The knock came just past dusk.
Two sharp raps. Then silence.
Elena had just finished her evening meal—cold bread, hard cheese, and watered wine. Mira had brought it in without a word, as usual, then disappeared. Elena had begun to wonder if that was the only kind of conversation she was allowed in this place.
The door opened.
This time, it wasn't Mira.
It was a guard—tall, armored, and unsmiling.
"His Majesty summons you," he said.
Elena blinked. "Now?"
The guard didn't answer.
Of course not.
She rose without arguing. There wasn't really a choice. She slipped on her cloak and followed, her boots soft against the stone as they wound through unfamiliar corridors. This path wasn't the same as before. Longer. Darker. More winding.
At last, they reached a heavy wooden door flanked by torches. The guard pushed it open and stepped aside.
Elena entered alone.
The room inside was massive, dimly lit by a fire crackling low in the hearth. Shadows danced across tall shelves lined with scrolls and swords, relics and sealed boxes. A study, or perhaps a war room. It smelled of old parchment and cold steel.
Lucien stood near the window.
He didn't look up.
His cloak was gone, leaving only a fitted black shirt and leather straps across his chest. He looked sharper in the firelight—like a sculpture carved from obsidian, all edges and silence.
"I didn't expect to see you again so soon," Elena said softly.
Still, he didn't speak.
The tension stretched between them like a blade being drawn from a sheath.
Finally, Lucien turned.
His eyes met hers.
"You spoke with Cassandra."
Not a question. A statement.
Elena straightened. "She visited me."
"And what did she say?"
Elena hesitated. "That I'm a question. And that you don't trust people easily."
A flicker of something—annoyance, maybe—crossed his face. He stepped toward the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Cassandra is clever. But she speaks too freely."
"She seemed concerned."
"She always is."
Another silence.
Then he gestured toward the sword resting on the nearby table—the same blade he had placed there when they first met.
"You touched it again."
Elena's breath caught.
"You left it in my room," she said. "Was I not meant to?"
Lucien's voice was quiet. "That sword belonged to someone I failed to protect. No one else has drawn it since his death. Not even I."
Elena looked at him carefully. "Then why give it to me?"
He didn't answer. Not immediately.
Instead, he crossed the room slowly and stopped just beside her. Not close enough to touch—but close enough that she could feel the gravity of his presence.
"You're not the girl they said you were," he murmured. "The reports from the forest said you were mad. Bleeding. Ranting about death. But now… you're composed. Controlled. Too much so."
"I had a fever," Elena lied.
Lucien didn't look convinced.
He studied her for a long moment, and Elena got the sense he was the type of man who rarely spoke unless he already knew the answer.
At last, he stepped back.
"You'll remain in the East Wing," he said. "You're not to leave without my permission."
"I understand."
"And if anyone asks who you are—"
"I'm no one," she said quickly. "Just a guest."
Lucien's jaw tensed slightly. Then, nodding once, he walked back to his desk.
"You may go."
Elena hesitated. "Is that all?"
Lucien paused at a stack of papers. His fingers brushed over them absently.
"…That sword chose you. I don't know why. But if you lie to me again—"
His voice dropped lower.
"—I will know."
Elena met his gaze one last time.
"I'm not your enemy, Lucien."
He didn't answer.
But this time, he didn't deny it either.
She turned and left the room, her footsteps echoing in the silence behind her.