Part 1: The House of the Rose
The city of Paris slept beneath a bruised sky. Rain washed the streets clean, but it could not touch the rot that ran beneath — the secret arteries that pulsed with power, money, and fear. From the truck window, Elara watched the lights blur. To her, Paris had always been a dream whispered in magazines and television screens — beauty and grace, a city of romance. Tonight, it looked like a battlefield wrapped in gold. Beside her, Bill sat still, a shadow carved from silence. His presence filled the space — calm, heavy, and unreadable. The dim glow from the dashboard traced the faint scar along his jaw. He hadn't spoken in miles. Elara wanted to ask a thousand questions. About where they were going. About who was after them. About him. But every time she looked at his face, the words froze in her throat.
Arrival The truck slowed as they turned into a narrow street along the Seine. It was almost dawn; the fog thickened over the river, veiling the city in a cold mist. A wrought-iron gate loomed ahead — black, ornate, crowned with a crimson emblem: a half-burned rose. Rafe killed the engine. "We're here, boss." Elara's pulse quickened. "Here" was no sanctuary — it was the House of the Rose, the rumored heart of the criminal empire she'd only heard whispered about at her father's meetings. Bill stepped out first. The guards at the gate didn't move. They bowed their heads — not in fear, but in recognition. "El Commandant," one murmured. Elara followed him through the gates. The mansion that rose beyond them was unlike anything she'd seen — towering marble columns, windows draped in shadow, the faint music of a violin drifting from somewhere deep inside. It was beautiful. And terrifying.
The Mistress of the House In the grand hall, a woman waited. She was tall, elegant, wrapped in a black silk gown that shimmered like oil. Her hair was silver though her face was ageless, her eyes sharp enough to slice through steel. "El Commandant," she greeted softly, her voice like wine poured over glass. "Ten years, and still you return unannounced." Bill inclined his head. "I don't owe anyone notice anymore, Madame Viora." Her smile deepened. "You owe me everything, my child." The air between them was electric — respect mixed with danger. Elara stood still, feeling invisible yet completely exposed. Viora's gaze slid to her. "And who is this delicate creature you've brought into my house?" Bill's tone was cool. "A survivor. She stays." Viora took a slow step forward, her heels clicking like gunshots on marble. "Ah. So the War God brings home a flower." She tilted Elara's chin up with one painted fingernail. "Be careful, dear. In this garden, roses bleed." Elara met her gaze, trembling but defiant. "Then I'll learn to stop the bleeding." For a brief moment, Viora's eyes glinted with approval — then she turned away. "Very well. Rooms will be prepared. And you, Bill… the Council has already placed a bounty on your head. They call you a traitor." Bill's jaw tightened. "They can call me whatever they like. I only care about what's left to destroy."
The Gathering Storm Later that night, as the mansion quieted, Elara found herself staring out at the city from the balcony. Below, Paris glimmered — fragile, untouchable. She wondered if she'd ever see it in daylight again. Footsteps approached. Bill leaned against the railing beside her, his voice low. "You shouldn't be alone out here." "Shouldn't, or can't?" she murmured without looking at him. He didn't answer immediately. "Both." Silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken things. The night air was cold, but his nearness felt warmer than fire. "Why did she call you her child?" Elara asked finally. Bill's expression darkened. "Because she made me what I am." Elara turned to him, eyes searching. "Then why come back?" He looked out over the city, eyes reflecting the distant glow of the Eiffel Tower. "To end what she started."
From inside the house came a sudden, echoing sound — the shatter of glass, followed by a scream. Bill's hand went to his gun in one motion. "Stay here," he ordered, already moving toward the sound. Elara hesitated only a second before following, barefoot and silent. Down the corridor, shadows twisted like smoke. At the far end, she saw a man pinned against the wall, a dagger at his throat — and the blade was in Viora's hand. Her voice was a whisper of thunder. "They've already found us." The House of the Rose trembled as alarms began to blare, red lights flashing through the hall. Bill stepped into the open, his eyes hard as iron. "Then let them come."
End of Part 1
Part 2: The Blood in the Garden
The alarms howled through the marble halls — a shrill, pulsing warning that cut through the night like steel. Guards scattered into formation, weapons drawn. The chandelier lights flickered, casting long, trembling shadows across the golden walls. Bill moved first. His voice was low, measured. "Rafe, secure the west wing. No one in or out." Rafe nodded once and vanished down the corridor, barking orders in rapid French. Madame Viora released the trembling spy at her feet, his blood streaking her ringed hand. "They've breached the south entrance," she said calmly, as if discussing the weather. "Council dogs in my house." Bill's jaw tightened. "You said the Rose's security was unbreakable." Her smile was bitter. "So did I — until one of my own decided to sell me." Her gaze swept the room — and for a heartbeat, landed on Elara.
The Accusation Elara's heart stuttered. "What— what are you looking at me for?" she stammered. Viora tilted her head, silver hair gleaming in the crimson light. "You arrive, and within an hour, the Council knows where to strike. Curious, isn't it?" "I didn't—" Bill stepped between them, his voice sharp. "She's not your spy." Viora's eyes flashed. "You trust too easily, Commandant. You forget I raised you to see through mercy." The tension coiled like a living thing. Around them, guards hurried past, boots echoing down the marble. Elara's hands shook. "I don't even know how to contact them! You think I'd lead them here—to die?" For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy and poisonous. Then the sound of gunfire shattered it. Bill turned toward the noise. "This conversation's over." He drew his sidearm and motioned to Elara. "Stay behind me. Move when I move."
The South Corridor The south corridor was chaos — smoke, broken glass, and the echo of boots on tile. Council soldiers in black armor swarmed through the shattered windows, rifles raised. Bill moved like water through flame — precise, lethal. Each motion a decade of discipline. Two soldiers dropped before they even saw him. A third tried to flank him, only to meet the cold end of his blade. "Rafe!" Bill called. "On your right!" Rafe appeared from the smoke, blood streaking his temple. "They're pouring in from the garden!" "The Rose gardens?" Elara gasped. "That's impossible—there's a wall!" Bill didn't answer. He already knew the truth — whoever betrayed them had opened it.
The Garden They burst through the rear doors and into the night. The once-beautiful garden — a sea of crimson roses and marble statues — now burned under the glare of spotlights. Bodies lay among the flowers. The scent of gunpowder mixed with crushed petals. Bill's men fought to hold the line. The air was alive with bullets and screams. He ducked behind a fallen column, pulling Elara with him. "Stay low!" he barked. She nodded, covering her head as the stone splintered beside her. "Bill—there's too many!" He checked his clip, then glanced toward the far wall. "There's always too many." Then his eyes caught something — movement near the gate. A familiar silhouette, stepping out of the shadows. Bill froze. The man wore a long black coat marked with a half-burned rose. His face, though older, was unmistakable. "Lucien," Bill breathed. Elara looked up. "Who is he? " Bill's eyes hardened. "The brother I buried ten years ago."
The War Within .Lucien stepped forward, hands open, a faint smile cutting through the chaos. "Brother," he called over the gunfire, "you came home at last." Bill rose slowly, weapon still in hand. "You're the leak." Lucien's laugh was quiet, almost kind. "I didn't betray the Rose, Bill. I freed it. Mother kept you chained. I just finished the war she started." Madame Viora appeared behind them, her gown torn, eyes blazing. "Lies! You sold us to the Council!" Lucien's gaze flicked to her. "And you sold us to blood and ghosts. The world changes, Viora. You don't." The standoff was fragile — three weapons, one truth too heavy to speak. Bill lowered his gun an inch. "Why, Lucien? You were supposed to be dead." Lucien smiled sadly. "So were you." Then he snapped his fingers. From the far wall, explosives erupted. The ground shook, the garden tore apart in flame. Bill tackled Elara to the ground as the shockwave hit. The air turned to fire and ash. He could hear Viora screaming somewhere behind them, her voice drowned by the collapse of stone. When the smoke began to clear, the once-grand mansion was burning. Lucien was gone. Elara coughed, her hands trembling as she looked at the ruin around them. "Bill… what do we do now?" Bill rose slowly, his eyes dark as the embers that fell around them. "We hunt him." He turned toward the inferno that had been the House of the Rose — his home, his curse, now in ashes. "For every drop of blood in this garden," he said quietly, "I'll take back the world." And with that vow, he walked into the fire.
End of Part 2
Part 3: Ashes of the Rose
The fire raged until dawn. The once-proud mansion of La Rose Noire now lay in ruins — marble melted to stone, glass crushed to dust, and the air thick with the bitter perfume of smoke and roses. Bill stood at the edge of what had been the courtyard, his coat blackened, his hands streaked with soot and blood. Around him, his men worked in grim silence, pulling survivors from the wreckage. Every breath he took burned. Every heartbeat echoed with one thought — Lucien. Behind him, Elara moved slowly, eyes wide with horror. The destruction around her felt unreal, like the end of a dream she hadn't realized she was living in. She found him standing still amid the ruin. "Bill…" she whispered. "The others—" He didn't turn. "Rafe's leading the survivors to the safe point. Viora's still missing." Elara swallowed. "You think she's alive?" "She's too stubborn to die."
The Broken Sanctuary They found her two hours later beneath the collapsed east wing, pinned under a fallen beam. Her once-perfect gown was torn, her hair streaked with blood, but her eyes were sharp as ever. When Bill knelt beside her, she managed a faint smile. "So, the gods didn't take you yet." "Don't speak," he said, bracing the beam while Rafe pried it loose. Viora caught his wrist with surprising strength. "He's not finished, Bill. Your brother's playing a longer game than you think." Bill frowned. "He's working with the Council." She shook her head weakly. "He's working above them. The Council's just a puppet. There's someone else — the real hand behind the Rose." "Who?" Bill demanded. Her lips trembled. "He calls himself The Heir of Paris." The beam shifted, Rafe grunted, and they pulled her free. But the moment her body hit the ground, Viora's strength left her. She clutched Bill's arm, whispering something barely audible. "Don't make my mistake," she breathed. "Don't let vengeance kill what's left of you." Her hand fell away. The matriarch of the Rose was gone.
The Weight of Fire Bill stood silently over her for a long time. Smoke drifted across his face, dimming the glow in his eyes. Elara touched his sleeve gently. "I'm sorry." He didn't move. "She made me a soldier, Elara. I thought I hated her for it. But she's the only reason I survived." Elara hesitated, then said softly, "That doesn't mean you have to die the same way." For the first time since the flames began, his gaze met hers — sharp, but uncertain. Something in her voice disarmed him, cut through the walls he'd built out of war and steel. Then Rafe approached. "Boss, we've got company. A convoy's been spotted heading this way. Could be Council scouts." Bill nodded. "Evacuate everyone. We move east by nightfall." "And you?" "I'll finish here." Rafe's look said what he didn't voice: You mean to bury her yourself. But he only nodded and walked off.
Burial at Dawn By morning, the fires had died. Bill stood alone amid the ashes, digging through the soot with his bare hands. He found what was left of the emblem — a scorched half-rose of gold — and placed it on the small mound of earth he'd raised for Viora. When Elara came to him, she found him kneeling there, his head bowed, silent. "She'd want you to keep fighting," Elara said quietly. Bill didn't look up. "She'd want me to win." "And what do you want?" He looked at her then — truly looked — as if the question itself was something he hadn't asked himself in years. "I want it to end," he said. "All of it. The Council. The syndicate. The bloodlines. The lies." "And after that?" He gave a hollow laugh. "There's nothing after war, Elara." She shook her head, her voice trembling. "There's always something after war. Maybe that's what you're fighting for — you just don't see it yet."
The Hidden Message. That night, while the others prepared to move, Elara searched the wreckage for supplies. Inside what remained of the library, she found something half-buried under a cracked floor tile — a small, metal box marked with the Rose insignia. Inside was a folded parchment sealed with red wax — and a crest she didn't recognize. The Heir's mark. She took it to Bill. "What is it?" he asked. "Something Viora meant you to find." He broke the seal and unfolded the note. The handwriting was elegant, familiar — but not Viora's. > To the Son of the War: Paris awaits your return. When the blood moon rises, so will the Heir. Come to the mirror house, and bring the girl. Elara felt her heart skip. "What does that mean?" Bill's eyes narrowed. "It means my brother's not working alone. And whoever this Heir is—he wants you too."
Outside, the wind carried the distant wail of sirens. The sky over Paris burned faintly red as dawn broke. Bill folded the letter, his expression unreadable. "Pack your things," he said. "We leave tonight." Elara hesitated. "Where are we going?" He turned toward the horizon, his silhouette dark against the rising sun. "To find the mirror house," he said, "and to end a bloodline that should've died with me." But as he walked away, the letter in his pocket burned — the wax seal still warm, as if it were alive.
End of Chapter 3.