He leaned against the railing of the observation deck, the wind tugging at his white hair, and let out a breath that fogged in the crisp air. Paris. The city of light, of art, of revolution—and, supposedly, the key to finding the Book of Vanitas.

A soft meow drew his attention downward. Murr, his small black cat, had somehow squeezed himself onto the deck and was now winding between Noé's boots, tail flicking with feline judgment.

Noé reached down to scoop him up, earning a half-hearted protest.

Noé followed his gaze.

A dirigible was approaching from the south, its massive envelope painted with ornate gold filigree. But that wasn't what caught his attention. It was the figure on its deck—a young woman, her pale hair streaming like a banner in the wind, standing utterly still as if carved from moonlight. Her dress was simple, traveling clothes of grey and white, but she held herself with a poise that spoke of something older. Something sad.

She turned, just slightly, and for a moment their eyes met across the gap of sky between the two airships. Violet met gold. Then a gust of wind carried her ship past, and she was gone.

He didn't notice the third airship, higher up, its hull painted a deep crimson. He didn't see the figure in a long black coat leaning over its railing, a pale hand raised to shield his eyes as he watched the white-haired stranger disappear through a doorway. He didn't see the grin that spread across that figure's face—sharp, knowing, and far too amused.