Dark, damp, and surrounded by stone walls, the room reeked faintly of rust and mildew. A single, jagged crack in the stone behind Lucien let in the faintest sliver of daylight—thin, pale, and merciless. It sliced across his body like a blade of judgment, illuminating the bruises and dried blood that clung to him like second skin.
When Lucien had collapsed beneath the afternoon sun—trembling in front of Roselyn, broken by fury and loss—the blood loss had finally claimed him. Now, consciousness returned in fragments, and he stirred awake to cold air, heavy silence, and the weight of iron.
"What… what is this?" he muttered, voice hoarse and raw from screaming.
He moved, or tried to—his arms ached, lifted high above his head. Thick steel chains rattled as he shifted, each link biting into his skin. He was bound upright, suspended just enough that his feet barely scraped the floor. His posture was slouched, his body ragged, breath shallow.
His vision blurred and doubled, shadows swimming in the corners of his sight—but his rage was gone. A smoldering ember had replaced the fire. Lucien inhaled slowly, steadying himself as clarity settled back into his mind.
"It seems I have miscalculated…" he murmured, the irony bitter in his throat.
He gave a short, joyless laugh, his eyes drifting toward the heavy steel door ahead. The space beyond flickered with orange torchlight, the flames casting warping shadows across the ground.
Then the door groaned open, its hinges screeching faintly.
In stepped a young man—calm, composed, oddly gentle in presence. He had neatly combed white hair, a silver-rimmed monocle perched over one eye, and soft violet eyes that seemed more curious than judgmental. His long white coat flowed behind him, the gold-thread trim and crest on his lapel marking him clearly as a practitioner from the empire's northern territories. Beneath the coat, his tunic and trousers were just as immaculate, the crisp cut of his clothes suggesting both wealth and discipline.
"You're awake… and it seems like you've calmed down," the physician said, voice low and smooth.
He stepped close, placing two fingers against Lucien's neck to feel his pulse—deft and unafraid.
"Normal… okay, that's good," he murmured, almost to himself.
Lucien narrowed his eyes, tone clipped. "Who are you?"
"I'm Auston," the man replied, matter-of-factly. "Lady Roselyn ordered me to restrain you. We felt like you were a danger—you can't blame us for being cautious."
Lucien chuckled—a rasping sound of reluctant acknowledgment—then sighed in quiet defeat, leaning his head back against the cold stone wall behind him.
"So, when am I getting out?"
Auston said nothing at first, scribbling notes into a worn leather-bound clipboard. The scratching of the quill echoed faintly in the chamber, the contents of his writing hidden from Lucien's view.
"You seem sane enough," Auston finally said, closing the clipboard with a snap. "Right about now."
Lucien gave a faint smile, his crimson eyes dropping to the floor—gray and cracked, slick with condensation.
"What happened to that paladin?" he asked, voice low, almost too casual.
Auston raised his arms and stretched, bones audibly popping. He looked exhausted—the kind of weariness that came from sleepless nights and too much blood. Watching over Lucien during his episode must have taken its toll.
"Don't know," Auston replied with a sigh. "I heard he was planning to press charges."
He pulled a long iron key from his coat and walked up to the chains. The lock clicked open with a heavy thunk.
Lucien yanked his arms free with a wince, muscles tight and sore. He twisted his wrists slowly, inspecting the raw red marks the manacles had left behind—thin bands of bruised skin that still throbbed faintly.
"That's not a problem," Lucien said at last. "He initiated the fight first… I have the advantage."
Auston chuckled softly, nodding in agreement.
"That may be true. But the church is dangerous in ways most people never see. And… well, between just you and me…" He leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I don't quite trust them."
With that, he stepped away, the sound of his boots fading as he crossed the threshold.
The steel door creaked shut behind him with a final, metallic echo, leaving Lucien alone with stone, silence, and his thoughts.
"I wonder what time it is…" he muttered absently.
Then he paused, a familiar name slipping from his lips like a sigh.
"Vivienne…"
A smile tugged at his lips—half nostalgia, half pain—as he shook his head slowly.
He walked toward the steel door, each step heavy but measured.
"All's well that ends well," he said, voice dry enough to crack.