It was evening, yet the two gentlemen still carried the weight of anger etched on their faces. Their failure to save Elira gnawed at them, especially Sylas, who had come so close to rescuing her—only for the tables to turn, and it was Elira herself who had saved Sylas. Cassian's fists clenched against the edge of the table, knuckles white with tension, while Mrs. Joana bore the grief of losing Elira, her beloved adopted daughter, etched deep into her features. Upstairs, Silvia tended to her son, Luke, who had been crying for some time after the ordeal. She gently coaxed him to sleep, smoothing his hair with a soft murmur, while downstairs, Lucien remained with Cassian, Sylas, and Mrs. Joana, discussing what they could do to locate Elira.
All of them suspected Elira's mother, Elinor, yet they had no proof. Only someone with extraordinary capability could have kidnapped Elira, and Elinor simply lacked the means to hire mercenaries for such a task.
"So, how can we solve this? How do we find Elira?" Cassian demanded, teeth gritted, the restlessness barely contained in the tight set of his jaw. His eyes flicked sharply between the others, urgency blazing in his gaze.
"Poor little girl… Elira has suffered far too much at the hands of those people," Mrs. Joana murmured, her voice trembling, almost breaking with unshed tears.
"The only thing we need to do is find Elira's mother and ask where she took her," Cassian said, his voice firm, almost demanding action.
"But if we ask her, Cassian… we won't get the truth. It's obvious she won't speak honestly," Sylas said coldly, arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze sharp and unyielding as it swept over the table.
"What about your father?" Mrs. Joana asked, worry creasing her forehead.
"He's far too busy for this, Mother. Do you really think he would help us?" Sylas replied, irritation lacing his tone. He had no plan yet for the next step to locate Elira alongside Cassian. Perhaps the two men might venture into the Lust District, but it was fraught with risk—Cassian's reputation was well known there, and should word spread that the Crown Prince had risked his dignity to rescue a commoner, the Empress's wrath would be unavoidable. Planning had to be meticulous. Asking Sylas's father was out of the question; he would surely report every move to the Empress, and he was unaware that Mrs. Joana had adopted Elira as her own.
Lucien sat quietly to Cassian's left, listening intently as Sylas and Cassian debated strategy. Yet a strange thought gnawed at him: could the bald man—the one who had kidnapped Elira—hold the key to their search? Memories of the man carrying Elira into a carriage played sharply in his mind.
Suddenly, Lucien rose, startling the three around him. He moved with purpose, grasping his coat from the rack and pulling his brown cloak around his shoulders, the movement fluid and deliberate.
"Where are you going?" Mrs. Joana called, voice tinged with alarm.
Lucien signed with measured gestures: I am going somewhere, Mother.
"What is he saying, Nanny?" Cassian asked, brow furrowed, trying to decipher the hand signals.
"He's going somewhere," Mrs. Joana replied slowly, still puzzled by the thought behind his actions.
"Perhaps he knows something," she added, a glimmer of hope stirring within her. Encouraged, Cassian and Sylas rose, intent on accompanying Lucien.
"We'll come with you," Cassian said quickly, snatching his coat. Sylas followed, but Lucien gently halted them. From a pocket, he produced a small notebook and pen, scribbling hurriedly.
~You two stay here. I need to go alone. You'd only hinder me, and communication would be impossible if you followed.~
Both men read his message, frowning in concern. To Sylas and Cassian, it was far too dangerous to let Lucien venture out alone—especially at night, with threats lurking in the shadows. Yet Lucien smiled, calm and assured. Even Mrs. Joana, unsettled by the plan, found her worries tempered by his confident expression. She rested her hands on the shoulders of Cassian and Sylas, taking a deep, steadying breath.
"Perhaps we should let him go," Mrs. Joana finally said.
"But Mother, it's too dangerous to let him roam outside alone. They could ambush him," Sylas protested. Mrs. Joana met Lucien's gaze with unflinching resolve, her eyes commanding, and he simply nodded.
"Lucien, go. Find any lead that might help us find Elira," Mrs. Joana ordered, voice firm, leaving no room for argument. Lucien bowed slightly, then slipped out into the night, leaving Cassian, Sylas, and Mrs. Joana behind, hearts heavy with concern, silently hoping nothing would befall him on this perilous mission.
Later, Sylas and Cassian retreated to their room, settling down, while Mrs. Joana cleaned the dishes, her hands steady but her mind weighed by sorrow. When will Elira's suffering end? she thought, dabbing at tears that streaked her cheeks.
"Mother, where is Lucien?" Silvia asked, appearing from upstairs, concern etched across her face. Night had nearly fallen, and she had heard the events that had befallen Elira.
"He's gone to seek a lead to help us find Elira," Mrs. Joana replied simply, hands submerged in soapy water, eyes focused but distant.
"Perhaps he knows who captured her," she added, her voice soft. Silvia leaned against the wall near the stairs, silent and contemplative.
"Maybe he's heading to the clinic… the one where mercenaries sometimes receive treatment," Silvia mused, glancing toward her mother. The thought sent a shiver through both women. The mercenary clinic, far from Highthorne, was notorious—doctors and apothecaries feared treating its violent clientele, often under threat of severe retribution. Only the most seasoned dared work there, and even then, resources were scarce.
"We should not worry, Mother," Silvia said, wrapping her arms around Mrs. Joana's back in a comforting embrace.
"Lucien is strong—that's all," she replied, a faint smile breaking through her sorrow. Mrs. Joana smiled in return, bolstered by the unwavering faith both she and Silvia held in Lucien's ability to uncover the truth of Elira's whereabouts.
****
By morning, Sylas and Cassian received a letter from Lucien directing them to a small, remote house, hidden deep within a forest, surrounded by towering trees. Sylas mounted his black horse, Cassian his white, and they rode swiftly toward the rendezvous, anticipation and unease gnawing at them both.
Upon arrival, Sylas dismounted, his brow furrowed as he took in the scene. Lucien stood outside the modest house, a calm smile on his face that seemed to erase all worry—as if nothing of the previous night had occurred. Sylas's stomach twisted; after Lucien had disappeared the night before, leaving no word, both he and Cassian had been nearly frantic with worry. And now, in the early morning light, a simple letter had summoned them here, to this hidden clearing, where no one could spy on them.
The two gentlemen dismounted fully, and Cassian's eyes narrowed as he finally spoke.
"Where have you been? And what place is this?" he demanded, confusion and suspicion threading through his words.
Lucien only smiled serenely, then gestured for them to enter the house. Inside, their eyes widened in disbelief. Tied to a chair, his body bound tightly, sat the very man who had kidnapped Elira—a bald, hulking figure.
Cassian surged forward instinctively, fury radiating from every muscle. He grabbed the man by the throat, lifting him slightly off the ground.
"Where is Elira? Where did you take her?!" he roared, voice thick with barely-contained rage.
The bald man gagged, struggling to breathe under the strength of Cassian's grip. Sylas quickly intervened, grabbing Cassian's arm to calm him, insisting they let the man speak. But the kidnapper only laughed, loud and mocking, a cruel smirk twisting his face.
"HAHAHAHA! Why are you both losing your minds over her?" the man sneered, mocking their desperation. Sylas's jaw tightened, fury flashing in his eyes.
"Speak! Where is Elira?" Sylas demanded, his voice icy and sharp.
The man laughed again, cruel and unrepentant. "What if I don't tell you? She'll be sold… hahahaha!"
Anger consumed Cassian and Sylas. Without hesitation, Cassian delivered a savage kick to the man's stomach. The bald man doubled over in pain with a strangled cry, while Sylas's fist collided with his jaw, a sickening crack echoing as a tooth flew free. Cassian's next blow smashed into the man's face, blood spraying across the floor. The two men unleashed brutal, precise strikes, their rage giving them every ounce of strength.
Lucien watched silently, his expression unreadable as Sylas and Cassian vented their fury. In his mind, he knew the man would soon forget the night's events—thanks to the drug Lucien had injected into him the previous evening. Soon, the bald man would speak the truth, his memories temporarily erased, and then collapse into unconsciousness.
It had been a night of reckoning. The bald man, Bastor, had stormed into the mercenary clinic, rage etched into every movement, his body battered from a confrontation with Sylas.
"Damn that man! I swear I'll kill him!" Bastor growled, entering the clinic, the pale moonlight the only illumination along the path.
"Anyone here?" Bastor called, his voice echoing. "Useless! There's no one here!" Frustration contorted his face as he searched for a physician. Reaching a small room marked Physician, he pushed open the door to find a man in a pristine white coat.
Bastor smirked, irritation bristling in every movement. "Hey! I need treatment, now!" he barked, slumping into a chair, spinning it roughly to face the table. The physician, however, remained calm, silent, his back still turned. Bastor's temper flared.
"ARE YOU DEAF?!" he shouted, reaching to grab the man's shoulder—but before his fingers could touch him, the man spun around. Emerald hair, violet eyes, and a fearless glare met him, radiating a presence that made Bastor's blood run cold.
Lucien moved with the speed and precision of a predator. He seized Bastor's wrist, driving his elbow sharply into it, forcing him to slam face-down onto the table. A brutal strike to Bastor's head left him reeling, and before he could recover, Lucien injected a paralysing toxin into his neck. Bastor's limbs froze instantly; only his eyes and mouth could move, his breath shallow but steady.
"What… what are you doing?! HELP!" Bastor cried, terror flooding his voice. Lucien, unable to speak, produced a small notebook and wrote instructions, forcing Bastor to read:
~I have poisoned you. Confess now, or die within thirty minutes. No antidote will be given unless you comply.~
Panic overtook Bastor, his body trembling uncontrollably, fear wide in his eyes. He gasped, pleading, "OK! OK! I'll confess!" Lucien nodded, signalling him to continue.
"I was hired by the owner of the most famous bar in the Lust District—Morgan—together with the mother of the girl, Elinor," Bastor stammered, sweat pouring down his face. "They gave me an enormous sum to do exactly as they instructed."
Lucien scribbled a question onto his notebook: ~Where is their location?~
Bastor, gasping and weak, revealed, "It's in the Lust District… the bar's name is Pleasuring Me. They planned to sell her to the highest bidder—because she's… pure… a virgin…" His voice cracked as he slumped in the chair, desperation etched on every feature. Lucien's mind raced. Sylas and Cassian must rescue Elira before it's too late.
Bastor's trembling hands clawed at Lucien. "Give me the antidote! Please!" But Lucien's calm, almost playful smile chilled him further. Slowly, he covered Bastor's eyes, and the world slipped from the man's sight, darkness encroaching as his breathing became shallow and ragged. Within moments, Bastor lost consciousness entirely.
The paralysing drug was not lethal—Lucien had designed it himself months prior. It induced temporary paralysis, allowed minimal movement of mouth and eyes, and erased memory for 24 hours. Once unconscious, Bastor would awaken with no recollection of his confession, leaving Lucien free to refine the formula in the future.
With Bastor incapacitated, Lucien observed Sylas and Cassian's uncontrolled fury. He could not stop them—they were the perfect instruments to punish Bastor, his calculated actions exploiting their wrath. Lucien had known all along that Bastor would return to the mercenary clinic to heal his wounds; he had merely awaited this opportunity to ensure the truth would finally emerge.