Tristan awoke from his slumber.
It was the first time in months that he had slept for such an extended period, yet the rest had done little to ease his exhaustion. His body ached. His mind ached. Every muscle felt heavy, as though weighed down by invisible chains.
Slowly, he sat upright and placed a hand against his forehead.
His head throbbed.
Turning toward a nearby window, he studied the room's layout. The familiar furniture, the arrangement of the walls, and the scent lingering in the air all told him the same thing.
He was back at Godfrey's establishment.
Tristan attempted to stand, but the moment his feet touched the floor, his legs gave out beneath him. He collapsed back onto the bed, his body shivering from the cold while dizziness clouded his thoughts.
It seemed the frigid weather, combined with his relentless refusal to rest, had finally taken its toll.
He had fallen ill.
Frustration welled within him. This was not the time for weakness. This was not the time for sickness. There was too much to do.
Too much at stake.
With gritted teeth, he rose once more. This time he managed to steady himself, remaining upright despite the protest of his body. Reaching for a gown folded neatly at the edge of the bed, he draped it over himself before making his way toward the door.
The moment he opened it, he was greeted by Claire's worried expression.
"Why are you up?" she asked immediately.
"There is no time for rest," Tristan replied, wiping away a trail of mucus that had escaped from his nose.
Claire released a long sigh before entering the room and quietly closing the door behind her.
"There is time," she said firmly. "You have about a week before the ball. If you get enough rest, you'll probably recover before then."
Tristan stared at her for a moment before turning back toward the bed.
Then, without argument, he lay down once again.
The moment his body touched the mattress, a wave of relief washed over him.
He hated to admit it, but merely standing had exhausted him. Every step felt like a mountain. Every movement felt like a burden.
Claire sat at the edge of the bed, smoothing out her long dress before settling herself comfortably.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you," she said softly. "I'm supposed to take care of you, and when you needed me most, I wasn't there."
The sincerity in her voice was undeniable.
Yet Tristan never believed she had failed him. If anything, she was blaming herself for consequences born from his own recklessness.
His thoughts drifted back to the argument.
To the cruel words he had thrown at her.
To the anger that had consumed him.
"I should apologize as well," Tristan said quietly. "When I said those things, I was angry. I was exhausted. But that doesn't excuse it. I shouldn't have said them."
He lowered his gaze.
"I'm sorry."
Claire smiled.
A genuine smile.
One that carried neither resentment nor bitterness.
Tristan's thoughts then drifted toward Amelia and Garfield. The only two people he openly considered friends. Yet, without even realizing it, another name had quietly joined that list.
Claire.
For nine months she had remained by his side.
She had guided him.
Protected him.
Endured his outbursts.
Even when his anger lashed out at everyone around him, she stayed. Perhaps it was because of her orders. Perhaps it was because she had no choice.
Yet Tristan had never truly believed that.
Something about her loyalty felt genuine.
Something about her kindness felt real.
"Thank you, Claire."
The words left his mouth before he could think about them.
Claire froze.
For a brief moment, her composure cracked. She wanted to cry. Tristan could see it. But her scarred eyes refused to grant her even that comfort. Instead, she climbed onto the bed and wrapped her arms tightly around him.
The embrace lasted only a few moments.
When she finally pulled away, a bright smile stretched across her face.
"That man sent the invitations," she said.
That was quick, Tristan thought.
Claire extended her hand.
Resting in her palm were several invitations bearing the secret insignia Bart had described.
Tristan took one and examined it carefully.
The invitation itself was elegant—a rectangular card forged from gold-colored metal. Etched into its surface was the emblem of a lion's paw.
He raised an eyebrow.
"I'm disappointed," he said. "I thought it would be something more unique."
Claire chuckled.
Though she could not see the emblem herself, she could feel the intricate carving beneath her fingertips.
A sudden knock echoed through the room.
Before anyone could answer, Godfrey's voice sounded from the other side of the door.
"I'm coming in."
The door opened.
To his right stood his robot like assistant.
Godfrey entered wearing his usual smile and casually approached Tristan's bedside.
"I hope you're enjoying your new living accommodations," he said with obvious sarcasm.
Then, under his breath, he muttered,
"Especially after you destroyed my window."
Tristan felt little guilt over damaging Godfrey's establishment. Still, he felt obligated to repay him. And apologize.
"I'm sorry."
Godfrey's smile widened.
He rubbed his hands together as moonlight streamed through the pale blue windows, casting silver highlights across his face.
"Well," he said, "all will be forgiven if your plan succeeds."
Tristan wasn't surprised.
It would have been more surprising if Godfrey hadn't already learned about the plan.
"Well, it won't be easy," Tristan replied. "We'll need everyone to play their part. Including Victor."
His thoughts drifted toward his newest companion.
Victor had undoubtedly been inside the building when Bart had barged through Tristan's door. Yet he hadn't intervened. Tristan wasn't surprised. Victor was an individualist. A man who looked after himself before anyone else. Helping others simply wasn't in his nature.
"Where is Victor?" Tristan asked, turning toward Claire.
Claire frowned immediately.
Even hearing his name seemed to irritate her.
"He was hiding in his room when that man attacked," she replied. "As for where he is now, I have no idea."
"I see."
Godfrey slowly approached the blue-tinted windows.
With a gentle pull on the curtain rope, the drapes closed, shutting out the moonlight entirely.
His assistant then activated the room's lamps.
Bright, artificial light flooded the chamber.
"You'll need more help than the handful of soldiers willing to oppose Adel," Godfrey said while gesturing dramatically with his hands. "And I imagine that handful is very small."
Tristan nodded.
"We'll recruit Jack the Ripper first. Then we'll decide our next move."
Godfrey immediately wagged a finger.
"No. No. No."
A sly smile spread across his face.
"I need you to succeed. Therefore, I'll provide as much assistance as necessary."
In many ways, Godfrey and Tristan were alike. Both pursued goals that ultimately benefited themselves. Both measured opportunities by the profit they could yield. Both were willing to take risks when the rewards justified them.
They were selfish men.
Pragmatic men.
Dangerous men.
Yet this situation was different.
There was no guarantee of success. Adel Vermillion was the strongest individual on the continent.
Anyone arrogant enough to stroll into her domain and act freely was essentially sentencing themselves to death.
Tristan understood that better than anyone. Yet he was still willing to take the risk.vBecause some opportunities were worth gambling everything for. Some victories could reshape the future.
And this was one of them.
A faint smile crossed Tristan's face.
"Then let us prepare for the Winter Masquerade Ball."
The week passed swiftly. Days blurred into nights. Preparations were made. Plans were refined.cAlliances were secured. And eventually, the day arrived.
The day when nobles gathered to forge alliances and strengthen political partnerships.
The day draped in pristine white snow.
The day marked by elegance, ambition, and hidden schemes.
The day of the Winter Masquerade Ball had finally arrived.
And everyone was ready.