Elian sat on the stairs in front of the manor, staring blankly onto the courtyard.
He was staring, but he was seeing nothing. Everything seemed pitch black in his sight; the only true visions were in his head on constant repeat as his mother disowned him with a disgust he didn’t know she was capable of.
He was alone.
Misunderstood, and hurting so badly.
Footsteps slowly approached from the side, but he didn’t bother to lift his head; he didn’t care who it was.
"Mind if I sit?" Soren asked calmly behind Elian.
Without lifting his head, Elian shrugged.
Soren’s shadow fell over Elian as he lowered himself beside him. He turned his head to Elian, observing the younger man’s face. A profound, sullen sadness clung to Elian’s features—one he’d never seen before.
"Are you alright?" Soren asked gently.
Elian didn’t respond; he simply kept staring into space.
Soren shifted closer, placing his hand on Elian’s knee, "I know we’re not as close as Rowan and yourself, but I can be a great listener; it is one of my perks as a doctor," he said in a soothing voice.
"I am fine," Elian whispered—the greatest lie he’d ever uttered.
Soren sighed, "Rowan invited me for a village tour with you and Chester—" he paused to look at Elian’s face, "Those two are quite boring. I’ll go only if you go. Are you?"
"He is." Lucien’s voice cut in smoothly behind them. "And he’s coming with me," he stated coldly.
Elian subtly moved his knee away from Soren’s hold, digging his fingers into his thigh.
It had been two hours since Lucien sent him out of his study, and he was hoping the Duke had suddenly grown tired of having him beside him, but it turned out that Lucien was obsessed with controlling him.
Lucien would always find a way to draw Elian back into his orbit just so he could will what Elian could or could not feel.
Soren cleared his throat, standing, "I did not realize the Duke had so much time on his hands for a village visit," he smiled slowly.
Lucien’s eyes never left Elian’s back as he spoke, "It is a Duke’s duty to oversee the welfare of his people, is it not?" he questioned slowly, facing Soren with a hard gaze.
Soren nodded, "You’re right, Your Grace," he agreed.
"Then do not ask terrible questions, Doctor," Lucien stated.
Soren bowed, "Apologies."
"Get the horses ready," Lucien said to the guards behind him.
"Yes, Your Grace," they bowed and hurried toward the stable.
"Did I hear horses?" Rowan strode out of the manor, smiling. "I did not realize my cousin would join us commoners to go into the village." He smirked and walked past Lucien, straight to Elian.
"Hey," he squatted in front of Elian, smiling, "Shall we?" he asked softly.
Elian sighed quietly and nodded. He had already promised to take them to his village; there would be no sense backing out now.
He stood, walking ahead without speaking to anyone.
Rowan frowned, glancing at Lucien, "What have you done?" he murmured and immediately followed Elian.
"Your Grace?" Soren called.
Lucien looked away from Elian’s retreating figure and faced Soren, "What?"
Soren sighed, "It is not my place to say, but Elian, he is fading away, and if you intend on truly making him an attendant, I think you’re doing it wrong. He looks... defeated," he spoke cautiously.
Lucien didn’t react; he simply stared at Soren for a few seconds and took a slow step forward. But as he approached the stairs, he paused, fists clenching beside him.
"Soren," he called calmly.
Soren turned his head to Lucien, "Yes?"
"Your advice was unsolicited." With that, Lucien walked away, stepping into the warm midday sun.
Soren stayed put, watching Lucien carefully. There was an assumption—just an assumption. He dared not let it firm into a full idea. But, until he saw solid proof, it would only remain an assumption.
"Heard you’re joining for the short trip," Chester spoke behind Soren.
Soren turned, his face neutral, "Yes," he nodded and turned away.
"Alright," Chester murmured, falling behind Soren.
Meanwhile, in front of the stables, Elian stood beside Rowan’s white horse, waiting for Rowan to come and help him up.
Lucien was still inside the stables, probably trying to choose the horse he liked. He wondered if Lucien was going to make a fuss about him entering a royal horse like he did in the past. Maybe Lucien might even ask him to trek behind or in front of them.
He heard a quiet groan by the side of the stable and froze. The voice was familiar. His mother’s.
He glanced around, pulse racing. Everyone was busy choosing their horses inside; if he was swift, he could speak to his mother before they came out.
Slowly, he walked toward the side of the stable, feet meeting the ground noiselessly. He reached the edge of the building and paused, watching his mother’s shadow as she bent to drag a log closer to the pile behind the stable.
His heart broke all over again. His mother was suffering, and he did naught but seek pleasure from the very man that ruined their lives. Truly, he deserved to be disowned; even he would not want to have a son like himself.
He was a shame to his parents, a true traitor.
"Ah!" his mother suddenly gasped and fell to her knees.
Without thinking, he stepped out of his hiding place and ran toward her.
"Mother, are you okay?" He fell to his knees beside her, taking her trembling hands in his, his eyes widening as he saw the deep scratch on her wrist, "You’re bleeding—"
"Stay away from me," his mother snatched her hand away, angry tears rolling down her dirt-stained face.
"Mother—" he murmured, voice laced with heartbreak as he watched his mother shift away from him before helping herself up.
"Do not touch me with the same hands you use to pleasure a devil," she seethed, wiping her blood on her dirty grey gown. "Do not speak to me—" she paused, tears falling harder as she stared at her son kneeling on the dirty ground.
But she could not forgive him, not when the image of her dear husband burning and screaming was a constant portrait in her mind. And definitely not when her only son had chosen to side with the killer.
Elian did not bother to stand up; he simply locked his gaze with his mother’s and wept. He wept quietly but deeply, making his entire being vulnerable to the woman who gave him life.
"I hate him, Mother," he sniffled, his lower lip trembling.
"Then prove it," Mrs. Morel said, taking a single step toward Elian, her eyes narrowed in anger, "I hear he made you his attendant; you’re closer to him than anyone; kill him, Elian. Avenge your father; only then will I believe that what I saw back there wasn’t what I think it is," she stated firmly.
Elian slowly shook his head, "It’s not as easy as you—"
"It is," she cut him off, "It is easier than spreading your—"
"Mother," Elian gasped, glancing around the place, "Please, don’t—" he murmured.
Mrs. Morel chuckled humorlessly, "You care for what people will say about him? You’re protecting him?" Her face twisted in disgust.
"No. It’s not that—" he scoffed.
He didn’t care what people gossiped about the Duke, if only it would not involve him. He could not afford another scandal to their name; it would only complicate their lives further.
"It’s not as easy as you think, Mother. I am protecting us—"
"You’re disgracing us!" Mrs. Morel snapped.
Elian stilled, feeling like cold water had been poured over his head. His mother wasn’t listening—no one was listening to him.
"If you do not know what to do to that monster, then never show your face in my presence, ever again—"
"Elian," Lucien’s deep voice called from behind.
Elian shut his eyes; Lucien’s voice was like venom in his veins. It was the one and only source of his pain.
Mrs. Morel simply turned away and left, leaving her son with the Duke.
Lucien stood at the edge of the stable’s shadow for a long moment, his tall frame cutting a dark silhouette against the warm midday sun. His green gaze remained locked on Elian’s kneeling form; the quiet sobs and the sharp exchange with his mother echoed in his ears like a fresh wound.
The words still burned—’I hate him’—yet beneath the sting lay something far more dangerous: the raw vulnerability in Elian’s voice, the way his shoulders trembled, the quiet defiance that refused to die even as he broke.
Lucien’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. He stepped forward, boots silent on the dirt path.
"Elian," he called again, voice low and commanding, though the usual sharp edge had softened into something heavier.
Elian rose slowly, brushing dirt from his knees without looking back. His mother’s retreating figure disappeared behind the stable, leaving only silence and the weight of Lucien’s presence behind him.
He walked toward the front of the stables, each step heavy, as if the ground itself pulled at him. The others were already mounting up—Rowan adjusting the saddle on his white horse, Chester muttering something to Soren—but Elian kept his eyes forward, jaw set.
Lucien followed a few paces behind, close enough that Elian could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of clove and power that always seemed to cling to the Duke. It wrapped around Elian like invisible chains, stirring memories he desperately wanted to forget.
As they reached the open courtyard in front of the stables, Rowan turned with an easy smile, reaching out a hand. "Come on, Elian. Ride with me. We’ll—"
Lucien’s hand shot out, fingers wrapping firmly around Elian’s upper arm, halting him mid-step. The touch was steady, warm through the thin fabric of Elian’s shirt, sending an unwelcome spark racing across his skin.
"He’s riding with me," Lucien stated coldly, leaving no room for argument. His voice carried across the group, final as a decree.
Rowan’s smile faltered, eyebrows rising, but he wisely held his tongue. Elian stiffened, trying to pull his arm free, but Lucien’s grip only tightened—not painful, but insistent, possessive.
"I can ride with Rowan," Elian muttered, voice rough from earlier tears, refusing to meet Lucien’s eyes. "There’s no need—"
"You will ride with me." Lucien’s tone brooked no defiance.
He released Elian’s arm only to guide him toward the largest black stallion waiting at the front, its coat gleaming like polished obsidian. The horse shifted restlessly, sensing the tension between them.
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