Under the white moon, the south garden showed no signs of life.
The rose bushes, the stone slabs, even the fountain... everything seemed to be waiting. Not a breath of wind. Not the slightest rustle of wings. The whole world seemed to want to watch without intervening.
Mireille stood upright, her coat open, revealing the simple outfit she wore underneath. No armour, no symbols. Just dark, supple fabric that did not hinder her movement.
...And a dagger, its blade reflecting the whiteness of the moon.
Mael, opposite her, stood as still as a statue.
The duel had not yet been declared, but it had already begun.
Silas, several steps behind, was barely breathing. He was neither far enough away to ignore what was happening, nor close enough to intervene.
A cruel position... An imposed position.
Mael was the first to break the heavy silence that had settled over them.
"Have you always been willing to die for another? Because, I personally find it difficult to just throw my life away for someone as unworthy as people like this boy."
Mireille did not answer immediately. Then, calmly, she said:
"The thing is, it's not dying that's difficult. It's living with failure… But I guess someone like you can't relate to that."
A brief smile crossed the assassin's face.
"Well… Very good. Then, let's spare ourselves the guilt."
He moved immediately. Not a sudden movement, but more of a glide. Like water flowing silently in a stream.
Mireille pivoted slightly.
With a single glance, she had already assessed the distance, the posture, and the breathing rhythm of her opponent.
He wasn't nervous.
A professional. One of those who had seen blood, real blood, and had long since lost their fear of it.
"One last question. Why him?" said Mael, almost politely
Mimi stared at an invisible point behind him.
"Because he has not yet lost his innocence and naivety. And I want him to keep them. Also... Because I promised it."
Only then did she place her hand on the short blade at her belt.
The steel sang in the air.
***
Mael attacked first.
Without warning.
He simply lunged forward, fast but precise. The movement of a man accustomed to eliminating, not fighting.
Mireille parried without retreating — a short, sharp movement.
The clash of blades barely resonated, muffled by the damp grass.
Silas felt his breath catch.
They exchanged three blows, which became four, then ten. Quick, silent blows. Strikes that an untrained eye could not have followed.
Each movement was measured, thoughtful, effective.
No hatred, no rage.
Just two opposing wills — it was as simple as that.
Mael took a step to the side, attempting a low opening. Mireille pivoted, slid, and cut his sleeve in her counterattack. A thin, insignificant cut, but one that proved to him that she was not just a servant playing at being a warrior.
...And above all, that she had not lost her bite as a war dog.
He let out a short laugh.
"So it's true. The former captain of the 4th Velenisian Division still exists."
Mimi did not reply. She simply actively attacked for the first time.
A quick blow, then a second. A feint, a step forward, a twist of the wrist. Mael stepped back, surprised. She did not dominate him... but she held him.
The duel became more intense, more dangerous. Flashes of steel under the white moon, bursts of shadow between two breaths.
Silas watched and didn't understand everything, but he understood enough.
Mimi was fighting for him, and Mael wanted to kill him.
The maid took a blow to the arm. Light. A red line emerged. She didn't flinch
Mael took a blow to the temple, enough to make him take a step back.
Breaths became shorter. The tension heavier.
Then Mael changed. Not in his movements — in his intention.
A moment earlier, he had been testing her. Now he wanted to end it.
He lunged at her. Faster. Sharper.
Silas, though still light years away from their level of combat, saw in a fraction of a second what Mireille also understood:
She couldn't block everything.
...So she chose the most appropriate solution.
Mimi raised her left arm, intercepted the blade and allowed herself to be wounded to keep her balance.
Her right hand struck. The flat of her blade struck Mael's throat, forcing him to retreat, to lose his breath.
They separated.
Mireille was bleeding. Mael was choking.
Then the fake butler spat out a word he had not yet used to describe Mireille:
"Stubborn."
She replied, icily:
"Yes, and alive."
Silas, carried away by the fight before his eyes, took a step forward — too instinctive.
Mireille sensed it without even turning around.
"Don't come any closer, young master."
Not a cry. Not panic.
An order. Inflexible.
The young nobleman obeyed.
For the first time, Mael glanced briefly at the boy.
'He's slowing you down, Captain.'
"No. He reminds me of what I'm fighting for." Replied Mireille.
Mael smiled. Slightly... Tragically.
"Then you'll lose. Those who love and want to protect are vulnerable. It's always the same."
She closed her fingers around her blade.
"Perhaps, yes. But for now, I'm still alive. On the other hand, those who love nothing are already dead."
Mimi rushed forward. But this time, the fight was no longer symmetrical.
Mireille attacked with her most dangerous weapon — her willpower.
Mael blocked, dodged, tried to regain control.
…But she gave him nothing.
Three blows became four, then five. The sequence turned into a fluid, almost dance-like series — and she was in control, despite the blood on her arm, despite the pain.
One last step. A twist of the wrist.
...And the blade came to rest just below Mael's throat.
He didn't move. No one spoke.
Then, softly, he said:
"You won't kill me. It's no longer in your nature."
She looked at him, not with hatred. But with certainty.
"No... maybe. But if you come back... I won't have to choose."
A silence fell... A real silence.
Mael backed away slowly. He said only one sentence to Silas before leaving.
A sentence without promise, without threat. Just a cold truth:
"This was only the beginning."
Then he left, defeated, bloody and humiliated.
***
Mireille remained motionless for a moment. Blood was still flowing down her arm. Her breathing was short.
But she was standing.
Silas joined her, slowly, as if each step could be a trap.
"Mimi... are you..."
She turned to him. And for the first time that evening, she smiled at him.
A real smile. Tired, but alive.
"Yes, young master. I'm fine."
Silas clutched the pendant. His eyes were shining — not with fear, but with something else.
Faith, relief... and courage.
Mireille looked at the night around them. The garden. The shadows. The silence that had returned.
Then she said, softly, almost too softly:
"We must leave. Tomorrow. Before dawn."
The young man nodded.
"Where are we going?"
She took a breath.
"I don't know yet, but somewhere they can't reach you."
And without another word... They walked towards the manor, side by side.
And the night followed them.