Edith found herself walking down alone the empty streets of Paris.

The silence in the dead of night enveloped her like a thick fog, and the only sound she could hear was the echo of her footsteps. The usually fearless young girl clutched her cloak tightly around her shoulders, her nerves on edge - the city was eerily quiet, as if Paris had been deserted and she was the only one left.

Finally, a clamour could be heard from the other end of the street. It grew louder and louder as a horde of lower-class masses approached, carrying torches and singing boisterously to the tune of Carmagnole. At the head of the procession, a man was surrounded by the crowd, holding high a long wooden stake in triumph. At the top of the stake was a noblewoman''s head.

Edith had a feeling of déjà vu at this scene. Whose pale and beautiful head was that? Was it the miracle angel from under the bridge by the Seine?

As the crowd drew near, Edith''s eyes widened in terror. She recognised her most familiar features: it was Charlene Saint-Clemont''s head.

Her bestie''s almond eyes looking down at her from the top of the stake had lost their luster, and her mouth was widely open like a black hole. Her face was covered in messy pale-coloured hair that was soaked with dark blood. The expression left on her face at the moment of her death was half-horror, half-sorrow.

As the man leading the charge passed by Edith, he maliciously turned Charlene''s face towards her and manipulated the wooden stake like a puppeteer, moving the stake up and down, making the surrounding crowd burst out into a guffaw.

By the light of the torches, Edith recognised the man''s face with his messy beard. It was exactly the avenger who had tried to take her life the day before.

Edith''s head spun dizzily, and something surged up her throat. Instinctively, she ran in the opposite direction until the taste of rust filled her mouth, until the tears of fear and a