The two grappled each other, blood-slick hands fumbling for leverage, continuing to punch one another like a drunken bar brawl, all semblance of etiquette and grace long gone. Their blows were wild, vicious—sloppy but savage—fueled not by form, but by fury. Dirt kicked up around them as they rolled, snarling and grunting like beasts.
"Should we intervene…?" someone whispered nervously from the edge of the crowd.
"It's too dangerous. One's a duke and the other's a paladin…" another replied, eyes wide.
"We might get in trouble if we side with either of them…"
The crowd murmured uneasily, a swelling sea of shifting feet and worried eyes, as the two hot-blooded men writhed on the ground, exchanging brutal blows. Their faces were smeared with blood and sweat, their expressions twisted with rage. Lucien was deep in a frenzy now, no longer thinking—just striking, gritting his teeth as his fists kept flying.
What the hell is wrong with this bastard!
Just stay down!
His knuckles ached, his breathing ragged. Oscar's armor creaked under the pressure of Lucien's weight, but still, the paladin fought back just as furiously. The sound of fists on flesh echoed louder than the murmurs, punctuated by the occasional sharp gasp from the onlookers.
But before the two of them could end up hurting each other lethally, a voice rang out—sharp, authoritative, and unmistakably unimpressed.
"Goodness, what in the world is happening here?"
The voice was female, cool and measured, but full of disdain—cutting through the chaos like a knife. Every syllable dripped with judgment.
The words froze Lucien in an instant. His entire body locked up, as if caught in a curse or struck by lightning mid-blow. His fists dropped limply to his sides.
It… can't be…
Rosely—
His thoughts were cut off brutally as Oscar, seizing the moment, landed a clean hook across Lucien's jaw. The steel gauntlet connected with a sickening crack. Lucien's head snapped to the side, his vision bursting into white static. Darkness followed as his body slumped back.
Well…
Crap…
Those were the last thoughts that lingered inside his mind as the world finally, completely, blacked out.
Hours passed…
It was four in the afternoon when Lucien's eyes cracked open, blinking against the burn of sunlight. He lay in an unfamiliar bed, its sheets clean but coarse, with golden-orange rays spilling lazily through the window beside him. Dust danced in the light.
He straightened up slowly, grunting, every muscle in his body aching. The scent of herbal salves and faint incense filled the air.
"Huh…?" he mumbled, groggily. His hand rose to his forehead, feeling the dull, throbbing pain beneath his temple. His skull throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
He winced.
"I'm going to kill that self-rig—"
"Easy there," came a voice, calm and familiar.
"Don't want more drama to rise."
Lucien's breath caught.
Roselyn spoke, seated on a modest wooden chair beside the bed, legs crossed with elegance, her posture relaxed. She chuckled softly, placing a cool hand on Lucien's forehead with a knowing touch.
"The bloody duke himself," she said with a wry smile. "Never expected to meet you in such a... miserable state."
She laughed—light, melodic, and sharp all at once—then pulled her hand away, resting it on her lap. Her eyes softened as they searched his face.
"Have you recovered…?"
Lucien's entire world stopped.
Time slowed.
His pupils dilated, trembling. His arms shook faintly. His heartbeat thundered in his chest—a war drum pounding with a rhythm of disbelief and pain. It was louder now than it had been even during battle.
"Ro—Rosie…" he stuttered, voice barely more than a whisper. He stared at her as if she'd risen from the grave.
Roselyn Jade Cromwell.
Lucien's past lover. His past wife.
The one who betrayed him during his last moments.
She sat there—alive, real, untouched by time, as if fate had dragged her back just to haunt him.
"Are you… okay?" she asked gently, her voice still dipped in that same warm concern she once used to soothe him after battle. But now, it seared like fire—a mockery of tenderness that twisted a knife inside his chest.
Lucien clutched at his heart, his fingers digging into the fabric of his tunic as if trying to tear it out. The pain was sudden and crushing—his chest tightening, breath shortening, like a heart attack coming on.
"Lucien?!" Roselyn gasped, immediately jumping to her feet. Her chair clattered to the floor behind her.
"Physician!" she shouted, panic breaking through her calm facade. "Someone—get a physician!"
Lucien's breathing grew erratic, his face pale, sweat pouring down as if the room had turned to ice.
Why her…?
Why her of all people!