending a small burst of embers into the air.

"You are playing with fire, Theodore," Saint-Clair finally said, leaning back in his chair. The fabric of his coat pulled slightly as his fingers brushed the stem of his glass, as if assessing its weight. "And fire sometimes burns those it was not meant to."

"I know how to be careful," Theodore took a slow sip of wine, tasting its tart bitterness and the faint hint of oak. "Unlike those who are too confident in their own invulnerability."

The count held his gaze, unblinking. The air in the room grew heavier.

Beyond the window, the distant chime of a clock rang out—one strike, two… three. Time. Time was slipping away.

The pause stretched. And when Theodore finally rose, he already knew—tonight, he had learned exactly enough to take the next step.

Saint-Clair exhaled slowly, his grip tightening ever so slightly on the armrests of his chair. The faintest smile faded from his lips.

He understood now—Theodore knew too much.

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Chapter Text

The Fires of Versailles: Ball, Intrigue, and the Game of Shadows
February 1752

Versailles shimmered that evening with thousands of lights, like an enchanted palace from a fairy tale. The flickering glow of candles reflected in crystal chandeliers, casting a soft golden radiance across walls draped in silk tapestries depicting scenes from antiquity and triumphs of the hunt. The air was laced with the delicate scent of floral perfumes, amber, and fine tobacco, drifting like a faint echo through the hall. Beneath the high vaulted ceilings came the hushed sound of laughter, the rustle of silk and velvet, and the occasional chime of silver bells announcing new toasts. Outside, snow blanketed the alleys with a soft carpet, muffling the steps of late-arriving guests, while in the distance, near the wrought-iron gates, the creak of carriage wheels and curt commands of coachmen could be heard.

Footmen in gold-embroidered livery bustled through the galleries, ensuring the evening passed without flaw. In the Grand Hall, beneath ceilings painted with scenes from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the season’s grandest event was beginning—a masquerade ball arranged at the insistence of none other than Madame de Pompadour herself.

Théodore d’Alienne, a count known for his impeccable tact and uncanny ability to read people, could not miss such an occasion. He knew that behind the glitter of diamonds and silk, beneath the smiles and curtseys, the darkest secrets of Versailles lay hidden. Lately, rumors of a conspiracy involving embezzlement had grown alarmingly specific—and here, amid the whirl of conversation and dance, the first threads of truth might emerge.

Théodore entered the hall wearing a black mask adorned with delicate golden filigree. Its graceful lines echoed Venetian lacework, and the fine threads of embroidery shimmered faintly in the candlelight. His costume was elegant but restrained: deep-hued velvet, buttons engraved with the family crest, and perfectly matched accessories that spoke not of wealth, but of taste. His bearing was impeccably cold, his gaze attentive yet distant. Unlike those who flaunted their splendor, he preferred to watch. In places like this, it was not just words that mattered, but the silences between them—not only movements, but the shadows that slipped behind the dancers.

“You are far too mysterious, Count!” came a light-hearted voice. The Marquise de Lambert greeted him with a playful flick of her fan, its pale blue hue matching her gown embroidered with silver stars. Beneath a complex coiffure of gleaming curls, sapphire drops sparkled, and her eyes, veiled by a delicate lace mask, shone with genuine mirth.

“In a masquerade, madam, we are all mysterious,” he replied evenly, dipping his head in greeting. “Isn’t that the very point?”

She pretended to ponder, playing with the glittering pendants at her ears.

“Perhaps. But some wear masks even without the ball.”

Théodore smiled faintly, though his eyes did not.

“All the world’s a masquerade, madam. Some simply dance it better than others.”

Waltzing pairs filled the hall as the first notes of a minuet drifted from one of the balconies. Théodore’s gaze drifted subtly, scanning the room. One figure, clad in a silver mask, caught his attention. The person’s movements were too precise, too assured. Every step calculated, every bow deliberate. A seasoned player—but in what game? He caught a trace of musk and bergamot in the air, a hint of powder, and just a whisper of something metallic—weapon? Or merely his imagination?

“Recognize anyone?” a voice murmured beside him, and he tensed ever so slightly.

Madame de Pompadour stood a few steps away, resplendent in burgundy satin. Her towering coiffure sparkled with gems, and a flute of champagne glittered in her hand. On her slender wrist, a delicate bracelet shimmered with tiny teardrop-shaped rubies. She exuded confidence—the mistress of the evening, the mistress of the game itself.

“Isn’t that the purpose of a ball?” Théodore answered smoothly. “To hide, and to watch?”

She gave a short hum, raising her glass to her lips.

“Or to find answers, Count.”

He inclined his head slightly, hiding a subtle smirk behind the shadow of his mask.

“And are there answers to be found here?”

She sipped, eyes never leaving his.

“That depends on the questions you ask.”

The music shifted, and she extended her hand.

“Shall we dance, monsieur?”

He knew refusal wasn’t an option. When the king’s favorite extended an invitation, to decline was not mere rudeness—it was a statement. So he offered his hand, and together they stepped into the center of the hall, where couples spun beneath the blaze of countless candles.

The marquise moved with ease and grace, but Théodore knew that behind her flowing steps lay a keen intellect. Her words always meant more than they seemed.

“Tell me, Count, do you already know who lies behind the rumors?” she asked casually, though her voice was sharp with interest.

His expression didn’t change, but his grip on her hand tightened slightly.

“Perhaps.”

She smiled, her eyes flashing like faceted gems.

“Oh, then I was right to invite you to this ball.”

He twirled her in the dance, careful to keep their conversation away from curious ears. His hand rested at her waist, feeling the warmth of the fabric beneath his fingers—and with it, the tension coiled into the night.

“And what is it you want, madam?” His voice was almost languid, but it, too, was just a mask.

She laughed softly, as if he’d made a clever joke.

“Oh, Count, what a question. I want to see who removes their masks.”

Théodore caught the hint.

Tonight, someone would make a mistake.

And he was here to witness it.

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Chapter Text

Silver Turned to Coal, and Poison in the Murderer’s Hand
1752. Versailles.

The ball in the Grand Hall was over. The vast space, which just moments ago had sparkled with the light of hundreds of candles and echoed with the clamor of music and voices, now faded into a flickering twilight. The rustle of silk skirts and the clink of crystal glasses had vanished, leaving behind only a faint echo, as if the walls themselves were reminiscing about the evening’s bustle.

The scent of fine eastern perfumes still lingered in the air like invisible ghosts of the guests, clinging to gilded cornices, mirrors, and heavy draperies. Feathers fallen from ladies' coiffures lay scattered here and there, along with petals slipped from bouquets. The smell of wine, powder, wax, and human warmth hung thick in the air, rich and cloying like an aftertaste on the tongue.

Laughter had rung here not long ago—bright, unrestrained, like the crack of ice in a glass—and just as cold. For behind that laughter hid not joy, but intrigue. Everything had been too perfect, too refined—like a painting behind which something shifted. Luxurious ostrich plumes, the sparkle of jewels, elaborate hairstyles stiffened with flour and grease, mirrors in gilt frames—all of it now melted into the shadows.

Count Théodore d’Alien walked alone through the cold galleries, long abandoned by sound and people. His footsteps echoed dully on the marble floor, as if the château itself were listening, recording each step. The windows were draped with heavy curtains, and only through the upper panes did the pale moonlight spill in, slicing the floor into geometric patches of darkness and light. The damask-covered walls, deep green and solemn, suddenly felt alien—as though Versailles no longer belonged to men, but to shadows.

He held his gloved hands behind his back, fingers clenched. The chill crept under his cloak, but Théodore did not notice. His mind had wandered far from his body. He was thinking about the man in the silver mask—the stranger he had encountered at the ball. It had been almost by chance—in the shadow of a balcony, near a column—where the figure had emerged from the darkness, as though expecting him.

The mask, plain and unadorned—only smooth silver gleaming under chandelier light—did not conceal the voice, but lent it a strange resonance. The stranger had spoken quietly, deliberately, savoring each word. And every word had been poison, wrapped in the velvet of diplomacy.

He spoke of a conspiracy, though he claimed that was merely a façade, hiding the real game. Of bribes so deftly placed that the victims never knew they'd paid. Of men who served both sides. Of a king deceived—and those who profited from it. But most of all, he spoke of papers. Documents capable of destroying entire families. And of a man who had “heard too much.”

Théodore hadn’t known then whether it was a hint—or a warning. But now... now, in the dead silence of Versailles, in this cooling husk of festivity, everything took on a new meaning. Silver can turn to coal. What once seemed noble, beautiful, dependable—could crumble in the hand, fragile and false. And death was already tightening its grip around the vial of poison.

He stopped. Voices sounded ahead, around a bend in the corridor. Faint, but their tones—dry, careful—made him tense.

He crept closer, moving like a shadow in a dance, and pressed himself against a cold pillar, breathing shallowly.

“It’s done. The king will never know,” said the first voice. Even, rehearsed, emotionless.

“The papers?” asked the second, gentler but taut with nerves.

“They leave Versailles tomorrow. Through the southern gate. Everything’s on schedule.”

“And the one who heard too much?” The voice dropped, nearly a whisper.

Silence fell. A chill ran down Théodore’s spine—slow and clammy, like a gloved touch on bare skin.

“We’ll deal with him soon,” the first voice snapped.

His throat dried. His heart beat faster, but Théodore forced himself to stay still. His palms sweated inside his gloves. Who were they talking about? he wondered. Himself? Someone else? Was this coincidence, a trap, a test?

The conversation resumed, calm as if they were discussing furniture placement.

“You’re sure he can be removed?” asked the second. This time, a tremor crept in—hesitation.

“Of course,” came the reply, cool as ice. “We have the poison. By morning, he’ll be gone. Like all the others.”

A spark of realization flared in Théodore’s mind. That voice—he knew it. Not by name, not by face—but by how it formed words, clipped phrases, paused between thoughts. This was someone close. Trusted.

“He knows too much,” murmured the second.

“That’s why he must vanish,” said the first, without a flicker of doubt. “Before dawn. Without a trace.”

Théodore drew back into the archway, where the shadow deepened, thick and secure. Now, he had no doubt at all. They were speaking of him.

Suddenly, Versailles felt alien. Hostile. Every sculpture on the wall seemed to watch. Every draft whispered menace.

Silver had crumbled to dust. The mask no longer gleamed.

And the poison was already in someone's hand. Its hour was near.

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Dance of Shadows

He moved slowly toward the exit, stepping cautiously, as if walking on ice. His footsteps were nearly silent on the mosaic floor — as if he feared waking the darkness itself. But someone already knew he had been eavesdropping.

"Count d’Alien. How pleasant to see you at such a late hour."

The voice emerged from the darkness like a dagger slipping from beneath a cloak. Theodore turned.

A silver mask.

But now, in the flickering torchlight, it became clear: it was not silver, but expertly polished steel. It reflected the flame like ice reflects the moon — and in that reflection lurked something sinister. The face behind it was hidden, but the gaze — heavy, piercing — slipped through the eye slits, studying his reaction.

Like the edge of a knife.

And the man before him no longer seemed a frivolous courtier. The lazy gestures, the insinuating voice, the theatrical carelessness — all had vanished. What remained was a predator, wearing the jester’s mask for a time.

“You stayed late,” said Theodore, straightening. His back ached slightly from long tension, but he allowed himself no relaxation.

“As did you,” replied the stranger, stepping closer. His steps were deliberate, precise — as if he had long rehearsed this scene. His cloak whispered across the floor, brushing it like a raven’s wing.

“I like the night. It holds more truths.”

“Sometimes. Too many.”

Silence fell between them. Heavy, like moisture in old dungeons. Seconds stretched like threads of poison. Somewhere beyond the castle walls, a dog howled — a lonely, uneasy sound, as if it too were part of this strange, whispering dark.

“Do you have something to say, Count?” the man in the steel mask asked. His voice was emotionless, but a threat shimmered beneath it — like the hush before a storm.

“Rather to hear something,” Theodore replied calmly, but his ears caught every sound, every motion. He could afford no mistakes.

“Then listen carefully. You would do well to forget everything you heard.”

Theodore smiled slowly. The smile barely touched the corners of his lips, but there was steel in it. Not cruelty — resolve, defiance.

“How interesting. Usually, when someone tells me that, I remember it all the more vividly.”

“That could be dangerous.”

“And life at court isn’t?”

“Then perhaps... you’ll have a drink with us?”

He felt everything tighten inside. Not from fear — from the cold clarity that one step to the left or right could be the last. His whole body tensed: his shoulder blades contracted, his palms grew damp, his breath deepened, quieted.

Poison.

He didn’t know whether it was in the wine — or the offer itself. But he knew the game had begun. And in this game, there were no spectators. Only players — and prey.

Theodore knew that to refuse would be to show fear. And fear was the worst adviser in the palace. Here, beneath ceilings painted with myths, where wine flowed like rivers and smiles hid daggers, there was no room for fear.

He silently watched as a servant emerged from the shadows. Long fingers held a tray with such precision, as if it bore not wine — but someone’s fate. The silver gleamed in the firelight, and the red wine in the goblets danced like blood under the sun.

The man in the mask took one of the goblets, turned it in his hand, admiring the ruby glints, then offered it to Theodore.

“To the king’s health?”

The pause hung in the air like the moment before a duel. Theodore looked at the glass — thin, almost weightless. A faint ripple of wine reflected the fire, and it seemed something was breathing within.

He didn’t move.

“How can one drink to health when one knows death lies in the cup?”

The mask tilted slightly, as if the speaker were weighing his words. The silence stretched — a second, then another. Then:

“You are overly cautious, Count.”

“Perhaps,” said Theodore, taking the goblet. His fingers closed around the fine crystal. He felt the chill of glass — like the chill of betrayal. “Cautious enough not to die foolishly.”

He raised the cup... and as if by accident, nudged the tray’s edge with his elbow. A chime rang out — sharp, almost musical, but eerie. One of the goblets tipped, and the wine spilled across the stone floor like blood over white marble.

“What a shame,” he said with a slight smile — the kind of irony that could be genuine... or mocking.

The man in the mask stared at him long and cold. Not a single muscle betrayed anger or surprise — only a keen, focused gaze. Theodore thought he could hear a mental clock ticking in the silence.

“Indeed. A shame.”

A second. Another.

He didn’t know if he had survived by chance — or was simply being tested. But now the stakes were set.

Theodore dipped his head slightly in polite apology. His shoulders relaxed, his gaze steady. But inside, everything ticked like clockwork: pulse, analysis, anticipation.

He understood he was now in a deadly game. And the loser would not walk away.

Someone wanted him gone. It was no longer a suspicion — it was knowledge. Someone was stealing, hiding evidence, weaving schemes. And willing to kill.

He pretended he understood nothing.

He pretended to play.

But now he had to find the killer’s name — before he became the next victim. Before someone decided he had heard too much. Understood too much.

Silver turned out to be steel.

And behind the shine of smiles, there were fangs.

The poison wasn’t only in the goblet. It was in the words, in the glances, in a step unheard behind your back. It could be anywhere — in anyone’s hand.

And the only question was who would flinch first. Who would make the move from which there was no return.

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Northern Cold and Warm Smiles

Sweden greeted Théodore d’Alien with a piercing wind and silent snowy plains, so white that under the sun they seemed cast in silver. In this northern land, where the light rose lazily, sneaking over the horizon, and disappeared just as quickly—as if hurrying to hide behind the spruce tops—there was none of the bustle of Versailles, no feigned smiles of Parisian salons, no poisonous whispers in marble galleries. Instead of gilded cornices—frost-covered pines, like powdered wigs. Instead of the heavy scents of perfume—the smell of pure snow, ice, and fire-warmed wood. Everything felt slow, cold—and honest.

He arrived in Stockholm as part of the French embassy, accompanying the new envoy, the Marquis de Montreville, whose plump figure and florid phrases stood out sharply against Swedish restraint. Officially, his role was to provide diplomatic oversight and support negotiations at the court of King Frederick I, but unofficially—and this was felt even in how the marquis avoided his gaze—Théodore had been sent far from the center of affairs. Versailles still remembered his recent discoveries: intercepted letters, exposed schemes, and one especially scandalous note that hinted at the betrayal of one of the queen’s favorites. The information was too precise to be accidental, and too dangerous to allow its bearer to remain nearby.

Yet to Théodore, this exile felt less like punishment and more like a strange form of freedom. He felt the endless courtly chatter quiet in his mind, the familiar masks fall away. In this silence—snowy, watchful, as though everything around him were listening—he could finally just think. Sometimes he would go out early in the morning, long before dawn, into the depths of the snowy alleys, listening to the wind wandering between the houses with sharp roofs, the crackling of ice beneath his heels. In those sounds, there was clarity—clear as breath freezing in the air.

King Frederick’s court was not gilded, but in its restraint lay a noble simplicity. There were no grand balls—instead, focused dinners, political gatherings by large stone hearths to the ticking of antique clocks. Masquerades were replaced by hunting and long discussions of foreign policy. Even the feasts were laconic: thick fish soup, roasted game, dark bread—nothing superfluous, but with a flavor that spoke of the kitchen’s generosity. To Théodore, it felt almost like a purification. In this austere clarity, he felt sharper, more composed.

The aristocrats here spoke little, but their words were precise. Théodore learned to read not only intonation but pauses—here they meant more than a whole paragraph of elegant chatter in Versailles. He listened for expressions, the movement of fingers on a wineglass, the moment someone drew breath before speaking. One had to be attentive to everything: to glances, offhand phrases, fleeting gestures.

He quickly became acquainted with Count Carl Gyllenborg—a man whose face resembled the stony profiles on ancient medals. The count was cool, reserved, and spoke as if each word cost a silver coin. His study was filled with antique maps, scrolls of diplomatic correspondence, and shelves of books in Latin and Swedish. He smoked strong tobacco that smelled of dry moss and leather. At their first meeting, Gyllenborg said: “Parisian words fly quickly, but rarely hit their mark. In Stockholm, we shoot less often—but true.”

Théodore met Baroness Ebba Sparre at one of the rare receptions, where the decorations were not garlands but spruce branches with red ribbons. She entered the hall as if she already knew every gaze, moving like a snowflake in the wind—light, yet purposeful. Ebba was young, but her composure spoke of maturity: she wasted no time on coquetry, yet every word she spoke carried the weight of a compelling thought. She surprised Théodore not only by being familiar with the works of French philosophers but by arguing with them.

“Isn’t Rousseau an idealist?” she asked, leaning on the armrest and turning gracefully toward him. “He believes in man as if in a Christmas miracle. But in politics, Monsieur d’Alien, miracles are rare. What they do know is how to be forged.”

Théodore was enthralled. In Paris, philosophy was typically just a fashionable seasoning for social conversation—no more than a quote on a fan. But here it lived—as part of thought, as a weapon and a tool. Ebba spoke of Locke, of ancient Scandinavian sagas, and even offered him a manuscript discussing governance in the spirit of old knightly codes. Irony and intellect blended in her with a kind of hidden warmth, which he could sense in her gaze when she listened just a little longer than etiquette required.

Stockholm, despite its harsh climate, proved no colder than Versailles. No, it was a different cold—pure, open, not veiled. And the smiles here were warmer precisely because they were not given freely. One had to earn them. One day a footman—an old man with hands like tree roots—poured him mulled wine and, wordlessly smiling, handed him the glass. In that look was more kindness than in a dozen toasts at a Parisian ball.

And yet, beneath the snow and icy stillness, Théodore felt something new growing within him. Here, far from glitter and falsehood, he began to reconsider not only his role but his purpose. His awareness sharpened—almost like a hunter tracking meaning among words. He began to keep a journal, not of events but of impressions: the sound of silence, the shape of clouds, the crunch beneath his feet, rare meetings and subtle glances. He did not yet know where it would lead, but for the first time in a long while, he felt that something important was happening—even if slowly, like dawn in a northern land.

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Daily Rituals

Mornings at court began early, especially in winter, when daylight was in short supply. Long nights, frost covering the castle towers, and the silence that creaked under the soles of boots created the impression that the palace itself was holding its breath. In the dark corridors, paneled with carved oak, lingered the scent of extinguished torches and melting snow. Wisps of smoke still drifted near the high ceilings, and cold mist curled at the windows with thick glass set in lead frames.

Each morning started with the sharp, abrupt cry of the watchman at the main gate: “The King is up!” And as if triggered by some snow-covered mechanism, the entire palace came alive. Footmen hurried to light fires in the hearths, servants in heavy woolen coats placed kettles of water on clay tiles. Horses neighed in the stables, awaiting their morning feed, and the dull thud of hooves echoed even in the farthest chambers.

Unlike the kings of France, surrounded by an endless retinue of chamberlains, valets, and advisors, the Swedish monarch required no such elaborate ceremony. His rising was not marked by choral greetings or ritual dressing. After a brief conversation with his inner circle — usually an advisor, a chaplain, and the duty officer — he might proceed directly to state matters or depart for a hunt. Hunting, harsh and often exhausting, remained one of the main entertainments and simultaneously a means to maintain military discipline.

The king appeared without pomp — in a simple but warm outfit made of fur and thick cloth, smelling of smoke and pine needles. His movements showed weariness, but not weakness: rather, a habitual strictness. He rarely smiled, but listened intently, casting glances at each person present. His short phrases and precise questions gave even the most routine affairs an air of importance.

Royal meals were held without unnecessary ceremony, yet followed a strict schedule. The hall where they took place was paneled in dark wood, with garlands of dried heather and pine branches adorning the ceiling. One of the main meals, the långbord or “long table,” was a large gathering that included council members and invited nobles. The table was covered with an embroidered cloth, stained in places with wine and wax, and benches along the walls were reserved for guests of lesser rank.

A wide variety of dishes were served during this meal: smoked fish, pickled herring, stewed meat with juniper berries, fragrant rye bread with caraway seeds, and rich, creamy butter curled on cold plates. French wines stood alongside Swedish liqueurs poured into squat glass decanters, and sometimes even strong aquavit — clear as ice. It was served in small shot glasses, cold to the touch, with a delicate frost on the rim. The taste was sharp, with notes of dill, cardamom, and black pepper. Not all the French dared try it, but those who did quickly found themselves met with respectful glances from their hosts.

Theodor especially enjoyed the so-called smörgåsbord — the appetizer table that preceded the main meal. It was a kind of ritual, allowing guests to sample several light dishes before the main course. He approached it each time with the curiosity of a child discovering unknown flavors. There, on a long oak board covered with fine linen, lay slices of cheese — thick, robust, with nutty notes — pieces of cold roasted goose, eggs stuffed with roe, beetroot salads, sweet dill, boiled potatoes with sea salt, and melted butter. Everything was sliced neatly, almost lovingly, as if the food itself were a form of etiquette.

He especially remembered one day when, among the other dishes, there was fresh cloudberry sprinkled with dark sugar and pieces of dried reindeer meat — dense and salty like sea wind. No one made loud toasts or raised their glasses with flourish. But in this restrained enjoyment of food, in the quiet nods and occasional remarks on flavor, there was an almost sacred harmony.

At times, when a snowstorm outside the windows spread its white fog, Theodor felt as though he were inside a different culture — one where words were excessive and gestures weighty. He missed music, light, and the ease of French etiquette, but there was something monumental in this northern austerity. He noticed how the focus here was not on decoration, but on order: how food was served, how napkins were folded, how knives were wiped clean of butter, how voices were kept low in the hall to preserve the shared rhythm.

One day, as spring neared, he witnessed a scene he would long remember. One of the young officers, the son of a provincial baron, accidentally spilled a bowl of soup. It splashed onto the tablecloth, staining it a murky gray-brown. All eyes turned to him, but no one said a word. The boy stood, bowed, and quietly left the table. A few minutes later, he returned with a fresh tablecloth, helped clear the soiled dishes, and resumed his seat without a word. The king looked at him and nodded. This silent lesson in dignity, Theodor recorded in his diary as evidence of a different, deeper morality.

With each passing day, he understood more clearly: morning audiences, meals, even the hunts — they were not merely habits, but forms of governance, rooted in the landscape, the climate, and the character of the people. The Swedish court seemed to him a fortress ruled by restrained power — invisible, yet palpable, like ice on the wind.

And the longer he stayed, the more sharply he felt: he was no longer a guest, yet not fully one of them. He was an observer, a witness to someone else’s harmony, absorbing each morning its icy, almost ascetic beauty.

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Northern Fashion: Silk and Furs

When Théodore d’Alène first saw how they dressed at the Swedish court, he felt a light, almost childlike wonder—like hearing a familiar melody in which an unexpected, yet not false, note suddenly sounded. It was not a shock, but a subtle aesthetic shift: as if someone had taken a familiar palette and washed away its brightest colors, leaving only the complex, deep shades behind.

France dictated fashion to all of Europe—Parisian tailors set the trends, Versailles courtiers followed every change in cut and trim, and the finest lace, gold-embroidered coats, and voluminous panniers of ladies’ gowns were indispensable at any high-society gathering. Everything there was demonstrative, overt, almost architectural—clothing did not so much emphasize the figure as transform the body into a pedestal for opulence.

In Sweden, things looked different. Fashion here had shed its theatrical masks, as if revealing a face cleansed of ostentatious shine. It was like the surface of a frozen lake—restrained, even, yet holding hidden strength beneath. There was no blinding gilding, no cascades of jewels, no ornate details that often obscured the wearer’s form. Even the folds in the garments seemed deliberate rather than accidental, governed by some inner law of symmetry and simplicity.

Instead of familiar theatre—strict architecture of lines. Instead of the dance of fabric—dense, almost ascetic stillness. And yet this was not without elegance. On the contrary, there was a distinct grace in this severity—cold, northern, like the silhouette of a lone tree against a snowy horizon. Silence instead of fanfares. Economy instead of ornament.

The Swedish courtiers, of course, did not ignore French influences—familiar silhouettes, insets, and patterns appeared here and there—but all of it was muted, adapted, as though filtered through the icy light of the northern sun. The colors were rich, dark, earthy, or deep as dark wine. The fabrics—dense, restrained—not made for balls, but for winter and for long royal audiences in cold halls. Jewels were present, but they did not shout; they glimmered quietly in the folds, like ice on stone.

The French tailors accompanying the embassy soon received an order from Théodore. He could not allow himself to look like an outsider among the Swedish aristocracy. Here, in a world of half-tones and cold winds, his usual wardrobe seemed loud, theatrical, even a little absurd. He observed with quiet interest how local men wore their frock coats and cloaks with dignity, unconcerned with calculated effect. Their clothing did not seek to impress—it spoke of belonging.

Théodore studied the details as a diplomat studies the intonations of a foreign language: with curiosity, caution, sometimes admiration, sometimes inward resistance. Fashion was also a way of speaking, and he was learning to speak in a new, unfamiliar dialect.

One morning, his valet carefully laid out a new outfit—made in the Swedish style but with French refinement. Everything was neatly hung and arranged on the chair and the long bench by the window: the fabric gleamed softly in the winter light filtering through the narrow window of the embassy residence.

First came the frock coat—long, fitted, with deep skirts, sewn from dense dark-blue broadcloth. The color resembled the Baltic Sea at night—rich, deep, almost black. Théodore ran his hand over it: the cloth was thick, slightly rough, with a barely visible diagonal texture. It had none of the smoothness of French coats, none of the silken glide beneath the fingers. Yet in this weight there was reliability, solidity, a sense of protection he had never known before. This was not attire—it was armor, shaped with aristocratic restraint.

Beneath the coat was a vest of silvery velvet. The velvet was surprisingly soft and warm, as if it absorbed the light from the window. The embroidery—fine yet intricate—seemed deliberately hidden, meant for the eyes of those who knew how to see. Lines of dim silver, like frost on glass, played in the folds. The vest’s neckline was slightly deeper than Parisian fashion dictated, and the lace of the shirt peeked out beneath it—a faint trace of the old Théodore, a light reminder of Versailles.

The shirt itself was of batiste, almost weightless, like a spider’s web. The cuffs were adorned with silver embroidery—narrow and elaborate. The collar was higher than he was used to, but it did not restrict his breathing—it accentuated the line of the neck, giving his posture more presence. Théodore caught himself standing a little straighter than usual—the clothes seemed to correct not only his stance, but also his inner sense of self.

The breeches were a little sturdier than French ones, made of dark cloth, without extravagance but with precision. The silver buttons bore tiny, almost indistinguishable coats of arms, crafted to perfection. They fastened with a slight resistance—and that too was pleasing: as if the clothes insisted he wear them with composure, not carelessness.

The boots were tall, of soft leather that bent like fabric yet held its shape. Their soles did not slip on the stone floors—something that greatly pleased the valet. They could be worn both at a reception and on a snowy quay, looking out over the icy slabs of the bay.

The ensemble was completed by a long dark fur cloak, lined with sable. It was heavier than it looked and wrapped around the shoulders like night. The lining was a deep wine-red, almost invisible but flashing now and then at the folds, like candle flame in shadow. This was not just a garment, but a gesture of power—soft, unshowy, yet real.

Théodore stood before the tall mirror and froze. The room was quiet; only the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the whistle of the northern wind outside could be heard. He looked at his reflection as if trying to read in it some new version of himself. His gaze moved slowly from shoulders to boots, from collar to curve of the skirt. He looked different. The image in the mirror was not a stranger, but it was not entirely familiar either. It was him—and at the same time someone else. Without gold, without lavish curls, but with an inner core that could be felt even in the seams of the coat.

He ran his hand once more over the thick fabric, feeling the roughness in which there was something dependable, almost comforting. These clothes did not promise applause. But they promised warmth, protection, and respect. They were made for people accustomed not to seem, but to be.

“What do you think, monsieur?” the valet asked, inclining his head—not breaking the silence, but letting sound into it.

Théodore remained silent for a minute, not taking his eyes from the mirror. It was as though he was trying to come to terms with the man he saw before him.

“It is… intriguing,” he said at last, slowly, with a faint smile in which both doubt and acceptance were present.

He had expected to feel uneasy in this new guise, yet instead he felt a strange confidence. As though he had put on not just someone else’s suit, but a mask which, against expectation, turned out to be his own face.

And suddenly he realized: the mirror no longer reflected a stranger. It showed a man ready to speak in a new language.

Chapter Text

The Art of Survival: Count d’Alène Seeks a Way to Earn in Sweden

The French embassy in Stockholm provided its diplomats with as much comfort as could be afforded in cold, austere Sweden. Fires burned in the embassy’s hearths, tapestries still scented with Versailles hung above the mantels, and in the dining hall tables were laid with silver and faience worthy of any duke. Yet Théodore d’Alène knew all too well: no carpets or draperies could conceal the simple truth — no stay abroad was ever free of surprises. Especially for one who lived not only as a diplomat, but as an artist in society, a player in the subtle game of symbols and impressions.

Official allowances covered only the necessary — carriage, lodging, servants, formal gifts. But one had to live not merely with dignity, but with brilliance. In the eyes of the local nobility, he had no right to appear restrained — let alone modest. Modesty demeans a diplomat. Modesty says: “I lack.” And in these northern halls, where silence weighed more than words, such a reputation could cost a career.

He could not openly ask for money from either the King of France or local aristocrats — not only out of pride, but from strategic calculation. Any financial dependence became a political trap. One false step — and instead of an independent observer he would turn into a pawn, his path charted by others.

The purse he had brought from Versailles thinned faster than he had calculated. Balls, receptions, hunts, formal dinners, unexpected expenses for couriers, new shirts, ribbons, fragrances — all devoured his funds. In a world where every gesture was read like text, he could not allow himself to appear twice in the same waistcoat, nor send a note written on paper of mediocre quality. The porcelain cup in which his morning jasmine infusion was served cost as much as a Parisian apothecary earned in a year.

He maintained the appearance of control. His stride remained measured, his movements smooth; he nodded with the same light arrogance he had worn when entering the salons of the Tuileries. Yet already he was mentally subtracting the price of each new pair of gloves from his dwindling reserves. Another week in Stockholm — and he would either be forced to depart, leaving behind a polite embassy “request for transfer of funds,” or… or find a way to remain without losing face. And departure meant defeat.

He loathed even the thought of “earning.” Money was supposed to come to him unbidden — as a sign of recognition, as a consequence of influence, not as the result of labor. Apothecaries and scribes worked for money. D’Alène was meant simply to receive — elegantly, by right of birth. And yet reality reminded him: the age had changed. Here, far from Versailles, everything had to be held by one’s own hands.

He knew too well how quickly gossip could shred even the most refined reputation in courtly society. His position was as fragile as spring ice. He inspired interest, sympathy, even — in places — envy. But sympathy vanishes first. A single glimpse of frayed velvet at the elbows of a coat, or a stray remark about a perfume repeated too often — and one is no longer present in society. There is only emptiness, and the turned backs of those who yesterday nodded with admiration.

The first thought was the most obvious — cards.

Card games remained one of the favorite pastimes of the European nobility. Sweden was no exception. Evenings filled with wine and low laughter, rooms glowing with candlelight and golden radiance, the soft whisper of cards sliding across green baize — all this was part of the ritual, the magic of aristocratic existence. Sometimes music played in the adjoining room — a quiet minuet, a refined gavotte — while inside, at the oval table, a battle raged no less fierce than a military campaign.

Théodore was not merely a player — he was a strategist. At Versailles he had watched fortunes collapse in a single night, marquises drown themselves in drink after losing everything, only to reappear in the morning with the same haughty gaze. He himself had won considerable sums, but he played not for money — for control, for the sensation of fate beneath his fingers.

But in Sweden, the game was different. The French adored risk, flamboyant bluffs, theatrical pauses. They flung down cards like rapiers — sharp, ringing, defiant. The Swedes preferred composure. There was no passion. Only logic. Only memory. Their gestures were slow, almost pensive. Faces remained still. Even joy was expressed by no more than a slight incline of the head.

It took Théodore several evenings to grasp the rules of this invisible game. He observed: how one baron pressed his lips with a poor hand, how Countess Cecilia shifted her ring when she held a particularly strong one. He memorized — and adapted.

The game was not for chips, but for reputation. And he began to win.

Not always. There were evenings when he nodded calmly to the victor and rose, having kept his composure. But more often, he returned to his chambers in the old mansion with its high ceilings and silk curtains, flung open the window to breathe the icy air, and, stripping off his gloves, laid out the coins he had won. Their clink rang like music. There was a touch more firmness in his fingers than in the morning. He felt alive.

His purse began to gain weight again. But he knew the price of luck. A single ill-fated night — and it could all vanish. And the reputation of a winner was as dangerous as that of a loser. Already one young Swedish count — Johan Ehrensvärd, red-haired, with eyes like ice marked by a thin fracture — was casting glances at him. Polite, but wary. He understood: too many victories breed envy. And envy, in diplomacy, is poison.

He could not rely on cards alone. That was the path not of a diplomat, but of a gambler. Worse still — of an adventurer.

The problem remained: how to earn while still belonging at court? How to remain Théodore d’Alène — count, observer, politician — without turning into one who secretly cuts banknotes from others’ losses?

He looked out at the lights of winter Stockholm — the glow of lanterns on snow, the sloping roofs rimed with frost, the canals sealed with ice. Everything here was motionless, as though the very earth itself had frozen in wait for spring. And in those icy halls of the Swedish royal palace, he felt the breath of time — slow as a step through snow, yet relentless.

He knew: cards were only the beginning. The true game was only just beginning.

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Trade: Silver and Furs
Scandinavia was renowned for its furs and natural resources. Silver mines in Sweden brought immense profits, while high-quality furs were highly valued in France. The winter winds sweeping across the rocky shores carried the scent of salt and resin, and it seemed as though nature itself held untold riches — the cold gleam of silver hidden deep within the mountains, and the warmth of thick pelts taken from the wild forests.

Theodor, sitting in the warm hall where the crimson reflections of the fireplace danced upon the carved wall panels, wondered: what if he acted as an intermediary? Old carpets muffled the servants’ steps, and above the table laden with goblets and dishes of game, the spiced aroma of mulled wine with cinnamon and cloves drifted. At such moments, thoughts arose on their own, as though suggested by the very atmosphere.

He waited for Count Carl Gyllenborg to be in a good mood. A powerful courtier and an expert in trade, the Count could smile in such a way that his interlocutor felt both flattered and wary at the same time. Tonight, the Count’s eyes sparkled, his cheeks flushed slightly from wine, and Theodor understood — the moment was right.

Under the respectable pretext of discussing the political situation, he smoothly turned the conversation toward exports. His words were spoken leisurely, almost in passing, yet every intonation carried a hidden hint.

“The French are always ready to buy good furs,” he remarked, raising the goblet to his lips. The hot wine burned his tongue, and he made it seem as though the words had slipped out casually, like a light observation.

“And the Swedes — silver,” the Count replied, a shadow of a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. He spoke softly, but there was a mocking glint in his eyes, as if he wanted to test how far the young diplomat was prepared to go.

The conversation continued, veiled and refined, like a chess game cloaked in courtesy. Theodor realized: in this river, the nets had long been cast by other fishermen, and there was no simple place for him as a middleman. Yet in Gyllenborg’s words lurked another hint. Weapons.

Sweden was seeking ways to strengthen its army. Official negotiations with France bogged down in protocol, in ministerial disputes, and endless councils. But behind the scenes, loopholes always remained. Theodor felt the familiar chill of danger in his chest: he could not trade in cannons himself, but he could connect those forbidden to speak openly with one another. And take his share. Everything depended on caution and the art of timely silence.

But he knew: money could be made not only with cannons and furs. There was another commodity, far more invisible and yet equally precious — information.

Theodor possessed a rare gift: he could listen in such a way that the speaker never realized they had revealed more than they intended. He noticed the tremor in a voice, the casual touch of fingers to a ring, the flicker of irritation hidden in a smile. Where others heard only words, he read whole books.

In Versailles, information was paid for with gold, and soon he realized that in cold Sweden, secrets carried the same price. Only here, their nature was harsher — military, political. He became more attentive to conversations in halls and corridors: catching stray phrases when people thought he wasn’t listening, noting glances over maps and goblets. Sometimes his eyes lingered on letters left lying on ambassadors’ desks, and he would smirk to himself — a single fragment of a sentence was enough to guess the whole.

At times, lying sleepless in a cold inn chamber, he caught himself on a troubling thought: he knew too much. Each new rumor, every whispered word became an invisible net tightening around him.

One day, a German diplomat stopped him in the corridor. A tall man with a heavy gaze, he spoke slowly, as if weighing each word.

“What do you think of the negotiations between Sweden and England?” he asked softly, as if discussing the weather, not affairs of state.

Theodor held his breath, stepped toward the window, and glanced back over his shoulder.

“I think we both understand where this is leading,” he replied evasively, keeping his tone neutral.

“Perhaps,” the diplomat smirked, and in his smirk there was more testing than friendliness. “And perhaps there are those who will pay to know for certain.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. Theodor did not rush to answer, letting silence fill the space between them. He knew: trading in information was like playing with fire. But didn’t fire, if mastered, give warmth and light?

Months passed, and his purse was no longer empty. Card games, cautious deals, the exchange of rumors — all this brought profit, but demanded vigilance and skill. Theodor felt like a juggler, keeping too many flaming torches in the air. He had learned to draw profit from pauses and hints, from innocent gestures and smiles.

And yet he understood: trust no one. At times it seemed to him that he lived among mirrors, where each reflection could distort at any moment. A smile might be friendly — or conceal a knife behind the back.

One day, news arrived: he was being summoned back to France. That evening he stood long at the window, gazing at Stockholm’s rooftops covered with frost. The narrow streets below lay hidden in fog, rare lanterns cast golden patches upon the snow, and the cold wind carried from the harbor the scent of resin and sea.

He was leaving no longer the man who had once arrived. No longer just a diplomat carrying out others’ errands. He was leaving Sweden like a gambler who rises from the table with winnings hidden in his pocket. This country had taught him to survive, to keep a straight face, and to profit from every shadow, from every word. And now, returning to France, he carried not only experience — he carried the skill of playing someone else’s game and winning it.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Rumors and Success

Two weeks had passed, and in that time the city seemed to have changed. Evenings had grown noisier, conversations livelier, and in the salons where people usually discussed politics, fashion, and the latest intrigues, talk now increasingly turned to a “strange discovery,” “curious notes,” and “an unknown talent.” Street musicians whispered about it in narrow alleys, bookbinders argued over the authenticity of the manuscripts in their shops, and in drawing rooms ladies in lace dresses passionately insisted that they were the first to hear of the mysterious composer.

Theodor observed this feverish excitement with mild irony. He felt his plan was working: the rumors were gathering strength like wind before a storm.

One brilliant evening, when the walls of a luxurious hall gleamed with the light of hundreds of candles reflected in crystal chandeliers, Count Gustav Ankarström — a great lover of sensations and a well-known connoisseur of music — stepped forward. In his hands he held a neatly bound volume of music: embossed parchment with fine golden corners on the pages. After a deliberate pause, Ankarström proclaimed with a solemnity he clearly savored:

“A work by an unknown composer. Found in a private collection. Gentlemen, allow us to hear it!”

The guests responded with animation; some rose slightly from their chairs, others leaned toward the musicians with eager curiosity. Theodor, remaining in the shadow of a marble column, folded his hands behind his back. He didn’t need to guess whose composition it was.

The music began. The first chords rang pure and bright, like the delicate chime of crystal, and a quiet murmur swept through the hall. The audience froze. The melody flowed freely, weightlessly, like the morning air in a garden, yet it held something more — an inner steel, a rhythm that prevented it from being dismissed as a mere pleasant diversion. Some listeners exchanged puzzled glances, others furrowed their brows, but gradually doubt gave way to attention.

An elderly baron, a known skeptic, closed his eyes and nodded softly in time. A young countess breathed out faintly and pressed a handkerchief to her lips. Several musicians seated in a corner began whispering to one another, taking notes in their notebooks. The atmosphere grew ever more tense and solemn, as though an invisible hand was lifting the listeners above the mundane.

When the last notes faded and the hall once again filled with silence, it lasted longer than it should have. Then applause broke out — timid at first, then confident and loud. A few ladies fluttered their fans in delight; young gentlemen turned to each other with smiles.

“Magnificent!” one of the guests exclaimed. “But who is the author?”

Ankarström stepped forward and spread his hands with a barely noticeable smile:

“Unknown. But,” he paused briefly, narrowing his eyes with theatrical mystery, “I believe I may find out where to acquire a few more such gems.”

The hall buzzed — some with excitement, some with doubt, but without exception all were captivated. Theodor smirked in the half-light. It was both pleasant and bitter: he saw the world embracing his music, but not his name.

A few days later, he “accidentally” found himself in the company of the right people — merchants, collectors, young aristocrats. The conversation eased toward the latest news, and Theodor remarked casually:

“They say a ghost-composer has appeared in the city,” a slight smile touching his lips. “I wonder how much he will dare to ask for his next piece?”

The phrase was like a spark. His companions brightened, began tossing around names, figures, theories. Someone said he had heard of another manuscript soon to be sold; someone else insisted he had already recognized “a familiar style.” Theodor listened with narrowed eyes, as though the whole affair merely amused him, though inwardly he knew the price. The price had already been set — and it suited him perfectly.

Thus his new months began. He wrote only as much as necessary: not so much as to saturate the public, yet not so little as to let their interest fade. A harpsichord piece, a light symphony, several chamber works — each composition carefully conceived, polished, and released into the world as though it had simply resurfaced by chance from oblivion.

They appeared in the right hands, flared up at auctions where wealthy collectors competed fiercely, raising the bids ever higher. Then they moved into drawing rooms, where hosts flaunted them before guests like the rarest jewels. The name L’Inconnu — “The Unknown” — became a legend, a symbol of exclusivity.

In the city’s salons people whispered about him as though he were part of a secret society. Ladies debated his style — some heard traces of Mozart, others hints of Italian maestros. Rivaling composers sneered, one even publicly suggested forgery, but lacking proof, such remarks only fueled the legend.

Theodor remained in the shadows. He could not afford to reveal himself, but now gold jingled in his pockets, granting him a rare sense of freedom.

And on long winter evenings, when icy wind crept through window cracks, the heavy curtains trembled, and embers smoldered in the fireplace, he sat at the harpsichord. His fingers rested gently on the keys, and music was born — quiet, almost intimate. He smiled, but there was duality in that smile: the joy of a creator and the sorrow of a man whose name was buried in silence. The music now belonged to the world, the legend to rumor, and he himself remained only a shadow behind a column.