“Shadows and Scarlet Songs at Vignoble Empoisonné...”

The city of Clémarine shimmered in the rain. Its magical lanterns cast blue lights on the cobblestones, and the gargoyles on the rooftops seemed to murmur to each other with every drop.

It was a place too lively for Rydia's mission, and too gloomy for her nerves.

Hidden beneath a black cloak, she moved through the shadows as if dancing through puddles. Her folded wings were barely distinguishable, camouflaged in the darkness.

"Well... there they are," she whispered, spotting Ayato, Isolde, and Vera reaching the drawbridges that marked the city's border.

"And who is this other one? A new ally of theirs?!" Rydia said with slight anger, not recognizing Lucien, as she was expecting Dakim or Madelis.

From the ledge, she watched them like a patient hunter. Every gesture, every word I managed to capture through the rain, I mentally noted. At first glance, it was surveillance. Meticulous work.

But inside, the script was different.

If Azrael knew how close I was… if Nigravos recognized my reports… Baal'thazar would choke on his insects when he saw I brought back real information. Not just a sad song.

***

The cart creaked as it entered Clémarine. The horse, a gift from the villagers of Aldemar, advanced at a weary but steady trot, as the travelers made their way through damp streets smelling of salt and fish.

Clémarine was a vivid contrast: on one side, sailors unloading crates of sardines, shouts of auctions on the dock, and seagulls fighting over scraps. On the other, squares adorned with sculptures, display cases filled with violins, and theaters lit with stained-glass windows. A city that lived by the sea, but dreamed of art.

Ayato wrinkled his nose, digging his hands into his pockets.

"It reeks of France..." he muttered disdainfully.

Isolde raised an eyebrow.

"France?"

"A bad memory of cheap perfume," he shrugged. "Long to explain, not very interesting."

Lucien, of course, wasted no time puffing out his chest.

"Ah, but look at this splendor! This city will be the perfect setting for a new heroic song. And fortunately, I already have my pen ready."

Ayato gave a dry laugh.

"Change the song, you sound like a broken record!"

Sylphidia, who peeked out halfway from the flute hanging around Vera's neck, clapped her hands in delight.

"Ayato's right! But never mind, Lucien. You can write my biography as soon as I get a few free mugs."

Isolde rolled her eyes and separated herself from the group.

"Before this gets unbearable, I'll go and check it out. If there's a Pseudo-Demon Castle in this city, I'll stop hearing its cursed poet screams."

Vera and Sylphidia allowed themselves to be dragged by Lucien toward a local bookstore. Ayato, on the other hand, chose to wander aimlessly, taking note of streets, exits, and dark corners.

"If this turns into a battlefield", he thought, "I want to know where to run first".

                                                                              ***

As dusk fell, the five of them met in front of the "Vignoble Empoisonné" tavern. The sign depicted a bunch of black grapes entwined with a skull. A place with a decadent, yet inviting air.

Inside, the atmosphere was warm and heavy with cheap wine. Sailors laughed heartily, bards improvised verses, and the tables rattled with rhythmic taps.

A group of drunks staggered out of the tavern. One of them clumsily tried to approach the disguised Rydia, not recognizing the sharp edge in her gaze. A flicker of her supernatural charm was enough for the man to flee in terror, convinced he'd seen a ghost.

"Pathetic..." she murmured, regaining her composure, though secretly grateful that no one had noticed her stumble.

Suddenly, the bar door opened. It was Isolde, the edge of her sword still vibrating with a faint crimson glow, entering the room with the others. Rydia held her breath: if the warrior raised her gaze for even a moment longer, she might discover her.

She pressed herself against the wall, her wings covered like a shield of black feathers. Her heart pounded. This wasn't just spying: it was a real risk.

And yet, a smile spread across her lips.

"Perfect. If I return with these details, they'll never be able to call me a "rookie" again."

The rain intensified, beating heavily on the tiled roof.

Isolde, Vera, Sylphidia, and Lucien sat at the bar. Rydia, hidden among the passersby, watched them from a distance. 

Ayato remained slightly behind, listening to the murmur of a guitar that was beginning to play.

Then he saw her.

A young woman made her way to the center of the room, to the beat of flamenco chords. Her scarlet hair, curly and shining in the lamplight, fell like liquid fire. Her crimson eyes sparkled with hypnotic magnetism. Her porcelain-white skin contrasted with a low-cut yet elegant Victorian-style red and black dress with steampunk-inspired metallic details. A black hat adorned her head, and on her left shoulder, a noble tattoo revealed her lineage.

Her athletic, voluptuous body seemed sculpted for dance.

The bar's regular musicians refer to the girl as "Fatima", and she is the establishment's performing arts star.

Every twirl, every clap, every hip movement drew cheers and table bangs.

Ayato stood still. It wasn't immediate attraction, but bewilderment. She looked like a character plucked from a too-perfect stage set. An NPC designed to distract... he thought.

When the song ended, Fátima curtsied. The applause followed her to the bar, where she sat queenly. Her eyes fixed on Ayato, as if the rest of the world didn't exist.

"Mon cher…" she said with a French lilt, flashing a flirtatious smile. "You seemed so serious while I danced. Quel dommage. Don't you enjoy the music?"

Ayato raised an eyebrow, somewhat uncomfortable.

"I enjoy what I want. Although... I don't know if it's fair to hypnotize everyone with that." He gestured to her dress.

Fatima laughed, touching the brim of her hat.

"Oh là là. A gentleman with a sharp tongue. I like it. Most people only know how to clap like seals."

Lucien, unable to contain himself, stood with his arm raised.

"Mademoiselle! Your art is the embodiment of tragedy and passion. Allow me to write your immortal legend!"

"Another poet?" "Mon dieu, this city is infested with them," she replied, amused, before looking at Vera sweetly. "Merci, petite colombe. You have such pure eyes that I'm almost afraid to dirty them."

Vera blushed, Sylphidia was already ordering another jug, and Ayato sank into his seat, sighing.

But Fatima fixed her crimson eyes on him again, leaning slightly.

"You... you're not from here, are you? There's something in your gaze... quelque chose de brisé. Something broken."

Ayato smiled sideways.

"Let's just say I'm a tourist trapped in the worst travel agency possible."

She studied him for a second longer, a spark of mystery on her lips.

"Très intéressant. Perhaps you're just what I was hoping for."

But not everyone was charmed.

Isolde frowned from the bar, never taking her eyes off the young woman.

"...Her movements, her gaze... that exaggerated theatricality."

Rydia, hidden in the shadows of the entrance, pressed her lips together.

"Yes. It's not simple coquetry. I recognize that style..."

"Who are you talking about?" Vera asked Isolde, sensing the tension.

Isolde took a sip of wine, her voice deep.

"Scarlette de Montfroid."

The name hung in the air like a knife.

"A clan?" Vera whispered.

"Dhampirs," Rydia explained, appearing with a crimson flash in her eyes as her voice echoed. "Born of Carmilla and a French necromancer centuries ago. Neither human nor vampire. They use seduction as a weapon as sharp as any dagger. Their looks, their voices, even their dance… are made to bend wills."

Sylphidia, who until then had been drinking, choked.

"So she's like a succubus in a hat?"

"Worse," Isolde said, her tone icy with disdain. "Succubi play with flesh. They… with souls to get blood."

The French dhampir in question, as if she had heard, fixed her crimson eyes on Isolde and smiled. 

Her tone gradually changed, taking on an arrogant, almost noble cadence:

"Well, well…" Fatima said, letting her voice trail like velvet. "How strange to find someone like vous, so cold, so rigid, among mere mortals." She leaned slightly, her lips curling in a superior gesture. "Quel dommage, my dear. Eternity must be very lonely when you don't know how to enjoy it."

Ayato raised his eyebrows.

"Okay... has this become a gothic soap opera, or is that just me?"

Lucien, for his part, was completely fascinated, scribbling furiously in his notebook.

"This is gold! The dhampir heiress and the vampire lady facing off in a staring duel, with the audience's fate as their witness... an instant classic!"

Fatima ignored him, posing as if she were on a stage lit just for her.

"I don't need to justify who I am. The name Scarlette de Montfroid speaks for itself." Her smile widened, almost challenging Isolde. "Can you say the same, mon amie?"

Isolde remained motionless, but her silence was as sharp as a silver blade.

Ayato watched her, crossing his arms.

"Great", he thought, "first frustrated poets, now aristocratic vampires with an oujou-sama complex… This group is an increasingly strange circus."

The tension between the two women remained latent, invisible to the other tavern patrons who were still enjoying the spectacle. But for those present, the truth was emerging:

Fátima wasn't just an artist. She was part of a forbidden lineage, despised by vampires and succubi, feared by humans. A born seductress, a living weapon disguised as a muse.

And although she smiled as if it were all a game, her eyes shone with a hidden arrogance that promised something more:

"I'm not here just to dance."