…Some paths are not sealed by force,
but corrected
by a single soul who knows
they were a mistake from the very beginning.

╚═══════ ❖ ═══════╝

In Paris
Ten o'clock in the morning

The streets throbbed with people the way thoughts throb inside the head of a city that never sleeps. Yet that clamor fractured before it ever reached the walls of the De Lormont estate—as though the place were guarded by an ancient silence, one that knew precisely how to repel the world.
The palace lay reclining in a beautiful morning, opening itself only to those who knew how to walk lightly. A gentle dawn, like a white lie not yet exposed.

The garden stretched wide—green to the point of suspicion. Green like an idea born pure, untouched by any hand. The fountains exhaled their water in a measured slowness, neither hurried by life nor dulled by lethargy, but set to the rhythm of a place where time itself moved a little more slowly. Along the marble edges, birds stood drinking, pecking at the water with confident beaks, then forgetting fear as though it had never been part of their memory. Above, white doves cut through the sky with solemn calm, their flight straight as ancient prayers—creatures that seemed to know the way from birth, with no need for hesitation.

On one of the marble benches sat a fair-haired young man. His hair was golden, silky, caught by the sun as though it had recognized him after a long absence—as though light itself had been created to find refuge there. His eyes were brown, tinged with a faint redness—not the red of anger, but of an old fire long extinguished, its warmth lingering deep within. His lashes were golden; his skin so pale it seemed closer to light than to flesh, as if daylight had chosen it as a temporary home.

He wore a simple white shirt, his elegance unforced, seeking to prove nothing, and quiet brown trousers that mirrored his temperament. Nothing about him shouted—no color, no movement, no presence. Everything about him whispered… and whispers are sometimes louder than proclamations.

He gazed at a white bird standing near the fountain—not with a hunter's eye, but with the gaze of one who understands flight without needing wings. The bird drew closer, sipped the water, then turned toward him. Victor smiled—a small, sincere smile, like a private apology to the world for all he had never meant.

He whispered, in a voice barely audible, as though speaking to memory rather than to a person:

"…Fifteen years have passed since then."

Silence followed, and he drifted so deeply into his reverie that even his name lost its weight.

"…My elder brother."

A distant voice, as if emerging from another time—then closer.

"—My elder brother!"

Finally, a sharp tone cut through the morning:

"Hey, Victor!"

He flinched slightly, like someone suddenly pulled back from a place with no name on any map. He turned to see a young man who resembled him to the point of disquiet: the same pale blond hair, though straight and carefully styled, as if every strand had received its orders in advance. The same brown eyes, usually calm—yet now that calm was gone, replaced by an elegant anger, an anger that did not shout but pressed down.

Émile.

His younger brother by only three years, yet far more committed to the world. He wore a cream-colored suit, impeccable and precise like his decisions, a clean shirt and a perfectly placed tie, as though chaos itself dared not approach him.

Émile inhaled deeply—a sigh from one who already knew reproach would change nothing—and crossed his arms.

"Do you know how many times I called you?"

Victor smiled, a light smile devoid of defense, as though it needed no shield.

"I was listening to the birds."

Émile's eyes narrowed as he stepped closer.

"The birds?"

Then he raised an eyebrow, restrained sarcasm surfacing.

"And you skipped the dining hall for them?"

Victor tilted his head slightly—that small gesture he made when crafting a beautiful lie that harmed no one.

"I didn't skip."

He said it with calm confidence.

"I was simply… making room for inspiration."

Émile let out a short, bitter laugh and shook his head.

"You said you'd make breakfast yourself."

Then, with a note of disappointment threaded through the rebuke:

"You said it while looking me straight in the eyes."

Victor placed a hand on his chest, a sincerity both feigned and convincing.

"That was my intention."

He paused, then added,

"But it seems fate… had an empty seat beside me here."

Émile exhaled helplessly, then said more firmly,

"Don't try."

He stepped closer.

"I know you, Victor."

A brief silence—then:

"I know how you speak."

Victor neither denied nor defended himself. He merely smiled—the smile of someone who finds rare warmth in reproach.

"Your scolding is beautiful, Émile."

Émile froze for a moment, then exploded:

"Beautiful?!"

"You're the baron now!"

He gestured sharply.

"The head of the family—and you still disappear like a child who hates his duties!"

Victor lifted his gaze to him. His eyes were calm, warm, devoid of any hunger for authority.

"The baron," he said softly, "is a title."

Then, with lethal serenity:

"And you are my brother."

Émile fell silent, running a hand through his polished hair.

"I can't believe this," he said with naked honesty.

"I can't believe that the man who forgets appointments, abandons meetings, and stands here staring at a bird… is the same man in whose name the family's wealth is managed."

Victor rose slowly from the bench and stood before him—slightly taller, far calmer, as though haste had never learned the road to him.

"Perhaps that's precisely why you need me."

He patted his brother's shoulder.

"Because someone has to remember that the world… is not only calculations."

Émile looked at him for a long moment. His anger did not vanish, but it softened, the way stone yields under persistent rain.

"You'll drive me mad one day."

Victor laughed softly—a short, genuine laugh.

"I promise."

The two walked together through greenery and silence—two brothers who resembled each other, though the world demanded they not be the same.

Victor stopped suddenly.

The halt was not born of thought, nor of a splintered memory, but of a sound slicing the air like a knife through taut fabric. He lifted his head slightly, tilting his ear toward the world—not in curiosity, but in the manner of one accustomed to listening to what others cannot hear.

Émile turned to him, puzzled.

"What is it?"

Victor did not answer at once.

…Hoofbeats—steady, confident.

A sound that did not apologize for its presence, nor ask permission.

"We have a visitor," Victor said calmly, with something close to certainty.

Before he could continue, a gleaming black carriage stopped at the stone entrance of the palace—heavy, unhurried, the kind that neither belongs to the poor nor is trained to beg time for mercy.

An elegant young man descended.

A servant.

His clothes were flawless black—too flawless for an ordinary servant, as though he wore the position itself rather than the fabric.

Victor did not approach.

He remained where he was.

…but his gaze advanced in his stead.

Sharp, composed eyes examined details the way a surgeon studies a body before incision: the length of the gloves, the cleanliness of the shoes, the posture, the angle of the bow. Everything was calculated… excessively so.

A small smile touched Victor's lips, barely visible.

"…High-ranking," he murmured to himself.

Émile leaned toward him and whispered,

"Do you know him?"

Victor shook his head.

"No… but I know where he comes from."

Émile did not ask further.

The moment was not suited for analysis.

Émile stepped forward to greet the servant, who bowed with measured discipline and spoke in a polite, soulless tone:

"A message from my master, Count Henri-Auguste de Rochefort."

Victor's eyes never left him.

He noticed the small ring on the servant's finger—a dark blue crest engraved with a silver castle built of black-detailed stone, standing upon a sheer rock. Subtle… yet deliberate. Like a threat whispered to strike deeper.

"The Rochefort family sends messages only when those messages carry weight," Victor said calmly, as though reading an open page.

The servant lifted his gaze for the first time.

Something in his breathing faltered.

Émile noticed immediately.

"Please," he said quickly, gesturing inward. "We'll take care of it."

Then, in a low voice to Victor:

"Let me handle this."

Victor did not object. He offered only a sidelong smile.

"Of course."

The three entered the palace.