Josephine sighed, exhaling a slow plume of fragrant smoke as she brought her pipe to her lips once more—a familiar ritual, something to ground her thoughts, to keep her mind from spiraling too far down unsettling paths.
"Is that all you need from me?" she asked, voice low, almost contemplative.
Lucien nodded, the motion small but taut, his shoulders betraying the tension he hadn't yet released. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching slightly—uncertain what gesture to make next. After confronting Josephine, after surviving the storm of emotions he hadn't anticipated, and with Vivienne's invitation looming later that night, he found himself… adrift. There was nothing else in his mind now. No mission. No plan. Just an echoing quiet.
Josephine's eyes flicked briefly to Lucien's lips. She noticed the subtle tremor there—the way he bit into his lower lip, too hard, drawing a faint line of red. He didn't seem to realize he was doing it.
"I heard a few nobles have gathered near Trent City for a festival…" she said softly. "What about heading there to clear your mind of things?"
Her fingers brushed against his—not quite a touch, more a passing graze, a tether cast between them as if trying to anchor him, or perhaps herself. A fragile gesture, but meaningful.
Lucien's mouth curled into a half-smile—dry, thoughtful. It wasn't a bad idea. A festival of nobles… a gathering ground riddled with veiled insults, silk-wrapped threats, and opportunities disguised as pleasantries. A playground for the politically ambitious.
"That doesn't sound bad at all."
He stepped forward, retrieving a piece of parchment from Josephine's desk and, with a practiced hand, began writing. The soft scratch of quill on paper filled the room as he penned a short letter—a check for damages addressed to a loyal servant back at his estate. At the bottom, he signed it with his seal and name, the ink still fresh and drying as he held it out.
"Here. For the damages before I leave. Just hand it to the servants at the door."
He straightened, smoothing out the fine creases in his tunic with methodical precision, fingers running through his tousled hair. A final inspection followed—checking his face in a nearby mirror shard for any trace of vulnerability. A soldier's ritual of concealment. Not armor, but performance.
"Once again, I apologize deeply, my lady," he said, bowing slightly. The gesture held respect, but also distance—his walls firmly in place again.
Then he turned and walked away, the door shutting behind him with a deep, echoing thud that lingered like the residue of a gunshot. Josephine remained still.
She stared at the letter in her hand, brows narrowing as her gaze traced the elegant lines of his script.
"That's odd… his handwriting changed…" she murmured.
The silence of her study enveloped her again, no longer peaceful but filled with low, humming tension. Her mind spun with theories, tangents, and possibilities, yet she tucked them away. For now, there was work to be done.
As Lucien strode through the long halls of Josephine's estate, shadows moved ahead of him—servants who had heard the earlier shouting now retreating into corners or glancing nervously from behind doors. A few scurried past him in the opposite direction, hurrying to the study to check on their baroness.
"Don't worry, she's fine…" Lucien said, pausing at the top of the stairwell. His voice carried easily through the hushed hallway.
He hesitated for a beat longer before adding, in a quieter tone, "The bookshelf merely fell."
The servants exchanged glances. Most nodded quickly, accepting the explanation with shallow bows and nervous smiles. A few looked skeptical, but none dared to question him aloud. They knew who he was. The Bloody Duke of the South—the man who'd razed rebel camps and defended the southern borders with unflinching brutality. Stories clung to him like a second skin.
Lucien moved on, the tension following him like a shadow until he reached the estate's grand exit. There, by the doorway, stood the young servant he'd entrusted his sword to. The boy stared down at the weapon cradled in his arms as though it whispered secrets.
"Thank you for your services," Lucien said, a sly chuckle in his throat.
Before the servant could respond, Lucien reached out and deftly plucked the blade from his hands. The sudden motion made the boy flinch.
"Oh…! I see! Thank you for visiting our humble estate!" the servant stammered, quickly bowing, eyes wide.
Lucien stepped outside into the courtyard. The air was different now—the morning sun had shifted slightly since he'd arrived. Time had passed, but it felt like no time at all.
Humble…?
He almost laughed aloud at the irony.
Quite the opposite, actually.
A private smirk tugged at his lips as he crossed through the still-open gate, the lock still cleaved in half.
"Trent City, huh…?" he murmured, rubbing his chin in idle thought.
He glanced down the road, gauging the distance in his mind.
"A short carriage ride, no more than an hour, if the roads are clear."