Lucien exited the chambers. Outside, the corridor stretched with more cells—some marked by rusted iron bars, others sealed by heavy steel doors like his own. The hallway was dim, the only light flickering from sconces set far apart along the stone walls. Each cell held a story: some whispered of petty theft, others screamed of cold-blooded murder. Shadows clung to the cracks in the stone, and the weight of so many lives pressed in like fog.
The scent of damp moss clung to the cobblestone floor, mingling with the sharp tang of metal and mildew. It was the smell of forgotten people, rotting dreams, and time unmoving. As Lucien walked barefoot, the cold stones bit at his soles. Inmates stared at him from behind bars—some with contempt in their eyes, others pleading silently, their hope worn thin but not extinguished.
"With just a look, I can tell which one deserves to be here and which one does not…"
Lucien muttered under his breath, voice low and unreadable as his gaze flicked across the cells. His eyes landed on two figures—one a child, barely more than skin and bone, crouched in a darkened corner, and beside him an old man who sat on the floor, his empty gaze fixed on the space between his shoes. They radiated silence, not guilt.
Across the hall, the cell mirrored theirs, but the men within were clearly seasoned. Their bodies were marked with old scars and fresh bruises, their expressions carved from stone. These men had lived inside cages before—and would likely die in them too.
"Such is life…"
Lucien chuckled, his grin turning dark, a crooked smirk pulled by bitter familiarity. He continued walking, the sound of chains rattling faintly in the distance behind him like ghosts that refused to stay buried.
He reached the end of the corridor—a pair of massive steel double doors. Only a small, rectangular peeping hole broke the surface, casting a sliver of pale light that barely reached the damp floor. The sudden contrast stung his eyes.
"I'm a mess… I need to wash up after this," he muttered to no one in particular, scratching the back of his head with a slow exhale. He opened the door.
The sight beyond gave him momentary whiplash. Warm, polished wooden walls replaced stone. The ceiling rose slightly, allowing in more light from a high window, and the faint scent of herbs and parchment cut through the prison stench like a blade of civility. A small fireplace crackled quietly to the side.
Two guards in leather armor stood at opposite ends of the room. They were silent, alert—each gripping spears with practiced ease. Their positioning was strategic, flanking the narrow path to the next door, which led to the building's exit. The hallway behind him may have been chaos, but this room was built for control. For containment.
At a modest desk near the exit sat Auston, hunched slightly as he scribbled in a ledger and organized neatly labeled vials. The dull scratch of his quill and the soft clink of glass were the only sounds.
"So you're a prison physician then?" Lucien asked, approaching.
Auston glanced up, sighing with a small, crooked grin. His monocle caught the firelight as he leaned back slightly. "Someone's gotta take the job most wouldn't."
"Anyway," Auston added, rifling through a drawer, "you have a visitor. Vivienne—I think she called herself."
Lucien's brow rose, but he caught himself quickly. His eyes dropped to his bare chest, skin marred with fading bruises and half-healed cuts. He was still wearing the thin prison pants and sandals they'd issued—functional, but barely dignified.
"Where's my clothing?" he asked, leaning forward on Auston's desk, his shadow stretching across it.
"We need it for evidence," Auston replied casually, not bothering to meet his gaze as he kept sorting paperwork. "You're a noble, aren't you? Just buy some. Trent's full of noble fashions this time of year."
Lucien frowned, the corner of his mouth twitching with restrained annoyance before he exhaled through his nose and relented.
"Very well…"
He turned toward the next door and pushed it open. What awaited him on the other side made him pause.
Vivienne stood in the middle of the antechamber, sunlight crowning her silver hair like a halo. It fell neatly down her back, braided with understated precision. She wore a simple white dress—clean, elegant, its design efficient enough to suggest purpose without sacrificing grace. It was the kind of outfit that whispered nobility, but spoke of someone who understood motion, not just beauty.
"Luce! Are you okay?" she rushed toward him, her expression stricken as her eyes scanned the bruises on his face, the dried blood clinging to his jaw, the fading evidence of chains on his wrists.
Lucien managed a small smile, surprised by her sudden presence and touch.
"What are you doing here, Vivienne?" he asked, voice softer than it had been since waking. Her fingertips brushed his cheek.
"What do you mean? It was a kingdom-wide scandal! The news reached our estate quickly," she replied with urgency, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve and gently dabbing at his face, trying to clean what the guards hadn't bothered with.
How nostalgic…
The thought drifted through Lucien's mind like a forgotten song. He closed his eyes, letting the moment settle over him, and chuckled under his breath—tired, hollow, but real.