Song vibe: Black Swan – BTS

  __________

  LUCIAN

  The Beaumont Estate, Lux

  When Lucian was clean and dressed, he went straight to Nocturne’s study.

  The Count studied a map with Lord Beaumont, who acknowledged Lucian with a curt nod and a wheezing breath that smelled faintly of cloves.

  Above: Lord Beaumont and Nocturne.

  Lucian wasted no time—he gave his report: the coughing below deck, the soldiers guarding, and the captain’s orders.

  When he finished, the elderly Lord Beaumont adjusted his monocle. “Thank you, my boy. We’ll take it from here.” He rubbed his silver moustache thoughtfully. “In my city? That ship may find itself at the bottom of the harbour by daylight tomorrow—” he let out a hoarse laugh, “—or worse.”

  The old man’s humour is as dry as his conscience. Lucian bit his tongue. How is he so cordial with Nox? Surely he's heard the rumours about our Count and Lady Beaumont...

  “You did well,” Nocturne said quietly, clasping his shoulder. “Now, don’t you have a woman waiting for you?”

  Lucian left the study, but the scent of lilies and smoke followed him down the corridor. Outside, the air tasted of salt and metal. Every time he blinked, he saw the Lusitierran ship—the coughing, the hatch bolted from above, the word cargo spat like a joke. A weapon disguised as mercy for the sick.

  If Lord Beaumont truly means to sink it, then Duke Luther will be free to vote how he pleases at the Conclave. A bitter taste lingered in his mouth. Blind luck that it happened to be the vessel Ginny was on—but in a battle, sometimes luck decides the outcome.

  He adjusted his green silk scarf and started down toward the Gilded Lane.

  The lanterns of Lux burned fresh, gold light spilling across the cobbles as dusk settled in. The air carried roasted almonds and sea salt—he breathed it in deeply, hoping it might scrub the sickness from his memory. But every cough he had heard on that ship echoed in his memory.

  Focus. Lucian exhaled slowly. I hope Eurydice waited.

  “Looking for me?”

  She stepped up beside him. She had changed into a cherry-red dress clearly made by her own hand, a swirl of layered silk and linen stitched with fine gold thread. Unorthodox, indeed, and it moved like water when she walked.

  Dangerous, he reminded himself, his gaze lingering. Damn you, Val. This was supposed to be a night off.

  “You’re late,” she teased. “But I got caught up with a seam ripper—angry work, no one dared interrupt me. Where are you taking me?”

  “Care for a walk?” He offered his arm.

  “With you?" She slid her hands through his arm, bracelets of silver and dyed thread jingling softly. "Tempting.”

  Above: Lucian and Eurydice begin their night out.

  They walked through the winding backstreets of Lux, the city softening around them—balconies heavy with potted winter citrus and laundry, fragments of laughter rising and falling through the dark.

  At the edge of the cliffs overlooking the harbour, Lucian spread the blanket over the grass. They sat side by side, the basket between them, the sea stretching out black and endless below. Silver waves brushed the rocks, the city glittering behind, the sea slapping beneath.

  Eurydice kicked off her shoes, tucked her feet beneath her, and unwrapped one of the tarts. She swallowed too quickly and coughed to clear her throat.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  The rasp of it jolted him—the same sound he had heard beneath the hatch. He forced a smile before she could see his flinch.

  “You’re surprisingly prepared for a man who claims to improvise,” she teased. “Either you planned this—or you’ve had practice sweeping girls off cliffs before.”

  “I’m adaptable,” Lucian said, pouring tea into tin cups.

  “A romantic in disguise.”

  “Hardly—” Lucian said, spilling a few drops as he poured. “—just restless.”

  She laughed when he handed her a warm tart without asking. He liked letting her talk, listening to the unguarded details that slipped through—It soothed him—the normalcy of her world.

  Then, bells began to ring in the harbour.

  Lucian's hands stilled. He turned towards the water.

  Orange light flared against the dark horizon; flames licked up the rigging of a ship, staining the waves in molten gold. For an instant, it was almost beautiful—until the wind shifted, carrying a faint crack of screams.

  Lord Beaumont keeps his promises. He flinched, every muscle tightening. By the pits, tell me he cleared the sick before torching it.

  “Those lights… is that—?”

  “No.” He shook his head too quickly. “Probably just… a merchant fire.” His voice came out rough, unconvincing. The dying glow reflected in his eyes made the guilt visible.

  “You don’t have to tell me." Eurydice’s smile faltered. She reached over and rested her hand on his. “But you don’t have to pretend either.”

  He nodded, feeling the warmth from her skin ease his tension.

  As the night deepened, he found his usual charm wearing thin. Normally, he would have made some excuse and wandered home. But Eurydice made him hope—and seeing her smile eased the ache in his chest.

  “I stopped drinking,” Lucian said, almost absently. “Dreams get…dull when I do.” He offered her the flask with a faint smile. “Tea instead?”

  “I stopped too—too many bad decisions.” Eurydice took a sip, her bracelets glinting in the starlight. She paused, the air between them softening. “Tell me something.”

  “Mm?”

  “When are you going to ask me about Lady Celestine?”

  His hand stilled. He set the cup down, eyes lifting to hers. “I didn’t—” He stopped, caught between honesty and habit. “That’s… not why I asked you here.”

  “It’s fine—I knew about her and Valentino,” Eurydice said gently. “Celestine's fiery, but has a kind edge. She let me design as I pleased, even when it cost her whispers.” She paused. "She used to talk about Valentino all the time, but not recently. I avoided him on purpose."

  “Eurydice, you don’t have to—”

  “She’s leaving Lux. I’ve almost finished her last order.” Her voice softened. “It’s a wedding dress. White, of course, to put to death those rumours.”

  Fye. Val is going to lose his mind.

  “Who?” Lucian asked quietly.

  “She wouldn’t say. But she’s bound for Fiorenza.”

  Duke Lorenzo's land. Salt in Val’s wound.

  Lucian’s thoughts raced, then stalled. He rubbed at his eyes. “I have no right to ask this—”

  “—but you will anyway?”

  He nodded. “Help me arrange a meeting between them. I can’t offer gold; it would be an insult. But if there’s anything—”

  “Stop.” Eurydice exhaled. “When you noticed my work, really noticed it—that was enough. Celestine’s my friend. She’s coming at dawn for her final fitting. Madame Whyalla won’t be in that early. Bring Valentino. If she says no, you leave. Understood?”

  Lucian bowed his head, gratitude flickering through the fatigue. “Understood.”

  The waves broke below them, distant and relentless.

  “Thank you,” Lucian looked down, a muscle shifting in his jaw. “I shouldn’t have mixed business with pleasure.”

  “So… there’s still pleasure in all this?” Eurydice leaned in, dark eyes half-lidded, searching. The ocean breeze tangled in her curls, brushing them across her cheek. Her fingers skimmed the back of his hand, her parted lips inviting a kiss.

  Lucian turned away. “I—” His voice caught. He swallowed hard, raking a hand through his dark mahogany hair. “I’m sorry, Dove. I can’t.”

  “It’s just a kiss.” She studied him, a quiet furrow forming between her brows. “Unless…I misread things.”

  “I—want to.” He exhaled, voice rough. “But it feels wrong, I can’t—”

  “Excuses,” she murmured, touching his face.

  He stilled under her touch.

  “Tell me, Luce—why are you so afraid to let anyone see beneath—” she hesitated, eyes flicking over him “—that charming fa?ade you wear?”

  He stripped off his gloves, took her hand—calloused, pricked with needle marks, dusted with chalk—and raised it to his lips. She smelled of silk and sea salt, of work and art.

  “Set up shop in Firestone.” His words surprised even him. “I’ll—find the coin. You could create near me.”

  “We hardly know each other—" she chuckled "—besides, I’m not some gown to be ordered and tailored! This will burn spectacularly!”

  "I'm not joking," he said, a little breathless. He traced her knuckles with his thumb. “Let me dream—let me have you near.”

  “Lucian.” She searched his gaze, the laughter fading. “We’ve… only just met.”

  “Now who’s making excuses?” He slipped an arm around her waist, drawing her close. “The mountains are beautiful in spring. And Firestone could use a little more beauty.”

  “Shameless.” She laughed again, soft and breathless, and rested her head against his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

  “Constantly.”

  They sat together on the cliff’s edge, the waves crashing far below, the city lights scattering gold across the water. For a long moment, neither spoke. Then, he drew Eurydice closer, pressing his face into her hair, breathing in her scent.

  “And what about tonight?” she whispered, her fingers tracing his forearm.

  He did not answer at once; the crackle of burning timbers filled the silence.

  “Tonight,” he said, his arm tightening around her soft waist, “this is enough.” He pressed a slow kiss to her cheek.

  Then, she tilted her head, catching his lips on hers—a soft, gentle kiss—the world holding still as he tasted her sweetness.

  Above: They share a moment.

  “Careful, seamstress,” he whispered against her lips, “or I’ll end up taking you to Firestone myself.”

  "Only in my dreams," she whispered back.

  "That...can be arranged."

  Slowly, as he sought her again, her taste chasing away the memory of sickness and smoke.