The great hall received them with its high ceiling, heavy chandeliers, and a silence that knew its own worth—a silence born not of emptiness, but of accumulated names that had passed through and left their weight in the walls.

The servant walked with measured steps, Émile beside him—stern, formal, wearing his role as one wears armor.

Victor followed slightly behind—not because he was of lesser standing, but because he always preferred to see the entire scene before intervening.

They sat.

The hall maintained its heavy silence, as though remembering.

De Lormont.
De Rochefort.

Names that did not sit together without awakening memory—teeth and all.

Émile sat upright, a warm smile on his face—warmer than the situation required. An old tension hovered between the two families, silent, sleepless.

The servant surveyed the hall, his gaze appraising, faintly condescending. It lingered on a painting, then a vase, then a piece of furniture.

"The taste here… is different," he said, with a note of censure.

Émile's smile widened.

He did not ignite.
He did not defend.

"We like simplicity when it serves comfort," he replied politely. "And my father was quite fond of simplicity."

The servant pressed his lips together. His irritation did not fade—it grew.

"In my master's house, details are held in higher regard."

Émile nodded calmly.

"That's lovely."

Nothing more.

The servant bristled. He had wanted confrontation.

He did not get it.

…Victor, meanwhile, was drinking tea.

He lifted the cup slowly, sipped, then paused—rich, smooth, balanced. He noted the temperature, the harmony of herbs, the perfect steeping time.

He smiled to himself.

"Excellent tea," he said calmly, without looking at anyone.

The hall fell silent for a second.

The servant turned toward him, then abruptly rose, as though the words had struck somewhere unseen. With stiff formality, he produced a luxurious, meticulously wrapped letter sealed with dark red wax.

He stepped toward Victor and offered it in silence.

Victor did not rush.

He studied the seal, the paper, the manner of presentation—as though reading what had not yet been written.

Then he took the letter with a steady hand.

"Thank you," he said, smiling—calm and refined.

The servant bowed, though his eyes betrayed a faint tension.

Victor knew: elegant letters rarely carry simple news.

He lifted his gaze slowly.

The movement was not sudden, yet it was enough.

Under the light, his eyes darkened toward a blood-tinged crimson—steady, sharp, a gaze that did not raise its voice, nor need to.

"What is the reason for the letter?" he asked evenly.

The servant fell silent.

Victor did not blink.

"…Rochefort servants rarely visit a Baron de Lormont," he continued, in the same tone.

A brief pause.

"Unless they wish to avoid staining their social image."

Victor stirred his tea deliberately, the smile on his lips like a wound pretending to heal, while his eyes fixed the servant as truth is fixed before execution.

Then—without moving his head an inch—his gaze rose alone, cold, dragging his spirit upward.

A smile was born on his face—one not meant to reassure, but to sever breath itself. A smile that made the poor man's heart collapse inward before he understood why it had stopped beating.

Victor whispered, a whisper that scarcely required sound, as though the words emerged from the void itself:

"You know… I could have you thrown out this instant, or fashion a charge that suits you, or slit your throat outright—if you came to inflame matters between your master's family and mine."

The air changed.

The servant swallowed and stepped back half a pace without realizing it.

"N—never! Of course not!" he said quickly, forcing a smile that trembled.

"My lord the Count merely… merely wishes for a small matter of accounting."

Émile frowned.

"Accounting?"

The servant nodded with exaggerated haste.

"Yes—accounting. I mean, a meeting. A simple, social, friendly meeting."

Victor tilted his head slightly.

The terrifying gaze vanished at once, replaced by sudden warmth—as though a knife had been extinguished and a rose left behind.

He smiled—a gentle, reassuring smile, as if nothing had happened.

"That would please me," he said sincerely.

The servant froze.

"…Despite my recent entry into the social ranks after my father," Victor continued calmly, lifting his tea again, "the Count's interest is an honor not to be underestimated."

The servant laughed—a little too loudly, unjustifiably.

"Yes! Of course! A great honor!"

He wiped his brow despite the cool air.

"I shall convey… your pleasure."

He bowed—lower than necessary, as though his spine were trying to flee his body and join the floor.

Then he turned abruptly, stumbled for a heartbeat, gathered himself, and hurried away with unseemly speed—the speed of a man afraid his spine might catch up to remind him of dignity.

At the door, he suddenly added,

"Your tea… was… excellent!"

Then he fled.

Yes—fled, in every sense of the word.

A brief silence followed—the kind born not of emptiness, but of a lingering echo in the air. Émile looked at Victor, then at the door that had swallowed the servant moments ago, and said slowly, as though testing the thought:

"Did you frighten him… or kill him psychologically?"

Victor sipped his tea calmly. His movement was neither hurried nor boastful, but precise, as though the cup were part of his thinking.

"I did nothing," he said simply.

Then added,

"I merely… expressed my opinion. And looked."

He opened the letter calmly—not as one opens paper, but as one opens a dangerous idea. He did not read at once. He studied it first: thick, luxurious paper, but not new. The seal had been pressed twice, like a decision revisited after hesitation. The ink wavered slightly—as though the hand that wrote it had not been at ease.

"Written in haste," Victor murmured.

Émile approached and sat beside him. Victor ran a finger along the first line and read aloud, quietly and clearly:

"To the young Baron Victor de Lormont…"

He paused, then continued:

"…An unexpected matter has arisen in my family's professional path within the hospitals."

He looked up at Émile, then went on:

"And I wish to meet you personally."

A moment's silence—then he read the final lines, a faint shadow of a smile touching his voice:

"I have heard of you from the former head of the De Lormont family, Louis de Lormont. Your father described you as intelligent… brilliant… a prodigy. I wish for you to guide me to the right path."

"The right path?" Émile echoed.

Victor nodded slowly.

"When it's written like this," he said, "it means the current path… is very wrong."

Émile folded his arms.

"What kind of trouble is he talking about?"

Victor did not answer immediately. He studied the script, the margins, the signature placement, turning the paper between his fingers as one weighs a chess piece before sacrificing it.

"Many possibilities," he said calmly.

He raised one finger.

"An ethical issue."

"The seal was re-pressed because the decision wasn't unanimous."

A second finger.

"A crisis of reputation."

"The paper is luxurious, but old—as though written somewhere unbefitting a count."

A third finger.

"Fear."

He looked directly at Émile.

"Clear fear."

"Of what?" Émile asked, leaning forward.

Victor smiled faintly, like a shadow on water.

"That others might find out… and it become a scandal."

Then, softly and lethally:

"…and his servant's agitation."

He set the letter on the table.

"He's saying the problem is no longer under control."

A brief pause—then, with near-playful calm:

"Or that Henri-Auguste has entangled himself in something that money cannot solve."

Émile breathed deeply.

"Will you go?"

Victor folded the letter with care, like a winning chess move, set it aside, lifted his tea one last time, and smiled.

"Of course."

Then added, as though speaking of a morning stroll:

"I like paths that need correcting."

Émile smiled despite the worry lingering in his eyes.

…As for Victor—

He knew.

This letter
would not merely alter his schedule,

but open a door—

and once opened,

such doors
rarely close easily.