A cold wind blew through the alleys of Apil. A cloud cast its shadow over the crimson sky. The glow of street lanterns made the falling snowflakes shimmer like a shower of jewels. In those moments, a few vagabonds of the city, wrapped in tattered cloaks, huddled around a fire under a broken wooden board that served as their only shelter. Their breaths, steaming in the air, were their only warmth as they gazed from a distance at the grand estate of "Kani-Apel."


    In the echoes of distant memories, they recalled how that very structure had once been built with the sweat and toil of their fathers. And now, all that remained for them was the warmth of its walls. Alongside the biting wind, a faint melody resonated—a weary tune hummed softly by those whose hands had grown calloused from labor. A dry throat coughed, as if reciting a lament against the merciless daggers of time, only to be drowned out by the ruthless storm that demanded silence.


    A sudden gust of wind turned their gaze to where the deep grooves of a carriage’s wheels marked the snow. A horse neighed and came to a halt before the estate’s gate. Moments later, the estate’s attendants emerged to greet the arrival. A portly guest stepped down from the carriage.


    As his heavy boots pressed into the snow, a muffled crunch sounded—like a toad being squeezed beneath five fingers. He looked ahead. When the estate attendants approached with measured steps, young women, their hair neatly tied back, raised a canopy over his head. With graceful gestures, they extended their arms toward the grand estate behind them and respectfully said, “Welcome to Kani-Apel, sir! Please, come inside...”


    The fat man glanced at them and said, “Ah, thank you. This way?”


    The women held the canopy firmly over him. Once again, the attendants spoke kindly, “Yes, please come in. It is warm, just like your own home.”


    A stone-paved path led through a frozen garden to a wooden door. As the door opened, a hall bathed in wandering lights was revealed—a lively ballroom filled with chatter and dancing. Silver trays carrying aged wine spun gracefully in the hands of hosts, serving the young guests. The warmth inside the mansion enticed the visitors to hang up their coats and jackets in a corner. Their warm smiles, shared over clinking glasses of wine, created an atmosphere of ease and indulgence.


    Where drinking and dancing knew no restraint, above in a silent chamber, a composed woman leaned against the soft velvet of her chair. Before her stood a mirror. With the precision of a needlepoint, she dipped a delicate, cloudy brush into black ink and traced a line along her eyelids.


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    Her makeup accentuated her features more than ever. The crimson glow of the moon cast her in the image of a goddess. Her name was Déjou, and her title, Annen, was spoken with a softness that turned it into “Déjou-An.” Assured that her appearance bore no flaw before she joined her guests, she turned her head slightly. In a voice as rich as bittersweet chocolate, she asked the figure behind her, “How does it look, Madelie?”


    Madelie was her attendant—a short girl, plain in appearance, yet she preferred to understand her mistress’s moods before anything else. The sharp fragrance of Déjouan’s perfume intoxicated her, drawing her gaze to her mistress’s reflection in the mirror. Déjouan had a soft, oval face, with slightly angular edges at her jawline. Her thick, arched brows were darkened with kohl, making them appear even bolder. Her eyelids, outlined with heavy liner, framed two fiery rubies—her piercing pupils. Her jet-black hair fell sleekly to just below her short, graceful neck.


    But what astonished Madelie for the first time was witnessing Déjouan place an emerald crown upon her own head. In a small city like Apil, no one had likely dared such a bold display amid a land of poverty and despair.


    A wave of emotion swept over Madelie, lifting her spirits into a poetic fervor. In admiration of her mistress, she instinctively leaned forward and exclaimed, “My lady! Your beauty is beyond words! This crown... this crown makes you shine like the moon!”


    Déjouan blinked. Calm, silent, accustomed to flattery, she remained unimpressed by such shallow praise. Slowly, in a tone heavy with meaning, she said,


    “Madelie... did you just call me the moon?”


    Madelie, still caught in Déjouan’s gaze, hesitated before responding, “Yes? My lady… You look just like the moon.”


    A knowing smile graced Déjouan’s lips. With a gaze that seemed to pierce through time itself, she asked, “What made you say that?”


    Madelie was taken aback. “What do you mean?”


    “It’s simple… The moon has never been beautiful. It is nothing more than a thief that borrows its light from the mother sun. Though it may appear lovely, inside, it is hollow and lifeless.”


    Madelie stammered, “But… I only meant to describe—”


    Déjouan cut her off. “Without a doubt, my beauty has no rival in this city. But what pleases fools is of no concern to me. People find happiness in appearances; they live and die within illusions. But I seek something far more valuable—something few can even imagine.”


    Madelie hesitated. “Something more valuable? But… everyone envies you. You have everything...”


    Déjouan rose from her chair. Without sparing a glance, in her heavy tone, she said, “Then follow me, and you shall see...”