The night was still young. In the ballroom, music filled the air and cuples danced gracefully, laughing happily. The dancefloor was crowded with dancing figures, some undead couples twirling and others kissing, as they swayed to the beat of the song, while the human ministers remained in their corners, trying their hardest to avoid eye contact.

It was an amusing sight for Giselle, to see those loud-mouthed ministers quiet down like terrified dogs.

She recognised each and every one of them, they were all Willoughby's allies and members of his cabinet. But alas, the man himself was not there. Giselle walked around curiously, wondering if one of the undead had turned Willoughby into a nice, succulent midnight snack. That would surely be an agreeable outcome for everyone.

But alas, she would soon find Willoughby alive and well, although perhaps a little paler, standing by the balcony beside Icarus. Icarus stood tall, his back straight as he stared at the expanse of the forests of Westmorland, while Willoughby's countenance was poor, his back slightly bent, his head tilted up, his hands held out, as if he were pleading for something. Giselle immediately hid herself behind the curtains, and listened.

         "This appointment of mine could not have come early enough," Willoughby chuckled. "It had always been my dream to serve England with all that I have. But alas, I am now seventy-four, and due to my age, I will not be able to rule, I mean, support England as much as I would have if I were younger."

          "Then you better find a successor. The clock is ticking," Icarus said coolly. It could have been a joke, if he had put it more nicely. But Icarus seemed to be allergic to that.

Willoughby laughed anyway. "Good one, Your Grace. Though, I cannot help but remember that you have the means to... extend, one's existence."

           "I do. But only for those that I deem worthy."

He swallowed hard, inhaling sharply. "You planned to turn Adolphus Curran, did you not? Before his untimely demise, of course."

            "Adolphus Curran was brilliant. It is still a great shame that he was gone too soon."

            "It is not good to dwell on the past, Your Grace. There are many more who wish to serve you, and this country. I, for one, am determined to serve this country till I breathe my last. But with your blessing, perhaps I could serve this country forever--"

Icarus snapped. "Do not tell me what to do, Willoughby. As I have said, I only turn those who I deem worthy. If you wish for eternal life, perhaps prove that you are deserving of it, rather than pandering around like a fool."

             "Of course, Your Grace," he said, lowering his head, his shoulders trembling slightly. It was a pitiful sight, an old, balding man with thinning hair and milky blue eyes, dropping down on his knees in front of this tall, regal vampire. It seemed cruel, almost, but Giselle knew better. William Willoughby deserved whatever that was coming for him.

Icarus turned to leave, not sparing a single glance for Willoughby. The red of his eyes, though known to be a warm colour, appeared so cold in that instance, almost reminiscent of congealed blood.

          "You are still new on the job, are you not? I will give you a word of advice," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "Do not ever try to order me around. I am not your friend. I am your king."

And with that, he left.

Willoughby had demanded to see her. Of course, this was something that Giselle had long expected. After disposing of the paper note passed by Atticus in the fireplace, she made her way to Willoughby's guest room, making sure that she was not seen by anyone else.

It was still early in the morning, so it was a rather easy feat. The door opened with a click, and Willoughby could be seen seated near the window, cigar in hand.

         "Icarus refuses to turn me," he said simply, his words calm, but the trembling of his lips betrayed his true feelings. "What can I do, my nightingale? He said it to my face. You are unworthy."

Giselle sighed softly as she sat down on the ottoman. "His Grace is not cruel, nor is he inflexible. If he is satisfied by your rule, perhaps he will be the one who initiates it--"

           "That man is immovable! No, not man, demon!  One could argue that he was created from the devil himself!" Willoughby cried angrily. "I am only the ruler in name. I must still bow down to him. Do you know what he said to me?  I am not your friend. I am your king."

            "As I said, His Grace's stance might shift if England prospers under your rule. He values those he deems capable."

Willoughby inhaled deeply, as if trying to alleviate the rage in his chest, but it proved to be futile. "Who do you serve, Giselle? Him, or me? Have you forgotten that I am your master, Giselle? It does not matter whether or not he is satisfied with my rule. What matters is that you, as my servant, shall do everything in your power to obtain what I want!"

He glared at her, daring her to object. "If your alliances have indeed changed, then I'll let Atticus finish you off."

         "I assure you, my lord, that I remain loyal to you," she quickly said. "You were the one who saved me from that orphanage, and put a roof over my head. I have not forgotten. You gave me a surname, when I never had one. I am not one to forget the good deeds of others."

A slow, sad smile spread across Willoughby's face. He placed his cigar in the ashtray, snuffing out the small embers. He then unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his bare, hairy chest. Giselle, in disgust, wanted to look away, but ultimately did not dare to.

       "Look, my nightingale," Willoughby said, lifting his arm. There were lumps on the underside of his left arm, spreading from his elbow to his armpit, then all the way to his chest. They were black and veiny, and were so swollen that they seemed like they would burst at any moment. "The doctor said that they are called tumours. If I had been younger, maybe there would be some sort of treatment that I could undergo, but alas, I am too old. The doctor said that the treatment itself could kill me."

Giselle felt like vomiting. The thought of those black bubbles covering her skin made shivers run down her spine, and she tried not to look at Willoughby, and focused her gaze on the carpeted floor.

 
      "These abscesses first appeared a few days after you assassinated Adolphus Curran. Perhaps he has cursed me," Willoughby chuckled. "And a few days after you assassinated Ebenezer Barlowe, just as I was about to be appointed as Prime Minister, the doctor told me that this disease is fatal. Isn't it so cruel, my nightingale? My dream is now within my grasp, and I am told that I shall soon die. If you were in my shoes, would you not feel like cursing at the world?"

She did not answer. She merely shook her head, refusing to reply.

       "It is why I need your help, my nightingale. Desperately. You must persuade Icarus to turn me. I will not live long enough to make England prosper under my rule. I will die in doing so. Unless Icarus turns me into a vampire in the next few months, I will perish. Do you wish to see me dead, Giselle?"

        "N..no, father," she stammered, still unwilling to look up. "I will try to persuade him."

Willoughby smiled. "And I want you to look for his weaknesses. Anything that can be used against him. Anything. He will not be invincible for much longer."

Giselle could only stare at him quietly as her stomach knotted, her mind numb. "I understand. It will be done."

As the sun began to set in Westmorland, Giselle began her mission. Icarus rarely entered the library at dusk, so she naturally assumed that it would be safe, that it would be empty. And it was, thankfully. It was a difficult mission, to look for Icarus's weaknesses, because in her time serving him, she never saw him show even a glimpse of vulnerability. His eyes were so cold and empty, his features still, like a statue of marble. Icarus has no weakness, she thought.

Alas, she strolled through the familiar library nonetheless. She had been in here countless times, performing odd jobs like replacing candlesticks and wiping old pottery, and the thought of being in here to find something to use against Icarus left her feeling disconcerted. Whatever Icarus's weakness was, she hoped that it was not hidden in one of these many, many books. Not only would Willoughby die during the time that it took for her to look for it, even she might perish in the process.

    At that moment, she heard a mouse scurrying across the floor, and instinctively, she grabbed the broom,  raising it high before her, prepared to strike it, but to mouse managed to evade her, thus living another day.

Mice were mischievous little creatures; they would chew on the candles, the parchment, and Icarus's very old, irreplaceable tomes. She could not help but despise them. Giselle sighed, putting the broom away. Perhaps that mouse was one of the many descendants of the mouse that she failed to catch the other day. She blinked.

The other day. Mouse, scurrying. The room in the back.

Giselle swallowed, briskly walking between the tall bookshelves that seemed to loom over her.

Mouse, scurrying. The other day. Room in the back.

As she ventured deeper and deeper into Icarus's labyrinthian library, the books went from being relatively new and contemporary to positively ancient tomes, possibly haunted by the ghosts of a vengeful pharaoh. The scent of decay lingered in the air, the dust thickening with each step that she took.

Room in the back. Dust. Mouse, scurrying. A white sheet.

Giselle hated this part of the library the most. It felt, dead. It was exactly what she had in her head when Atticus told her that she had to serve a vampire lord all those months ago. It was like a scene out of Gregoria Crispin's novel, where the protagonist is held captive in the dungeon of the elusive, mysterious lord of the undead.

A white sheet. Dust. A painting. Dust.

She coughed as she pulled the white sheet away. She remembered coming across this painting before a long time ago, but she never really looked at it properly. She remembered that it was a painting of a girl with red hair and vivid green eyes, and not much else, since Icarus had come and interrupted her.

And there she was, staring right back at her. Beautiful green eyes, fiery red hair. A kind, sweet face that could be considered beautiful, albeit rather silly, rather naive. Her dark blue dress was made with what seemed to be lush silks and velvets, and was made in a style that was reminiscent of the 1500s. Yes, Giselle did have a fleeting interest in fashion history all those years ago.

It all made sense to her now. Icarus had said that he was three hundred years old, so whoever this woman was, she had to be alive while Icarus was still a human. And for Icarus to keep her portrait, for hundreds of years, could only mean one thing. Rose. This woman was Rose FitzAlan.

Her beautiful, sweet face seemed to pierce into Giselle's soul, her skin unblemished, her eyes clear. She looked so.. pure. As if she had never sinned in her life, as if she had never even had a single evil thought. And as she stared at the painting, at the small smile that graced Rose's pale pink lips, Giselle felt something that she never quite felt before.

Envy.

Rose was so pure. So beautiful. So clean. She must have never uttered a single foul word, must have never spilt blood, must have never held a gun, must have never taken lives. She was angelic, saintly even. No wonder Icarus loved her. Even after three hundred years, he still kept her portrait.

And in comparison, Giselle felt like absolute filth. She had murdered people for money, and killed innocents. People who deserved to be spared, not slaughtered. She had taken their blood, stolen their life. Why should he love her? Why should anybody love her? How could anyone love someone who had committed such heinous crimes?

She was not a saint like Rose. She was a murderer. A cold-blooded, cruel, filthy, disgusting murderer who did not deserve to be loved, to ever be cherished.

She wanted to vomit. So this is the woman that Icarus loved. His weakness. She should have felt happy. Her mission was now halfway done, now that she connected the dots. But she was not. The more she stared at the painting, the worse she felt. The envy in the pit of her stomach simmered like a pot on a blazing stove, bubbling and clattering, threatening to spill over.

She should not have been so surprised. Icarus had been alive for so long. Of course he had someone that he was in love with. It was only natural. And anybody would fall in love with Rose. Anybody. And yet, Giselle could not hide the disappointment that brewed deep inside her chest.

There was not much that she could find in that little room other than the portrait. Indeed, she found Icarus's weakness, but how would she use it against him? The person was dead, long dead.

Even if she handed Willoughby this information, it would be useless. She sighed. Perhaps, this is where Icarus's strength lay. By not regarding anyone as precious, by not loving anyone alive and breathing, he essentially made himself invincible. Icarus was impenetrable.

Giselle headed towards the door, having confirmed that there was nothing of use in the library, when her gaze landed on the ceramic jar sitting on the desk. It looked old, ancient even, with a cracked surface and peeling paint. She remembered it clearly-- the ceramic jar had been the reason why Icarus first reprimanded her, why she had not been able to touch anything on his desk. She had misplaced the jar, and Icarus panickingly looked for it as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

She blinked. Just what could that jar contain? It looked old. Perhaps something from when Icarus was alive? Special herbs? Primordial vampire blood? Icarus's own heart? What could it be?

She looked around. No one was there. With a deep breath, she leaned in, and gently lifted the jar. It was surprisingly light, despite its solid appearance. Slowly, carefully, as to not ruin anything, she lifted the lid off the jar and peered inside. And inside was.. dust. No, it was not dust. They were ashes. The air around her felt heavy with the scent of charred death, thick like the smoke from a burning pyre. Giselle’s heart pounded in her chest, the eerie quiet of the room amplified by the unnerving discovery. What—no… who— She swallowed hard, bile rising in her throat. Whose ashes were these? And why, of all places, were they sitting on Icarus’s desk?

Her hands trembled as she held the jar closer, inspecting the fine grey-black powder inside, her breath shallow. This wasn’t just dust… this was someone. Her mind raced, sick with the possibilities, her vision blurring as the world seemed to shift around her.

“Giselle?”

The sudden voice cut through her like a blade, her body jolting as if ice water had been thrown over her. She gasped, her fingers slipping. The jar plummeted to the floor in a deafening crash, shattering into a thousand pieces.

For a heartbeat, the world went silent. Giselle couldn’t breathe. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the chaotic scene at her feet—broken shards glistening like tiny daggers, ashes scattered like the remains of a nightmare. Her chest tightened, dread creeping through her veins like poison. The ashes seemed to pulse, as if alive, filling the room with a suffocating weight. Her throat clenched as the sickening realization struck her like a blow—these ashes were important. She had just committed a very grave mistake.

And Icarus was standing behind her.

      "Giselle, what have you-"

She dropped to her knees before the voice could finish, her breath ragged, fingers trembling as they frantically swept across the floor. "I'm sorry... please... forgive me..." Her voice quivered, on the verge of breaking, as the stinging in her eyes threatened tears she could no longer hold back.

The ashes felt coarse beneath her fingertips, a gritty mix of flour and sand, yet sharper, crueller. Her skin crawled at the feel of it, her stomach twisting in knots. Like granules of salt and sugar in flour, but not quite. Her fingers brushed against one, and a sudden, sharp pain shot through her hand.

A shard of bone.

Blood welled up from her finger, the warmth of it mingling with the ashes. She gasped, her chest tightening, pain searing through her hand as more blood dripped onto her trembling fingertips. She tried to press the pieces of the jar together, desperate to repair what she had broken, but the more she moved, the more the blood smeared across the floor. Her efforts only left a macabre stain-- ash, bone, and blood-- blurring together in a morbid grey-red paste.

More blood.

The room spun around her, and she wanted to scream, to cry, to make it stop, but all she could do was kneel in the mess she'd made, her heart pounding in her ears, her hands stained in red and grey.

She felt Icarus’s arms wrap around her, his cold, unyielding hands pressing over her trembling fingers, forcing her to release the ashes and bone shards. His skin was deathly cold, his touch rigid, yet it calmed her—strangely comforting amidst her panic.

       "Calm yourself, Giselle," he murmured, his voice smooth yet laced with an eerie gentleness. "Do not be afraid."

Her hands fell limp as she surrendered to his hold. Her breath caught in her throat, her vision blurring as her heart pounded with confusion. She turned to face him. "Your Grace, I must--"

But the words vanished as she stared at the figure before her, and her breath stilled.

It was Icarus, and yet... it was not. Gone was the cold, lifeless pallor. His skin was warm, bathed in golden hues. His eyes, still that brilliant shade of blue, shimmered with life—vivid, vibrant. His chest rose and fell with steady breaths. And his heart—it was beating. She could hear it.

         "Rose... why do you cry so bitterly?" His voice was tender, so full of love that it made her knees weak.

Giselle blinked, disoriented, her heart racing as the room spun. "Your Grace, what... what are you saying?" Her voice quivered as she cast her gaze around the palace. But it was not the palace she knew. The decay, the shadows, the eerie stillness—all had vanished. Instead, sunlight streamed through the windows, flooding the space with warmth. The ancient ruin had been transformed, vibrant and alive, the scent of blooming roses filling the air. For the first time, she beheld Icarus bathed in daylight, and as the golden light kissed his once-black hair, she saw the faint streaks of amber woven through it.

        "My sweet Rose," he chuckled softly, stepping closer, his hand brushing her cheek. The warmth of his skin sent a jolt through her, something so familiar yet impossible. Warmth. "You must be unwell, my love. You seemed to be... befuddled."

Her pulse raced, her throat tightening as the weight of reality slipped further away. "Your Grace... what... what madness is this?" Her voice trembled, yet part of her wanted to believe.

"What is this madness that you speak of?" His smile was soft, his hands cradling her face with a tenderness that pierced her heart. "You are with me, are you not? Where you rightfully belong, dearest Rose."

Her breath hitched. She stumbled back, her mind reeling, fighting against the illusion that held her in its grip. "Your Grace... I am not Rose." Her voice cracked, a raw bitterness seeping into her words, one she had never allowed herself to feel before—envy, hatred, longing.

Icarus frowned, yet his smile remained, a fond, almost pitying expression. "Not my Rose?" He whispered, brushing strands of her hair behind her ear. "Then who are you, if not my beautiful red Rose?"

His touch set her skin aflame, a torrent of emotions flooding her—desire, anguish, jealousy. His kisses, his embrace—everything that she could never truly have, everything that belonged to her, to Rose. Was this a fevered dream? A cruel fantasy? Yet deep within her, she could not deny how much she yearned for it. Yearned to be the one he loved so fiercely, so eternally.

        "Your Grace... I... I..." Her voice wavered, her body betraying her, inching closer to him.

And then, in an instant, it all shattered.

Cold fingers gripped her shoulder, jolting her back to reality. The warmth vanished as swiftly as it had come. Her eyes flew open.

Night had fallen. Darkness consumed the library once more. The vibrant palace, the sun-drenched walls-- all had vanished into the shadowy, decaying ruin she knew so well. Dust covered every surface, thick and suffocating, and the air was heavy with the scent of age and death.

Her gaze dropped to her hands, caked in blood and ash, fragments of bone scattered at her feet. She hadn’t moved. It had all been an illusion—a delusion. A cruel mockery of the love she could never have.

       "What troubles you, Giselle?"

Her head snapped up. There he stood—pale as ever, his once golden flesh now cold and grey. His eyes, no longer blue, glowed with that deep, blood-red hue. And yet... despite the death that clung to him, despite the pallor of his undead form, he gazed at her with the same fond look that he had given to Rose. The gentleness, the affection, remained.

His hand brushed through her black hair, the gesture familiar, tender. His touch was freezing once more, yet the look in his eyes, the quiet longing, the sorrow, remained the same.

        "Giselle, I am not mad. You need to calm down. Just, just breathe, alright?" His voice was soft, too soft, and his touch too tender, too kind for the chaos she had caused.

Her stomach twisted with nausea. She couldn't stand it-- the pity, the care in his voice. The same care he had shown her.

Giselle looked at his hand on her shoulder, the fingers pale, lifeless, yet his affection was undeniable. But his affection did not belong to her. It was for Rose.

"Your Grace..." her voice trembled, barely above a whisper. "I-"

Icarus's fingers brushed her hair, a gesture so tender it made her chest ache. She wanted to scream. To push him away. To demand that he stop pretending. But her words caught in her throat, choking her.

He leaned in, confusion flickering in his crimson eyes, as if he couldn't quite understand the storm brewing inside her. "Giselle..."

Before he could say more, she jerked away from his touch, her movements frantic.

     "Don't!" she snapped, voice breaking. She couldn't take it. The affection, the pity-it felt like a mockery. Of everything she was, of everything she would never be.

Icarus's brow furrowed, concern flashing in his gaze, but Giselle could not bear to look at him any longer. Her hands flew to her mouth, bile rising in her throat as the weight of her actions finally consumed her. She stumbled back, away from him, her vision swimming, the room closing in around her.

Without another word, she bolted from the room, her feet carrying her out into the cold, darkened hallway. She barely made it outside before she collapsed against the stone wall, her stomach heaving violently as she emptied the contents of her gut onto the ground.

Tears stung her eyes, hot and bitter, but they refused to fall. All that remained was the gnawing sense of failure, of envy so sharp it cut through her like a blade. She did not get anything substantial to tell Willoughby, and she had destroyed Rose's ashes, ruined them, shattered the last piece of Icarus's past, and possibly ruined their relationship beyond repair, and for what?

For nothing at all.