A shiver surged through Dyva’s spine as his gaze locked onto the gleaming blade in Vivre’s grasp. The creature’s spectral fingers curled delicately around the hilt, its posture calm—too calm. A cold sweat broke out on his brow, and when he finally spoke, his voice came out in a hoarse, trembling stammer. «You… you want to kill a rich guy?!» The words escaped him in a half-gasp, laden with terror, as if merely speaking them might summon doom.
Vivre tilted its head slightly, the way a curious bird might do when pondering something foreign yet amusing. Silence stretched, almost theatrically, as if the creature were sincerely considering the suggestion. Then, with a casual shrug and an impish glint in its uncanny eyes, Vivre answered, its tone maddeningly carefree. «Well, I was mostly thinking about stealing his mustache, but the other option works too!»
Dyva’s knees buckled. He staggered backward and collapsed onto the edge of the bed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. His hand flew to his forehead as if he could physically press away the absurdity of what he'd just heard. «How… how the hell are we supposed to steal a mustache?!» he cried, exasperated, each syllable cracking with disbelief. His gaze flicked up, wild and searching, as if hoping Vivre might suddenly reveal it had been joking. «You want us to go to a barber or something?...»
Vivre scoffed, a sharp sound edged with disdain, as if the very suggestion of going to a barber had personally offended its sense of drama. With slow, indulgent movements, it tilted the blade to better admire its warped violet reflection in the metal. Its expression brimmed with smug satisfaction, the creature savoring the sinister elegance of the moment.
«Booooring...! I told you to be bold—to venture beyond! I know what you're capable of, Dyva, and deep down, you know it too. Don’t you?» Its voice dropped into something almost tender, persuasive—then surged again, fierce with excitement. «Now that the door is open… unlock it!» Vivre spun toward him, hovering just above the ground, its strange eyes glowing with kinetic hunger, like a storm begging to be unleashed. «So? Got any ideas?»
Dyva didn’t answer right away. He sank back into the bed, limbs folding with languor, as though he were searching through his thoughts like pages in a book. He drew in slow, deliberate breaths, trying to still the whirlwind in his mind. Then he caught something—an echo in the air, a trace of scent lingering on the bedsheets. His sister, Caryne. His eyes flew open, sharp with revelation. The haze of uncertainty vanished in an instant, burned away by a new fire.
He jolted upright, every muscle taut with resolve. His expression had hardened into something unreadable—neither fear nor hesitation had any place left on that face. «Maybe…» he said, voice low but steady, crackling with certainty. «Maybe I know where we can find some aristocratic mustaches.»
Dyva moved with purpose, his footsteps sharp against the creaking floorboards as he fetched a small pitcher of water from the corner basin. He unsnapped his cap, then dipped it into the cool liquid, letting it soak until the fabric grew dark and heavy with moisture. Setting it down on the table, he turned to Vivre, his expression unreadable but resolute. «Go on,» he said quietly, voice laced with anticipation. «Do your thing. Your… magic. Turn the water into a ring.»
Vivre’s grin stretched wide—too wide, filled with gleaming mischief and the kind of delight that bordered on dangerous. It let out a low hum, somewhere between a purr and a chuckle, before gliding toward the cap with eerie grace. Its small, spindly arms extended, brushing gently across the damp surface. It began to circle, stroking and coaxing, its movements oddly ritualistic. Then, with a sudden flutter, Vivre lifted off the ground. It hovered mid-air, its form shimmering slightly as the cap began to quiver.
Slowly—almost reverently—tiny droplets began to rise from the fabric, trembling in place like dewdrops caught in a dream. The droplets spun upward, spiraling into a delicate vortex that pulsed with a faint, iridescent light. Faster and faster the droplets danced, weaving through one another, fusing until they began to solidify. What emerged was no longer water, not truly. A small, gleaming ring, fluid in form yet solid to the touch.
Dyva reached out and took it with steady fingers, sliding it onto his right pinky. He grabbed his cap—now dry, as though the water had never touched it—and pulled it snug over his hair. Then, with a single nod, silent but commanding, he signaled to Vivre.
Without a word, they stepped outside. Snow had begun to fall, fine and weightless, like ash drifting from a distant fire. The world outside was quiet, muffled by white, but Dyva walked fast, cutting through the stillness with sharp intent. Vivre followed, a shadow at his side, as they made their way into the heart of the city.
At last, Dyva reached the affluent heart of the city—a district draped in quiet opulence, where every cobblestone seemed polished by the weight of old money. Towering buildings loomed above, their facades spotless and pale, windows gleaming like watchful eyes. He could feel it—unseen stares pressing against his skin, sizing him up, dissecting him as an intruder.
He drew in a breath and approached one of the more stately edifices, its entrance flanked by wrought iron lanterns and guarded by a heavyset doorman in a tailored uniform. Dyva straightened his posture and offered a mild smile. «I’m here to visit a family friend,» he said, voice calm but cautious.
The doorman narrowed his eyes, his gaze lingering a beat too long.With a reluctant grunt, the man gave a curt nod and stepped aside. Dyva slipped through the threshold into a spacious inner courtyard. Everything around him whispered wealth—symmetrical flowerbeds pruned to perfection, paths of smooth stone winding around tiny ornamental fountains, and soft pools of light cast by brass sconces affixed to cream-colored walls. He moved through it quickly, shoulders slightly hunched, as if warding off invisible scrutiny. He finally reached the building he sought. Inside, he paused at the row of mailboxes, scanning the engraved nameplates with a frown of concentration, then turned toward the staircase. At the second floor, there was only one door, grand and self-important, framed in carved molding and painted a deep, confident dark green.
Dyva stepped up to it and reached out instinctively to knock.Then he stopped himself. No—this wasn’t the kind of door one knocked on. This was the kind of door one announced oneself to. He lowered his hand and pressed the bell. A soft chime echoed from within, utterly different from the shrill buzzers of the poorer districts.
A frail servant in livery opened the door, his posture stiff, his eyes sharp with skepticism as they swept over Dyva from head to toe.
Dyva cleared his throat, forcing an air of polite confidence. «Dyva Ribaltia, family friend of the esteemed Mr. Agration. I’ve come for a brief visit.»
At the mention of his surname, a flicker of recognition passed through the servant’s expression. After a beat, he stepped aside, still hesitant. «Please wait here, sir.»
He led Dyva through a narrow hallway into a small, elegant antechamber just outside the reception room, adjacent to the study. Another servant awaited there, a man whose sole purpose seemed to be the formal announcement of guests. Dyva took a seat in one of the delicately upholstered armchairs, then his eyes roved across the space. It was his first time inside this home—until now, he had rejected every opportunity to set foot in it. Every fiber of his being had resisted. And now that he was here, the air itself felt poisonous.
The apartment was undeniably beautiful—ornate moldings traced the ceilings, delicate crystal fixtures bathed the room in soft light, and paintings hung in perfectly symmetrical arrangements. Everything reeked of taste and money and influence. And yet, to Dyva, it was suffocating. Every plush cushion, every gleaming brass fitting, every silken curtain seemed to mock him. The walls didn’t just display wealth—they boasted it, flaunted it with a smugness only the elite could afford. And amid all that polished perfection, Dyva sat rigid and out of place, a stray thread in a flawless tapestry. Being there felt like swallowing poison in slow, bitter sips.
Before long, the announcing servant returned, his tone clipped and ceremonial. «Mr. Ribaltia, please come in.»
Dyva rose from the armchair, straightened his coat, and smoothed down his cap with slow deliberation. He exhaled once, bracing himself, then stepped through the threshold into the heart of the lion’s den.
The study was vast—vaulted ceilings, dark-paneled walls lined with shelves crammed full of heavy tomes and framed credentials. The scent of aged paper, leather bindings, and polished oak hung thick in the air. Everything in the room spoke of power and precision. It felt less like a personal retreat and more like a boardroom, a space designed to impress, to negotiate, to dominate. Behind a colossal mahogany desk sat the man himself. Novio Agration. He was hunched over a stack of paperwork, his pen moving with the swift assurance of someone used to signing off on decisions that shaped other people’s lives. But as soon as Dyva entered, he looked up—and transformed.
He rose to his feet with the swiftness of a stage actor hitting his cue, his face breaking into a dazzling smile just a touch too polished to be sincere. «Mr. Ribaltia, at last we meet! It is a great pleasure!» His voice rang with warm affability, and he extended his hand with theatrical enthusiasm.
Dyva stepped forward and accepted the handshake with equal flourish, hiding his revulsion behind a charming facade. «The pleasure is mine, esteemed Mr. Agration. It’s an honor to finally meet you in person.»
The two men fell into the customary exchange of elaborate pleasantries—grandiose acknowledgements, thinly veiled boasts, compliments that bordered on poetry. It was a ritual, a dance of words meant to reinforce status and maintain appearances. Dyva loathed every second of it, but he wore his smile like armor, never letting it slip.
Novio Agration was the very image of self-made prosperity—a man who had clawed his way to the top through shrewd decisions and a ruthless knack for timing. In recent years, his name had become a fixture in Aurevia’s industrial elite, whispered in business salons and toasted in velvet-draped lounges. His fortune, amassed through a string of remarkably lucrative investments in manufacturing and trade, had elevated him from obscurity to influence in record time.
He was in his thirties, though the weight of ambition had etched a few extra years onto his face. His features bore a kind of studied elegance: not unattractive, yet lacking warmth, as if any softness had been carved away by years of calculated choices. His body was tall and lean, with a narrow frame wrapped in a custom-tailored suit. But what truly commanded attention—what drew the eye and refused to let go—was his facial hair. Agration wore his mustaches like a crown: meticulously trimmed, delicately waxed, and curled at the edges with obsessive precision. To the average observer, they might have signaled sophistication. To Dyva, they were the pinnacle of absurdity—an ostentatious symbol of a man desperately clinging to his own cultivated image.
As their exchange dragged on, Dyva’s composure began to crack beneath the surface. Every word out of Agration’s mouth felt like an offense wrapped in silk. A slow, simmering anger gnawed at Dyva’s insides, building with every passing moment. Then, without warning, he dropped to one knee in a sudden, theatrical gesture, like a suitor offering his devotion. He reached for Agration’s hand—adorned with an ostentatious ring that gleamed like a badge of arrogance—and took it in his own right hand, lowering his gaze with reverent solemnity.
«I wanted to thank you from the bottom of my heart, good sir, for supporting our family all these years,» he said, his voice thick with faux gratitude, every syllable coated in honey. «I am infinitely grateful that you took my sister Caryne into your service, allowing her to work with dignity at the court of such an honorable man.» The words were poison to him. Saying those things felt like branding his soul with falsehood, and yet he pressed on.
He bent forward and pressed his lips to the man’s hand—a gesture of submission, of praise. Then, slowly, deliberately, he laid his left hand atop it, the one that bore the enchanted bracelet, covering it. Rising to his feet, he executed a deep, elegant bow. Agration blinked, clearly startled by the dramatic display—but his chest puffed with delight. Dyva could see it: the man was drunk on flattery.
«Anyway, esteemed sir, I’m eager to see my sister Caryne. I need to speak with her, if I may.»
«Oh, of course, my boy! Follow me.»
They moved through the refined halls of the apartment, and eventually, they reached the private wing of the estate, reserved solely for the master and his chosen staff. This was the domain of personal servants, among whom Caryne worked. They stepped into a spacious parlor, awash in golden lamplight and the scent of dried lavender.
«Now, I must be off, my dear boy. Important matters await—such is the burden of enterprise!» Agration declared, already turning toward the corridor with an air of urgency. «It was a genuine pleasure to make your acquaintance. Do enjoy the rest of your day!» He extended a hand and after a swift handshake—more formality than feeling—he swept out of the room.
Caryne sat on a settee, her maid’s uniform crisp and immaculate, her fingers deftly working a length of yarn into careful loops. But as soon as she looked up and saw Dyva, the yarn slipped between her fingers.
She rose to her feet in one sharp movement, shock flashing in her eyes before her features hardened with fury. «Dyva?! What are you doing here?»
«Sister, I came to visit our generous benefactor…» Dyva said softly, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around her in a warm, unshakable embrace.
As their bodies pressed together, he moved with subtlety. His fingers found the chain around her neck—the delicate, gleaming necklace gifted by Agration himself—and with a gentle, precise tug, he unfastened the clasp and palmed it, slipping it away as easily as a sigh.
«…and to return this to you!» he added brightly, stepping back. He doffed his cap, reached inside, and pulled out the very same necklace. «You forgot it at home, and I know how much it means to you. So here you go.»
Caryne blinked, stunned for a second. Her lips parted to speak but she found no words. «…Oh. Thanks,» she murmured, her voice tinged with both doubt and weary suspicion. Then she looked him dead in the eyes, her stare firm, unmoving. It was the kind of look that carried more weight than words ever could—a look that screamed: Get out. Now.
