A few minutes later, they both arrived at a modest inn on the outskirts of Trent, the air outside humming with the late afternoon bustle. The walls of the room were warm-toned, lit by the soft orange glow of the sinking sun filtering through sheer curtains.
Before they'd reached the inn, they had drawn more attention than either of them liked. Lucien—half-naked, chains recently removed, the remnants of battle still clinging to his body—had walked beside Vivienne. Some passersby had recognized her instantly as the renowned knight of the Southern Conquest.
People murmured behind hands, stared openly from across streets. Some swooned at Lucien's wild beauty, others scowled with envy. A few whispered about the paladin Oscar and the scandal now tailing Lucien like smoke. Others speculated in hushed tones about the nature of his relationship with Vivienne—curious whether they were lovers, allies, or something more dangerous.
Lucien dropped onto the edge of the bed with a deep sigh, his weight making the frame creak slightly. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and yawned.
"It's been a hell of a day." He chuckled, rubbing his face with both hands, exhaustion heavy in every motion.
Vivienne stood in front of him, one hand perched firmly on her waist, the other rising to pinch the bridge of her nose in exasperation. She tilted her head toward the bathroom, her silver braid slipping over her shoulder as she gestured.
"Go wash up, Luce. You're still going to meet my parents," she said sternly, her pout only half-masking her irritation. For someone with a battlefield reputation that could chill blood, she still carried a femininity that softened her edges.
Dangerous but beautiful—grace wrapped in steel. The perfect way to describe her.
"Isn't that supposed to be at around the eighteenth hour…? What time is it?" Lucien asked as he finally stood, stretching his sore limbs. His torso remained bare, the faint candlelight casting shadows over the bruises and cuts that marred his skin.
"It's already the seventeenth hour," Vivienne replied. "I hid the news of your antics from my parents, so we still have time for you to leave a good impression on them."
Lucien chuckled again, quieter this time, walking slowly toward the door that led to the bathroom, his steps dragging slightly. "Very well… but at least bring me some clothes after I'm done."
Vivienne offered a smile—not quite teasing, not quite affectionate—before nodding, her arms now crossed loosely over her chest, fingertips tapping her elbows in thought.
"Fine," she said, turning toward the hallway. "Just don't take too long. Hope you didn't lose the efficiency you had during the battlefield." She chuckled softly, the sound light compared to the steel in her gait as she exited the room, heels tapping against the wooden floor.
Lucien stood there for a moment, staring after her, before stepping into the bathroom.
The air inside was cool and smelled faintly of soap and wood polish. His reflection in the small bronze mirror looked worse than he felt—disheveled hair, bruises under his eyes, streaks of dried blood still crusted near his collarbone. He rolled his shoulders and exhaled through his nose.
His mind spun with thought.
Vivienne's family… they carry weight in court. Maybe enough to keep Brent quiet. But is that why I want them on my side?
The calculation didn't sit comfortably tonight. Something else stirred beneath it.
But at the same time… I feel weird. Like an odd sense of… how do you say this…
Longing…?
He frowned at the thought.
Probably just overthinking it.
Lucien shook his head, then stripped bare. He grabbed a wooden pail and dipped it into a bucket of clean water, the surface rippling as he drew it up. With slow, deliberate motions, he poured the water over himself, washing away the grime and blood that clung to him like memory.
The cold struck his skin, sending a shock through his chest. It helped clear his thoughts.
"I can't afford to get too distracted. I need to kill all those who stood in my way… and betrayed me."
His voice was low, almost a whisper, but the bitterness in it cracked like dry wood.
He filled another pail and poured it over his head, letting the icy splash drag him back to center.
"But that doesn't mean I can't enjoy life again, right…?" he murmured, more to the stone walls than himself.
Lucien sighed heavily.
"I'm cracked in too many places to count."
He stood there, drenched, still, and alone—between vengeance and something else he couldn't yet name.