Shattered Masks

A NEW SHADOW.

The sun hung low over Paris, gilding the Noir Tower in hues of fire and gold. Inside the highest floor of the sleek, glass-dominated building, Lucien Noir stood at his usual place by the window, his gaze sweeping over the city below.

Mathieu entered the office, his usual efficient self, though a hint of hesitation flickered across his face. Lucien noticed but didn't turn.

"What is it, Mathieu?" Lucien asked, his voice as calm and sharp as the winter breeze.

"There's someone here to see you, sir," Mathieu said. "Alaric Vane."

Lucien's pen paused mid-signature. His lips curved into the faintest semblance of a smirk. "Vane? It seems shadows don't know their place anymore."

Mathieu remained silent, accustomed to Lucien's cold remarks. With a slight nod, he left the room, and moments later, the echo of polished boots on marble filled the air.

Alaric Vane entered with deliberate ease, his long charcoal-gray coat swirling around his ankles. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself with an air of understated menace. His face was angular, his dark hair perfectly styled, and his steel-gray eyes held a flicker of amusement as they swept over the room.

The faint smile that tugged at his lips was one of a man who knew how to manipulate a room. But as those gray eyes landed on Lucien Noir, seated behind his expansive mahogany desk, something shifted. The aura of superiority that Alaric carried seemed to falter, as though the room itself bent to Lucien's presence.

"Lucien Noir," Alaric said smoothly, his voice low and deliberate. "It's been too long."

Lucien didn't bother looking up immediately. He finished signing the last document on his desk before setting the pen down with precision. Then, and only then, did he lift his piercing blue eyes, fixing Alaric with a gaze so cold it could freeze the Seine.

"Has it?" Lucien replied, his tone devoid of any warmth. "I hadn't noticed."

Alaric chuckled softly, though there was a trace of discomfort beneath his facade. He stepped forward, his boots echoing in the vast office, and took a seat without invitation.

"Still as charming as ever," Alaric said, crossing one leg over the other. "I thought I'd drop by and see what Paris's most powerful man has been up to. Word is, you've taken an interest in art. Unexpected, coming from you."

Lucien leaned back in his chair, his movements deliberate, calculated. "Unexpected only to those who lack vision. Art is an investment-timeless, exclusive, and influential. You wouldn't understand."

Alaric's smirk faltered slightly, but he recovered quickly. "Come now, Lucien. You can't claim the entire cultural sphere for yourself. Even emperors need allies."

"Do they?" Lucien's voice was soft, almost amused, but it carried a razor-sharp edge. He stood, towering over Alaric, and moved to the window. The setting sun bathed his white hair in gold, turning him into an almost mythic figure. "Allies are a convenience, Vane. I deal in absolutes. Power, wealth, results. Not whispers in the dark."

Alaric stiffened, his carefully constructed facade beginning to crack. "Even so, I thought you might appreciate a proposition. Your little project with Evelyn Beaumont-it's intriguing. Perhaps I could... contribute."

Lucien turned, his movements smooth and precise, like a predator circling its prey. He strode back to his desk, resting his hands on the polished wood as he leaned forward slightly. His blue eyes burned with a glacial intensity.

"Contribute?" Lucien repeated, his voice dangerously low. "Let me make one thing clear, Vane. I don't need contributions. I don't need alliances. And I certainly don't need interference from men who operate in shadows because they lack the strength to stand in the light."

For the first time, Alaric seemed genuinely unsettled. He uncrossed his legs, sitting up straighter, his smile gone. "I meant no offense, Lucien. I only thought-"

"You thought wrong," Lucien interrupted, his tone final. "If you have something of value, state it. Otherwise, don't waste my time."

The silence that followed was deafening. Alaric, for all his charm and calculated poise, found himself at a loss for words.

After a moment, he stood, his coat sweeping the floor as he adjusted the lapels. "Very well, Lucien. I'll take my leave. But if you ever find yourself needing... perspective, you know where to find me."

Lucien watched as Alaric walked to the door, his expression unchanging. Just as Alaric reached the threshold, Lucien's voice rang out, cold and commanding.

"Vane."

Alaric paused, glancing over his shoulder.

"Don't overestimate your importance," Lucien said, his tone like ice. "Paris doesn't have room for shadows when it already belongs to me."

Alaric nodded, his jaw tight, and disappeared through the door.

Lucien returned to his desk, a faint smirk playing at his lips. Men like Alaric Vane were useful, but only as pawns. And Lucien Noir didn't play games where he wasn't already the winner.