A few minutes passed before Lucien stepped out of the bathroom, the scent of herbal soap still clinging faintly to his skin. Droplets of water trailed down his shoulders as he rubbed at his damp hair with a neatly folded towel hanging by the door. The chill of the rinse still tingled against his skin, invigorating.
"That definitely helped clear my mind…"
He smiled genuinely, a rare expression for him. The crisp, cold sensation lingering on his body was always his favorite. Especially after battles, it felt like rebirth. A quiet reset.
"Now then, to wait for Vivi—"
His words were cut off by the creak of the door opening. Vivienne stepped in without hesitation, the light from the hallway briefly framing her silhouette. In her arms was a fine bundle of clothes—embroidered fabric, smooth and sleek, clearly tailored for nobility. She tossed it onto the bed with practiced ease.
"Did you see their prices!?" Vivienne exclaimed with uncharacteristic glee, bounding toward Lucien without a care for decorum. She grabbed both his hands, pulling him into her energy, her silver eyes sparkling with delight.
"They were so cheap! I even managed to order a handful of good swords to be delivered to my estate." She released his hands as suddenly as she'd grabbed them and began pacing excitedly around the room.
"No wonder why Trent's festivals are so well regarded!" she declared, throwing her arms wide like she was announcing it to the skies outside the window. Her presence lit the room brighter than the setting sun.
Lucien let out a soft, surprised laugh. It was rare to see Vivienne like this—unguarded, youthful. The last image he'd held of her had been so different… her face bloodied, her eyes dimming as life slipped away.
"I should bring you to more festivals sometime then," he said, still watching her. "You don't realize how cheap things get when you know the right guy."
He turned his gaze to the clothing she'd thrown on the bed, lifting the top layer between his fingers and admiring the fabric.
"Black and red color scheme," he noted, lips quirking into a smile. "You know my style."
"You're not really subtle, you know?" she replied, one brow raised, her hands resting firmly on her waist as she smirked.
Lucien chuckled quietly, nodding. "Well, you're right about that."
A moment passed. A stretch of silence between them. Neither moved. The sunlight outside continued to dim, casting long shadows across the floor.
…
…
…
…
"Aren't you gonna change?" Vivienne asked, breaking the quiet with an arched eyebrow.
Lucien's smile twitched, his head tilting slightly as he looked at her with mock incredulity. "Aren't you gonna give me some privacy?"
Vivienne blinked, then raised her brow higher, her face filled with disbelief—as though he'd asked her to grow wings.
"We already changed a couple of times together when we were at the barracks. Why would I mind?" she said casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world for a noblewoman to say.
Lucien's brow furrowed slightly as he glanced down at the towel still slung around his waist, then at the clothing beside him. He sighed, resigned.
"The circumstances aren't exactly the same as before," he muttered.
Still, he turned away slightly and let the towel drop, exposing his scarred and battered form without ceremony. He began to pull on the undergarments Vivienne had bought along with the rest of the outfit. The fabric was cool against his skin—smooth, comfortable, obviously expensive. He moved with slow deliberation, clearly not in a rush.
"The silence is killing me…"
Vivienne let out a thoughtful, questioning hum, as if genuinely confused by his discomfort. She tilted her head slightly, crossing the short space between them with ease. Despite her sharp instincts and hardened edge, there was an innocence in the way she observed the moment. She had been raised as a knight, after all—practical, blunt, unfazed by modesty.
To her, this was nothing.
"Is the clothing I bought not to your liking?" she asked as she stood beside him, examining the set with critical eyes, her posture close enough to brush his shoulder.
Lucien blinked at her, dumbfounded. She was completely unaffected. Not flustered, not awkward—just matter-of-fact.
It wasn't displeasing, though. In fact, the situation sparked something strange in him. Familiar. Nostalgic.
He laughed softly, the sound deep and real. A vivid wave of memory washed over him—warm and bitter.
"You truly are an idiot…"
The words came out without venom, more like a sigh of affection masked behind sarcasm. He could still see it—her face, pale with blood, the light fading from her eyes when he'd stabbed her.
Not this time.
I'll make sure you live…