Tristan stepped into the grand hall with Claire at his side, their appearances concealed by Mimicry Fake. Tristan now bore the visage of a pale-skinned nobleman with emerald-green hair, while a plain white mask obscured his features entirely. Claire's olive complexion complemented her rich brown hair perfectly. Covering the upper half of her face was an elegant emerald mask adorned with intricate golden patterns that resembled the stem of a blooming rose.
As they approached the entrance, one of the guards extended an arm across their path, halting them before they could proceed any farther.
"Your invitations, please," he said, his deep voice perfectly matching his broad, muscular frame.
Without hesitation, Tristan and Claire produced their invitations and handed them over. The guard examined each one with meticulous care, running a calloused thumb across the lion's paw insignia embossed into the cards. After confirming their authenticity, he returned the invitations, bowed respectfully, and stepped aside.
"You may enter."
Tristan slowly surveyed the grand hall, his eyes gliding across the sea of elegantly dressed nobles. Every conversation, every laugh, every smile blended together into a single distracting spectacle. Yet he searched only for one person.
Brown hair tipped with grey. Fair complexion. Slender build.
That was how Godfrey had described The Ripper.
Tristan frowned.
There were simply too many people. Faces blurred together beneath ornate masks, expensive clothing, and lavish hairstyles. Attempting to identify the man by sight alone would be nearly impossible.
"I think it's best if we wait for him to make the first move," Tristan whispered into Claire's ear.
Claire gave a subtle nod, and together they drifted toward the banquet tables where servants displayed an extravagant assortment of delicacies fit only for the highest nobility.
As Tristan reached for a small pastry, a familiar voice drifted across the room.
His hand froze.
Slowly, he turned. There she was. Amelia.
She stood only a short distance away, engaged in conversation with another young noble and a girl in a wheelchair. Tristan couldn't help but stare. Countless memories flooded back into his mind—days that now felt impossibly distant. Days when life had been simpler, when battles were fewer, and when laughter had come without pain.
His heart sank. His thoughts became clouded by memories he knew could never return. Those days were gone. And so was whatever future they might have shared.
She had moved forward. He needed to do the same. Yet even now, seeing her smile was enough to quiet the storm inside him. It was a smile he treasured beyond measure. A smile he wished would never disappear.
And for that smile to remain... Tristan knew exactly what he had to do.
Without another word, he quietly walked away, leaving Claire at the banquet table as she continued sampling the lavish selection of food.
As he walked, Tristan glanced back one last time, his thoughts refusing to leave Amelia behind.
That single lapse in concentration proved costly.
He collided shoulder-first into someone. The impact forced him a step backward, though he quickly regained his balance.
"I'm sorry, I wasn't—"
His apology died in his throat.
"I'm sure you are... you second-rate noble," the young man sneered.
'Of all the people... it had to be him.'
Benjamin Vermillion.
Tristan's jaw tightened.
Everything about the crimson-haired noble irritated him—his voice, his arrogance, his smug expression—but most of all, his scarlet hair.
It had become an omen.
Whenever Benjamin appeared...
Trouble inevitably followed.
Thankfully, Tristan's emotions remained hidden beneath the white mask. Benjamin couldn't see the hatred burning within those concealed eyes.
Benjamin stepped forward and jabbed a finger against Tristan's chest, directly over his heart.
"Do you have any idea who you've just bumped into?" he asked.
Tristan deliberately altered the tone of his voice before replying.
"I don't," he answered calmly. "But I'm certain you're about to tell me."
Benjamin scoffed proudly.
"I am Benjamin Vermillion, second of my name. Son of Decker Vermillion, the Blood of House Vermillion, and nephew to Lord Arion Vermillion. My standing is leagues above yours, second-rate noble. Show me the respect that my name commands."
Suppressing an overwhelming urge to strike him where he stood, Tristan slowly bowed.
"My deepest apologies, my lord," he said, allowing just enough sarcasm to seep into his voice. "The masks make it rather difficult to distinguish nobility of such... remarkable stature."
Benjamin smirked, completely oblivious to the mockery.
"I suggest you don't repeat this mistake."
He brushed past Tristan without another glance.
Tristan watched him disappear into the crowd before whispering beneath his breath,
"Don't worry, next time I won't settle for disrespecting you. I'll destroy you."
He released a slow sigh and tilted his head upward toward the magnificent glass ceiling. Beyond it, countless stars illuminated the night sky.
"What's going on?" Claire asked as she caught up beside him. "Why did you just leave me?"
Tristan glanced left.
Then right.
Then left again.
Amelia had disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the countless nobles filling the hall.
Only then did he turn back to Claire.
"My friend is here," he said quietly.
Claire remained silent for several moments before asking in an almost disappointed tone,
"You still think of them as your friends?"
Tristan didn't hesitate. There was no need. Everything he had endured...
Every battle.
Every scar.
Every sacrifice.
It had all been for them. For a future where they could live safely. For a world where they wouldn't have to suffer. A warm smile spread beneath his white mask.
"Yes," he answered.
"I still consider them my friends."
Claire studied him for a long moment before giving a small nod.
"...That's fine."
Dominic's POV
Dominic stood upon the balcony overlooking the grand ballroom below. Nobles danced beneath glittering chandeliers while musicians filled the hall with elegant melodies.
A satisfied smile spread across his face as he slowly sipped the golden liquor swirling inside his crystal glass.
Inside his private chamber sat Donel Hughes, anxiously tapping the armrest of his chair.
Across from him rested an empty chair reserved for Dominic.
Between them stood a small polished table.
Dominic exhaled contentedly, his smile never fading.
"What a wonderful evening," he mused. "But you don't seem to be enjoying yourself, Lord Hughes."
Donel nervously adjusted the sleeves of his coat before looking toward Dominic.
"That's not it..." he muttered.
"What we're about to discuss... if anyone discovers it, we'll both be executed."
Dominic casually walked back into the room, every step calm, measured, and deliberate.
His finger lightly tapped against the rim of his crystal glass, sending gentle ripples across the golden liquid.
He slowly raised the glass toward the ceiling before lowering his gaze to Donel.
"There's no reason to fear."
His smile widened.
"Once my..."
He paused for a brief moment before correcting himself.
"...our plan succeeds..."
"We'll possess influence beyond anything these people could ever imagine."
A sudden knock echoed through the room.
Donel nearly leapt from his chair.
Dominic merely rolled his eyes.
"Come in."
The door opened.
Standing in the doorway was a broad-shouldered young man with golden hair and a muscular physique that strained against the fabric of his formal suit.
He stepped inside before bowing respectfully.
"My name is Garfield Frutia," he introduced himself. "I will be serving as Lord Redgrave's representative this evening."