[Lucien's Goose Feather Warehouse — Midday]
Lucien stood before the smoldering ruins of his beloved warehouse.
The air was thick with soot and betrayal. Smoke curled like mourning veils into the sky. Charred beams leaned like drunkards, and what once held rows of imported, artisanally-dyed goose feathers now looked like a graveyard for overcooked pillows.
Lucien didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stood there, eyes wide, mouth slightly open in abject horror, like a man watching his favorite opera get rewritten into a budget puppet show.
Marcel hovered at his side, eyes watering—not from grief, but from the ash clinging to the air.
"It's... it's burnt," Marcel said, almost reverently. "Completely."
Silence.
Lucien slowly—ever so slowly—lifted a trembling hand to his forehead like a maiden struck by scandal.
And then—
He swayed.
"MY LORD!" Marcel yelped, lurching forward just in time to catch him. "My lord—are you… are you alright?!"
