Song vibe: Black Swan – BTS

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  LUCIAN

  The Beaumont Estate, Lux

  Leaning on the balustrade, Lucian watched the young woman in the Beaumonts’ entry hall. In her mid-twenties, she stood before one of the many paintings, lips parted in wonder, her pale skin warmed by the deep blue of a finely cut linen dress. A faint smudge of white tailor’s chalk marked her hip. Dark, wild curls framed her face—half-tamed, half-defiant.

  But it was her hands that caught him most—slender, steady, ink-stained at the fingertips, the kind of hands that created beauty. And, he noticed, bare of any wedding ring.

  He descended the stairs with an easy saunter and stopped just behind her.

  “Hello, Dove. Admiring the artwork?”

  She started and turned, eyes flicking over him—fine clothes, functional cut, the leather belt and boots, the green silk scarf knotted at his throat. “Lord Nocturne—”

  “Sir Lucian,” he corrected lightly, “or Luce, if you’re feeling bold. And you are?”

  “Miss Eurydice, lead seamstress of the Fabrica Elegans,” she said, regaining composure with a bright, almost mischievous smile. “Madame Whyalla sent me—or rather, let me escape the workshop.” She set a large parcel on the table and unwrapped the linen. “Given the expense of your Count’s order, I came to deliver it in person. I made it myself."

  Above: Eurydice presents Saphira's new gown.

  At the reveal of the gown, Lucian drew a breath. The purple silk was exquisite, the craftsmanship unmistakable.

  “This isn’t a dress,” he murmured, removing his right glove to trace a hand-stitched seam. “It’s a work of art.”

  “You’re just saying that—”

  “I don’t give empty flattery. Your work is exceptional.”

  “Thank you…” Eurydice's fingers lingered on the gown. "I can only guess who this dress is for. If Lady Saphira is anything like her sister, she'll feel like a fae queen in this." She leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “Madame Whyalla’s nose for gold is keener than a bloodhound, and she told me to upsell three more gowns.”

  “Sign me up, then,” Lucian drawled, slipping into his Yule accent. “Though I’d rather see you dressed as a fae queen."

  A flush crept up her neck, but she only laughed softly. “Not my style. The dresses I make for myself are far less… orthodox. They’d make the Madame faint.”

  “Intriguing.” His gaze lingered on her hands again—those deft, clever hands that spun dreams from thread. “Dinner tonight?”

  “We just met. You’re serious—?” She studied him for a long beat before tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “That’s—bold.” She laughed once, too high, then recovered. “Fine. I finish at sundown.”

  “Then I’ll be waiting outside the shop.”

  She hesitated, then smiled. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe. But I'm also serious. I'll make the arrangements. You wear something... unorthodox.” He tucked the parcel beneath one arm, meeting her gaze. “See you soon, Dove.”

  As Lucian watched her go, the warmth in his chest cooled as his expression lost its warmth. He ascended the grand staircase, fingers trailing along the iron banister, feeling the cold bite of metal through his glove. The air within the estate carried a distinct perfume—lilies and poison.

  He moved without haste, attuned to the soft snip of shears.

  Lady Isolde Beaumont stood in the hallway, half-turned, arranging a bouquet of white lilies and pink roses in a crystal vase. Her hair gleamed like polished gold; her lips, the dark red of fresh wine. Each movement was deliberate, precise.

  Lady Beaumont and Nox—more than rumour? Lucian’s mouth curved faintly. I can jest about Aaliyah with him, but never Isolde—does that mean there's truth to it?

  A thorn caught Isolde's finger. A bead of blood welled bright against her skin. Without flinching, she lifted it to her lips and tasted it.

  I saw you carve that steak at dinner, my lady. Lucian’s smirk deepened, his twenty-eight years seasoning him with insight. A knife is merely an extension of you.

  Above: Lady Isolde Beaumont sees blood.

  She looked up, meeting his gaze with quiet amusement. The darkness in her eyes held not the delicate venom of court ladies, but something far colder.

  “Ah, Sir Lucian,” she said smoothly. “The items you requested are in your quarters—a dockworker’s uniform, the identity papers of a Luxian customs officer, and a woman’s dress. A most intriguing combination.”

  Testing me—or warning me? His jaw tightened as he caught the glint in her dusky eyes. Nox’s men located Ginny, Saphira’s Renatii maid. My retrieval begins now. I’ll get the girl out.

  “Thank you, my lady.” His charm thinned to formality as he bowed and continued through the hall.

  A stunning woman, he thought, climbing to the third floor. But I’ve spent enough time around killers to know one when I see her. A chill ran up his spine.

  Upstairs, Lucian knocked once on Nocturne’s study door and stepped inside. Nocturne looked up from a map—shadows pooled beneath his eyes, from sleepless nights and the heaviness of leadership. Valentino sat opposite, quill scratching furiously across parchment.

  Lucian set the parcel on the table. “A dress that costs more than my armour,” he said dryly. “You never mentioned the seamstress would be quite so… charming.”

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  “Wait, Eurydice? Celestine’s seamstress—" Valentino dropped his quill and reached for his coat. "The one who—fye. Is she still here?”

  “Gone now,” Lucian replied. “Full of charm, chalk—and meeting me for dinner tonight.”

  “Please. I—” Valentino stopped, touching the piercing he wore at his ear. “If Celestine is avoiding me, I... must know.”

  He won’t let Celestine go, Lucian thought, studying him. This isn’t love. It’s duty—or guilt—wearing the mask of love.

  “Val, face it, she’s—”

  “Luce,” Nocturne interrupted quietly. “For Saphira’s sake… just check. Please.”

  Lucian’s smile faltered. Nox doesn’t mention Crassus, or the Conclave—just her. He met Nocturne’s gaze—seeing that, behind the heaviness, something tender lingered. Now that’s the face of a man in love.

  “Right, Nox.” He masked the sigh behind a smirk. “Off to rescue the maid, then dinner with Eurydice to interrogate her. I'm a man of many talents. No wonder you keep me around.”

  “That,” Nocturne said, returning to his map, “and because I trust you with my life.”

  Lucian stilled; Nocturne muttered something to Valentino.

  “Well,” Lucian dismissed, waving over his shoulder as he left, “that’s terribly inconvenient. Means I have to come back.”

  In his quarters, Lucian changed into his disguise, tucking the Dreamweaver mask at his side. The mirror caught his reflection—a stranger in rough cloth, salt-stained and unshaven, the kind of man he used to scorn. Only his eyes gave him away—too bright, too aware.

  Ginny is her name. Lucian repeated. Sixteen. Blue eyes. Gap between her front teeth. Serving on the ship, La Esperanza.

  He slipped through the servants’ passage and out into the cold streets.

  By the time he reached Quay's End, the lamps burned weakly, halos in the winter mist.

  At the checkpoint, he straightened his cap. “Customs inspection,” he growled in King's Common, thickening his accent. The guards barely glanced at him. Lady Beaumont’s forgeries always passed. But as he strode past, he felt it again—that faint tug of suspicion. What's the cost of her loyalty to Nox?

  The stench worsened the closer he came to the water. Salt, tar, fish—then something else beneath it, metallic and sweet—the kind that clings to wood and fabric long after the body’s gone. The stench of death.

  He spotted La Esperanza by its sagging beams and soot-blackened windows. Even the gulls kept their distance. Looks Lusitierran, Lucian thought, What’s it doing, docking here? His hand lingered near the Dreamweaver mask, and beside it, a hidden dagger. And why is Ginny here?

  Lucian adjusted a grey scarf and climbed the gangplank. “Customs,” he barked, flashing his forged papers.

  The sailor squinted, frowning. “No inspection listed.”

  “Then file a complaint,” Lucian said, letting impatience bleed into his voice. “My orders come from above.”

  The man rechecked his papers and then waved him through.

  Lucian moved across the deck, slow and deliberate. Every step creaked. The sails drooped like shrouds, and the crew watched him without moving. All wore high leather boots—not barefoot or the low, waxed leather shoes of sailors.

  Soldiers pretending to be sailors. His gut tightened. This feels like a prison.

  He approached a woman scrubbing the boards. “You there.”

  She startled, looking up with wary brown eyes. “Sir?”

  “Customs inspection. I’m looking for a maid—young, Renatii.”

  The woman hesitated, then pointed below. “Galley. Cooking. Name’s Jane.”

  He inhaled the fresher air one last time before ducking below deck.

  Here, the smell thickened—mould, brine, and sickness. His boots sank into damp boards. He tightened the scarf around his face—not for safety, but to keep the bile down. Mountain folk rarely sicken. They say our blood runs like springwater—clean, sharp. Perfect for spawnslaying.

  He froze mid-step. From below came the sound of coughing—one, then another, then a chorus. Ragged, wet, endless. A shiver ran through the boards below his feet.

  Lucian pressed his hand to the timber. There are dozens down there.

  Then—a new sound. A soft, trembling hum. A girl’s voice.

  He followed it to the galley.

  A girl stood over a barrel, humming as she peeled potatoes. Her hands were raw and red, nails rimmed with grey. She looked up, startled—hair limp with sweat, eyes rimmed in red.

  “Jane?”

  “Yes, sir?” Her voice remained thin, polite.

  “Or should I call you Ginny?” he said quietly.

  She froze. The knife slipped in her hand. Slowly, she raised her head. Blue eyes, pale and wide. He did not need further proof, but when her mouth parted, he saw the tiny gap between her teeth.

  Found you.

  Above: Ginny works in the galley.

  “Almighty…” She stepped back, trembling. “The Duke sent you to kill me, didn’t he?”

  “Saphira sent me. I'm Sir Lucian." He lowered his grey scarf. “I’m getting you out. One chance. Take it.”

  “I can’t, Sir.” Her fingers clenched around the paring knife. “They took us when the hospice closed. Said we had to work six weeks, prove we weren’t infected. If I run, they’ll brand me sick.” Her voice cracked.

  Lucian looked past her—to the hatch in the floor, the one the coughing came from. They were never going to let you leave.

  He held out his hand. “Now or never.”

  Ginny hesitated only a heartbeat before pressing her shaking hand into his.

  He led her towards the stairs—but froze. Voices echoed above, low and urgent, in Renatii.

  “Ready to raise anchor tonight. Course for Himmelburg.”

  “And the sick?”

  “The cargo stays alive. If Luther sides with Edwin, we release the Whispering Curse. If not…” He paused. “Lock the hatch.”

  He felt Ginny’s breath hitch beside him. He held her still.

  A plague ship as blackmail, setting sail for Himmelburg. Lucian’s stomach turned. The Whispering Curse has already ravaged Lusitierra—and left Duke Diego a widow. Now, Crassus threatens Duke Luther.

  He threw his cloak around her and moved quickly, quietly. The soldiers’ voices grew faint behind them, swallowed by the creaking hull.

  Almighty...this could lose Nox the Conclave.

  At the gangplank, a guard stepped forward, blocking them.

  "This girl's wanted. Thought you could smuggle in rubies, without paying tarrifs, eh?" Lucian nudged Ginny.

  "Don't want no trouble on this vessel," the guard said, "show me her papers and it'll be settled."

  Lucian’s hand moved fast—into his pocket, out again with the battered wallet. “Your papers are in there,” he barked, shoving them toward Ginny. “Show him. I can't stand a moment longer on this wreak."

  Lucian slipped away, hunching as he walked down the gangplank, the mist covering his figure. The Dreamweaver mask slid over his face like cold silk. The world bled into threads of light and thought. He caught the guard’s mind by a single strand and tugged—gently, like unravelling a knot.

  “Looks fine,” the man muttered, handing back the empty papers.

  Ginny blinked, confused but free to go. She stumbled off the gangplank, cloak trailing.

  Lucian led her to an alley beyond the docks.

  “Here,” he said, tossing her a small sack. “Change. Everything old goes in the sack.”

  He turned away as she changed, watching the mouth of the alley. When he heard the rustle and thump of discarded clothes, he took the bag and flung it into the dark water.

  “Now,” he said, voice low. “Somewhere safe. Somewhere Crassus can’t reach.”

  They slipped through the fog like wraiths, the city holding its breath around them.

  The city’s stench clung to him; all of his senses remained heightened: the hiss of the tide, the echo of a cough that was not there.

  “I’m not infected, Sir,” Ginny murmured after a time, voice barely above the wind. “When my sister first took ill, she went to Lux for a cure—the Whispering Curse. After Lady Saphira left Renatus, I fled too. I cared for my sister for two moons before she passed. The hospice said if I were sick, I’d have shown signs by now. But still…”

  Lucian’s gaze softened. “You’ll quarantine—a month. Just to be safe.”

  “A month—good.” Ginny nodded, jaw set, carrying herself with quiet, stubborn dignity—older than her sixteen years. “Then please, Sir—let Lady Saphira know I’m safe. She’s the only family I have left.”

  The Beaumont estate rose before them again, a dark gem atop a hill—as if the world above had forgotten the one rotting beneath.

  He guided her to the gardener’s cottage—a small, quiet place beneath the old oak. A fire already burned within, a steaming bath beside it. The efficiency was chilling.

  “Lady Beaumont’s work,” Lucian murmured.

  "Sir?" She turned toward him, blue eyes bright with unshed tears. “Thank you.”

  "Sure thing." Lucian inclined his head and leaned on the doorframe. “Bath’s ready. You’re safe now.” He offered a faint smile. “See you in the mountains.”

  When he reached the mudroom, he stripped, sealed his clothes in a bag, and threw them into the fire. The flames devoured everything—salt, grime, and what little innocence remained.

  He stayed there a moment, watching the fabric curl and blacken. Another mask gone—burned away—and now, I'll have to wear another.