Lucien made his way toward the side of his estate, where a modest stable stood beneath the dappled shade of a sprawling ash tree. It was the same tree he used to read under during quieter days, a place now partially claimed by the elegant black-and-violet carriage he privately owned. The vehicle gleamed softly under the morning sun, flanked by a row of sturdy warhorses bred and trained for imperial campaigns.
Beneath the tree's canopy lounged Laurent, his personal coachman, reclining with a straw hat tipped over his face, arms folded across his chest. The man's gentle snoring blended seamlessly with the rustling of leaves above—clearly enjoying a nap while waiting for his lord's next order.
Lucien arched a brow at the sight and chuckled under his breath.
"I wish I could be that unbothered in life…"
His grin twisted mischievously as he crept up behind Laurent, bootsteps soundless on the soft earth.
"The southern border has fallen!"
He shouted, jabbing his hand against Laurent's back at the exact same moment.
Laurent yelped and sprang up with a start, eyes wide and wild. In one frantic motion, he scrambled toward a nearby haystack and seized an old pitchfork propped against it, spinning around with the weapon aimed squarely at Lucien's chest.
"Stay back!"
He barked, heart racing—only to freeze when his vision cleared and he saw Lucien standing casually, hands on his hips, smiling like a devil.
"Bravo! I rate your survival instincts a ten out of ten."
Lucien clapped mockingly, watching the panic drain from Laurent's face with clear amusement.
That's what he gets for sleeping on the job, Lucien mused internally, smug and satisfied.
Laurent dropped to his knees, adrenaline coursing through his limbs as he panted, eyes still wide, pitchfork clattering uselessly to the ground.
"You scared me, my lord…"
He muttered with a wheezing chuckle, clutching his chest like he was recovering from a heart attack. He slowly pushed himself back onto his feet, visibly rattled, body still tense and ready for a last stand he thankfully didn't have to make.
"Anywhere you want to go…?"
He asked breathlessly, trying to catch up both to his heartbeat and the conversation. But Lucien didn't wait. Without a word, he turned and strode toward the carriage beside the stable, where the imperial warhorses stood, statuesque and silent.
Their sleek coats glistened in the sunlight—one brown-haired and one white-maned—each a veteran of the brutal southern campaign Lucien had personally led five years prior. A campaign that had earned him his infamous title.
He opened the carriage door and stepped inside without ceremony. The carriage itself was the opposite of the austere battlefield it often accompanied—luxurious and finely crafted. Designed to fit four comfortably, its interiors were adorned in dark violet and black velvet, while the exterior bore polished steel emblems: crossed swords and tower shields mounted upon the side panels, a bold declaration of his status as a frontier vassal of the empire.
"Trent City," Lucien ordered briskly, settling into a seat with practiced ease. "And do be quick about it. Never mind the comfort of travel—so long as we arrive swiftly."
He shut the door firmly behind him, leaving Laurent blinking in place, trying to make sense of his lord's abrupt enthusiasm.
"What's got him so unserious…?"
Laurent mumbled, shaking his head with a long sigh. He moved to the horses, gently patting each one as he strapped them in, his hands moving with the ease of long experience. These weren't just beasts—they were survivors of blood and fire, like their master. And now they were pulling a carriage to a city where war of a different kind awaited.
Once everything was secured, Laurent climbed onto the coach box, scooping up his hat from the seat beside him and jamming it over his graying hair to shield himself from the strengthening sun.
"We'll be off, my lord!"
He shouted, snapping the reins. The carriage lurched forward smoothly, wheels rolling over the gravel path as the estate slowly receded behind them.
Inside, Lucien sat still and composed, one hand draped over the hilt of his sheathed blade, the other resting beneath his chin. His crimson eyes narrowed slightly, gazing out the window as scenery blurred past—trees, farmlands, distant flocks of birds gliding overhead.
A smirk crept across his face.
He wasn't just heading to Trent City. He was stepping onto a chessboard.
"I'll show Brent what it means to take over a territory…"
He muttered cruelly, his tone low and venomous, eyes gleaming with quiet calculation. Brent, the Church, and any noble fool who stood in his way—they would learn soon enough.
Outside, the world drifted in sunlit peace. But inside the carriage, war brewed in silence—sharp, patient, inevitable.