CHAPTER 121: EDIT

The people of Ravelle had no idea who the fuck they were.

To the crowd, they looked like a dream—two perfect lovers on shining horses, moving through the streets as if painted by God himself. A man with silver eyes and a smile that could melt glass, and a woman with wild curls and a waist too small for her attitude. Every passing face turned to stare, to whisper, to envy.

They looked like a fairytale.

But Vivienne knew better.

It was a fucking nightmare on horseback.

The morning sun was soft, gold spreading across rooftops as they left the city. André rode ahead, his posture annoyingly straight, his hand loose on the reins. His coat flapped slightly with the wind, and his hair, that stupid expensive hair, gleamed under the sun. Vivienne followed behind him, her own horse snorting with irritation, just like her.

Her thoughts were not romantic.

They were violent.

If I had a knife, she thought, I’d stab him right through that perfect back and let him fall off his horse like the dramatic bastard he is.

She said nothing, though. She just kept her head high, pretending to be the picture of a sweet wife riding beside her doting husband. Her skirt fluttered lightly. The air smelled of spring. Birds were singing. She wanted to strangle them all.

They rode further and further until the sound of the city faded behind them. No more chatter. No more merchants. Just open space. A long road leading to the outskirts of Ravelle. Then the flowers appeared.

Miles and miles of them.

Blue, pink, white, yellow.

It looked like someone had spilled heaven all over the ground.

Vivienne stared for a moment, surprised by how beautiful it was. Then she immediately got angry at herself for noticing.

"Pretty, isn’t it?" André said softly. His voice came out like a line from a poem—low and tender, like melted honey poured over something rotten.

Vivienne didn’t answer. She already knew what was coming.

And of course, he didn’t disappoint.

"You," he said, smiling over his shoulder, "are even more beautiful than these flowers, ma chérie. If I could, I’d pluck the whole field and lay them at your feet."

She almost vomited. Right there. On the horse.

Oh, shut the hell up, she thought. If I hear one more word of this flowery bullshit, I’ll choke him with the bouquet and let him die smelling like perfume.

But she forced a laugh—soft, sweet, fake. "You’re disgusting," she said sweetly, pretending to blush.

He chuckled. "Then I must be doing something right."

Her jaw clenched so hard she almost cracked a tooth. He always said things like that—half teasing, half serious, like he knew she hated it and did it anyway. The bastard was enjoying himself.

They kept riding in silence after that, the kind that didn’t feel peaceful at all. It was too quiet, like the world was waiting for something terrible to happen. The air was clean, the wind gentle, the flowers swaying around them—but Vivienne felt trapped in her own head. The more beautiful the scenery became, the uglier her thoughts grew.

Her eyes wandered to André again. He looked calm. Too calm. His expression was unreadable, but his hands were stiff. His back too straight. His jaw tight. Something about the way he stared ahead made her uneasy.

Maybe he’s planning to kill me, she thought lazily. That would be ironic. Two murderers, riding side by side, both pretending to be in love. How romantic.

Then, without warning, André slowed his horse. His body stiffened like someone had whispered a ghost’s name in his ear. Vivienne frowned.

"André?" she called softly. No answer.

He kept looking forward. His eyes were distant, unfocused, like he wasn’t even seeing what was in front of him. Vivienne rode closer, watching him carefully.

"Are you alright?" she asked, trying not to sound concerned.

Nothing.

He didn’t even blink.

The air changed.

Something cold slid into it.

Vivienne glanced ahead and realized where they were going. The land began to rise, the road bending toward the mountains. The field ended, and rocks replaced the flowers. The horses’ hooves clacked on stone, and the scent of the flowers faded away.

André’s horse stopped first. He didn’t even pull the reins. It just... stopped, like it understood something its rider didn’t.

Vivienne stopped beside him. "What’s wrong?" she asked again, this time louder.

Still nothing.

She watched him breathe heavily, his fingers twitching on the reins, his eyes lost somewhere far away. Then, quietly, he swung his leg over the horse and dismounted.

"André?" Vivienne said, more confused now.

He didn’t respond.

He began walking—slowly, as if pulled by something invisible. The ground crunched under his boots. He walked straight toward the cliff ahead, where the mountain dropped into a valley below.

Vivienne swore under her breath, jumped down, and followed him. "André, what the hell are you doing?"

The wind was louder here. The sound of leaves, the cry of a faraway bird. When she caught up, he was standing near the edge, his coat swaying, his eyes staring down at the city spread below them.

From here, Ravelle looked unreal. Small, soft, perfect. The rooftops gleamed under the sun, the river curled through the valley like a silver ribbon. It looked like a painting.

Vivienne stopped beside him, still catching her breath. She frowned at the view. "It’s beautiful," she said sarcastically, brushing her hair away from her face. "You must want to paint it or something."

André didn’t answer at first. He just kept staring. His eyes weren’t soft anymore. They looked darker, colder. There was something broken in them, something heavy.

Then he spoke. Quietly.

"No," he said. "I want to burn it to the fucking ground."

Vivienne blinked.

"What?" she said. She thought she misheard him.

He didn’t look at her. His voice stayed calm, almost gentle. "Every inch of it," he murmured. "Every stone. Every wall. Every name that breathes inside that city. I want to watch it fall apart and turn into ash."

Vivienne stared at him, completely lost. "You—what the fuck are you talking about?"