Lucien stepped with measured pride, hands resting on the grip of his sword—not out of necessity, but as a calculated display of power. A silent message. It wasn't meant to be drawn. Not yet. But the weight of it at his side and the poise of his hands said all they needed to.
As he approached Josephine's estate gates, the ironwork loomed high and unforgiving, cold steel twisted into elaborate engravings of serpents—coiled and watching, their fangs bared in eternal warning. Each scale etched with unnerving precision.
Josephine Alenor Thirelle.
The woman who had once stood beside him in council, signed his ledgers, and stood guardian over his affairs during war. The same woman who let Duke Brent's riders into his home under the banner of a so-called holy crusade. The same woman whose betrayal had left his people slaughtered while he, evicted, wandered exile with blood in his mouth and fire in his eyes.
He narrowed his gaze.
"Snakes… how fitting for such a conniving woman."
The words escaped his lips in a low, bitter rasp.
Without waiting for ceremony or servant, Lucien unsheathed his sword in one fluid motion. The steel hissed free like a beast uncaged, and with a clean, precise slash, he severed the lock in two. A dull metallic clang echoed as it struck the ground.
"A simple broken gate lock is nothing but simple payback…"
He chuckled to himself—dry, low, and humorless—as his crimson eyes flicked down to the broken mechanism. His lips curled, not in amusement, but in disdain.
He stepped forward, the metal crunching beneath his boot with a final, echoing snap.
"May the gods bless me with mercy."
His voice was quiet now. Not prayerful—resigned. Like a man stepping onto old ground already soaked in the ghosts of former sins.
The estate's courtyard sprawled before him—grand, excessive, and gilded with quiet betrayal. The wealth was obvious, vulgar in its abundance. Manicured hedges lined the cobbled path leading to the main entrance, branching at intervals toward separate wings—each more elaborate than the last. Fountains trickled, and marble statues of mythic warriors stood as hollow sentinels among rose bushes and sculpted topiaries.
She had built her kingdom on the bones of his.
Lucien's jaw clenched as his eyes scanned the estate—the same estate he had once entrusted her to manage in his stead. Taxes. Logistics. Contracts. His signature had meant her authority. She was ruthless, brilliant, calculating—and he had mistaken that edge for loyalty.
"She already had the high life with my blessing, and she dared ask for more…?"
His voice bellowed out into the open air, no longer restrained. The softness he had shown the tulip-bearing child was gone—burned away, like mist beneath morning flame.
When he reached the double doors, carved of rich mahogany and gilded with gold leaf trim, he raised his fist and knocked—not once, but several times. Sharp. Commanding. Each knock echoed with impatience and buried contempt.
The doors creaked open, revealing a grandiose foyer bathed in filtered sunlight. A split staircase dominated the space, leading up to the second floor like the arms of a throne. The first floor was no less regal—lined with expertly crafted wooden furniture, polished to a mirror shine. Every surface whispered affluence, quiet and deliberate.
"Duke Lucien! What brings you to our lady's mansion?"
A voice called out—nervous and reverent.
A black-haired servant emerged from the side hallway, clad in a formal butler's garb, bowing deeply as he approached. There was surprise in his eyes. A tremor in his posture. The unexpected presence of the duke had clearly unsettled the practiced rhythm of the estate.
Lucien's expression shifted—eyes narrowing, grin sharpening. Without a word, he unhooked the scabbard from his belt and tossed it casually toward the man.
The servant scrambled, barely managing to catch it with both hands, stumbling backward a step under its weight. His eyes widened.
"Where's Josephine…?"
Lucien asked, voice low and tight, laced with mock courtesy and barely concealed loathing. Each syllable dripped with intent.
The servant swallowed hard, glancing between the sword in his arms and the fire kindling behind the duke's gaze.
"She's at her study, my lord."
Lucien smiled—slow, thin, and cold. He took a step closer, placing a hand on the servant's shoulder in a gesture that could have almost passed for friendly… were it not for the steel in his eyes.
"You're quite observant," he said, voice softening just enough to unsettle. "But keep quiet for now for me, will you?"
The servant nodded quickly, lips pressed thin, as Lucien turned toward the hall.
He didn't wait for permission.