Lucien walked the halls, each step echoing softly against the polished stone floors, his cloak trailing behind like a shadow tethered to purpose. He arrived at Josephine's study, not even bothering to knock. With the same authority he once used to command battlefields, he opened the door, his smile curling—sharp, amused, and cold.
Inside, the room was as opulent as the rest of the mansion—perhaps even more so. Two towering bookshelves flanked the walls, filled with leather-bound tomes and gilded ledgers. A grand desk stood at the center, its surface cluttered with neatly arranged scrolls, inkwells, and crystal paperweights.
Around the room, intricate decor caught the morning light—bronze statuettes of mythical beasts, wall-mounted blades forged by local blacksmiths, and a globe resting on a golden stand, spinning lazily as if set in motion just moments ago. The wood and metals used throughout gleamed with care, their craftsmanship proudly southern—just like everything else in the room, calculated and beautiful.
"Who is it? I don't recall calling in a servant."
Josephine's voice rang out, cool and smooth like velvet laced with thorns. She stood with her back turned, facing the massive window at the far end of the room. Smoke curled around her silhouette as she puffed from a long-stemmed pipe, the scent of spice-leaf mingling faintly with the room's polished air.
Her dark hair shimmered in the light, cascading in controlled waves. Though her face remained mostly hidden, her crimson eyes flashed in the reflection against the glass. Her beauty was still clear—undeniable. She hadn't earned the title Pearl of the South by name alone.
Lucien chuckled at the sight of her. She embodied all the flags of a conniving snake—coiled, composed, dangerous. And yet, her talents as a vassal had once been undeniable. It was no wonder he hadn't dealt with her immediately in his past life. She had been useful… until she wasn't.
"Josephine, I just came for a nice visit…"
Lucien spoke, his voice dripping with amusement, laced with irony that pricked like needlepoint.
Josephine turned her head only slightly, just enough to glimpse him from the corner of her eye before she moved toward her desk with the unhurried grace of someone who never expected to be hunted in her own home. She sank into her chair with a fluid motion.
"I don't recall telling any servants to let anyone in."
She gestured lazily with one hand, as if brushing off the breach in protocol like lint from a gown.
"Anyways, take a seat. What do you want, my lord?"
Lucien laughed as he sat opposite her, legs crossing with a casual air that didn't match the tension pulsing behind his eyes.
"It's been a while since I last saw you," he said, voice light but his gaze fixed, "ever since I returned from the war and left you to manage my lands and all that…"
Josephine chuckled, setting her pipe gently onto a silver tray on her desk. Smoke drifted from her lips like a final exhale of civility.
"My lord, you know very well how keen my senses are," she said, tilting her head slightly. "I can sense your bloodlust."
Her eyes glinted with dangerous curiosity.
"What did I do to invoke your wrath?"
Lucien's chuckle darkened. He stood slowly—methodically—then, without a word, hurled his chair across the room. It struck the left bookshelf with a thunderous crash. Wood splintered and books clattered to the floor in a cascade of torn paper and broken order.
"Don't play dumb with me, you cur!"
His voice cracked like a whip through the room.
Josephine raised an eyebrow, her expression shifting from bemusement to alert calculation. She rose from her chair in one fluid motion, hand darting to the bottom drawer of her desk. In a blink, a gleaming dagger was in her grasp—small, curved, and lethal. She pointed it at him, her stance poised but backing toward the corner of the room with each step.
"Have you gone mad!?"
Her voice held steady, but her fingers trembled faintly against the hilt.
Lucien's gaze narrowed, fire flashing behind his crimson eyes, his posture stiff with barely restrained fury.
"Brent," he hissed. "How long have you two been in contact?"
He took a step forward, the edge of his voice honed like a blade.
"Tell me and I might spare your life… and imprison you for being a traitor."
Josephine's expression shifted. Her lips parted slightly as she placed a hand over her chest, face painted in mock—or real—shock. Disbelief filled her tone as she answered.
"Brent? That worthless duke? Why would I ever be in contact with him?"
Her words were calm now, confused even, the dagger slowly lowering as if his accusation had robbed it of purpose.
Lucien stared at her intently, eyes scanning every twitch, every breath. He slowed his breathing, reaching inward—drawing on a skill honed during a decade-long rebellion in a world now lost. He had become a master at reading people, at seeing through lies like mist. He'd watched liars hang, their last words still fresh in his memory. He had seen betrayal etched into people's hands, eyes, shoulders.
But now...
Strange...
No flicker. No tells. No fracture in the rhythm of her voice. Was she telling the truth—or simply better at the game than he remembered?
He stood silent in the stillness of the room, the echo of shattered wood and scattered pages the only sound between them.