"Everyone, quiet," Lucien commanded, his voice sharp and low. He raised a hand, signaling for the group to step backward.
He moved toward a thicket, his eyes locked on a buck grazing in the distance, his movements fluid and predatory. He reached for the bow slung across his back, his fingers trembling ever so slightly with the adrenaline of the hunt.
"Back," he whispered again, not turning to see if they obeyed.
He drew the bowstring taut, aiming through a gap in the brush, the world narrowing down to the tension in the wood and the rhythm of his own heartbeat.
But before he could release the arrow, the sharp twang of a different bowstring vibrated through the air—a sound that didn’t come from his own weapon.
It wasn’t aimed at the deer.
The arrow whistled past Lucien’s ear, a sickening thwack striking home just behind him. A split second later, a sharp, strangled choking gasp tore through the clearing, followed by the dull, horrific thud of a skull colliding with a jagged rock.
Lucien spun around, his heart stopping in his chest.
Lysandra shrieked, a raw, piercing sound that shattered the forest’s silence. She didn’t hesitate, rushing past the others to the crumpled form on the ground. She fell to her knees, gathering Elian into her lap, her hands frantically trying to stem the flow of blood that was already bubbling from his nose and mouth.
Lucien stood frozen, his world collapsing. The bow slipped from his nerveless fingers, hitting the dirt with a hollow clatter. His limbs felt suddenly weak, as if his very bones had turned to water, and the breath hitched in his throat, unable to go in or out.
He stared at Elian—at the pale, slack expression and the dark, wet stain spreading rapidly across his tunic—and a wave of soul-crushing horror washed over him. His own face went deathly pale, his vision blurring until the only thing in the world was the sight of Elian broken upon the earth and the arrow wedged right in his chest.
Suddenly, those voices, the memories, they all came crashing in, shooting painfully through his head like an arrow.
He wanted to move, to run to Elian and pull him into his arms and beg him to live, to survive, but his demons had won, paralyzing him, resurfacing the darkness that he’d buried deep in his soul.
"Let him go, I’ve got him."
He heard Soren’s voice echoing like it was in a distance; his movements turned blurry and his body felt like he was falling into an endless abyss.
"He’s going to die!" Lysandra shrieked.
And that was when Lucien snapped out of it. He forced his gaze to focus, and when he saw Soren carrying Elian toward the horse, all his control and discipline shredded in an instant.
He moved, a man ready to claim the most important thing in his life without caring who he offended or what he lost.
But before he could take his second step, another arrow snapped past him and straight into Rowena, who was standing with Lysandra.
"Argh!" Rowena screamed painfully, falling to her knees as she stared with horror at the arrow sticking into her thigh.
However, Lucien didn’t seem to stop; his legs just kept carrying him toward Elian.
"Lucien," Rowan intercepted him, clasping his hands on Lucien’s shoulders, "Don’t be fucking stupid. Go to her—"
"I need to get to him," Lucien murmured shakily, staring at Soren’s horse that was carrying Elian away, his eyes turning red and wet with unshed tears.
"No, you need to go to her. Lysandra can’t be the one helping your wife," he gritted out.
Lucien swallowed hard, his chest heavy with pain and guilt.
"Argh, my leg..." Rowena’s gasp reached Lucien’s ear and he slowly turned to face her.
Lysandra had stepped away to let the guards help the Princess to the horse, and a few more guards had entered the forest to chase whoever was behind the bow.
He couldn’t move, not toward her. He was angry, he was torn, and he was broken all over again.
How did this happen? Why did it happen? Who did this?
"Go," Rowan nudged Lucien gently.
Blinking, Lucien forced his leg toward Rowena.
"I’ve got you," he said, lifting her off her feet, "You’ll be fine," he whispered, carrying her toward his horse.
**
Back in the manor, Rowena was placed on her bed, her thigh wrapped with a clean-cut cloth.
"She is not in any real harm, Your Grace. The arrow merely embedded in her muscles; she will be fit to walk in a week," Soren informed him, packing up his instrument box.
"It’s good to hear," Lucien said, sitting on the chair beside Rowena’s bed.
Soren nodded, watching the faraway look in Lucien’s eyes. He didn’t need to see it before he confirmed it; the look in Lucien’s eyes back in the forest confirmed every doubt he ever had.
The Duke cared for his attendant, maybe a little too much than he should.
"Excuse me," Soren bowed and left the room.
Lucien stared at the wall, his thoughts going back to Elian, bleeding and pale on the forest floor. His hands clenched on his lap, his chest tightening painfully.
He needed to leave to see how Elian was doing. But how could he leave when his wife was lying wounded right beside him?
"My love," Rowena whispered tiredly.
Lucien turned robotically, taking her hand gently, "How are you feeling, Rowena?" he asked.
Rowena sniffled, "It hurts, my love... why would anyone want to hurt me?" she murmured.
"I will find whoever did this and make them pay... trust me," he gritted his teeth.
Rowena clamped his hand tightly, sobbing quietly, "Don’t leave my side, Lucien. Stay with me, please?" she begged.
Lucien looked away, his hand loosening on Rowena’s, "I’m here," he whispered.
The infirmary was a sanctuary of sterile silence, lit only by the flickering orange glow of a single tallow candle.
The air hung thick with the metallic tang of blood and the sharp, medicinal sting of herbal poultices. Outside, the manor was in an uproar, guards securing the gates and searching, but in here, the world had narrowed down to the steady, shallow rise and fall of Elian’s chest.
Elian lay motionless, his skin a terrifying shade of marble-pale against the rough linens of the cot. The shadows carved hollows into his cheeks, making him look fragile, almost ethereal, as if he might dissolve into the dark if someone dared to breathe too heavily near him.
Soren stood over him, his movements deliberate and quiet. He dipped a clean cloth into a basin of warm water, the steam curling into the air, before leaning down to meticulously dab away the dried, darkened blood staining Elian’s torso. The arrow, a jagged, cruel thing, lay discarded on a metal tray to the side, its tip stained crimson—a grim artifact of the violence that had shattered the day.
Soren’s expression, usually guarded and stoic, was stripped bare. He studied the stillness of Elian’s face, his thumb brushing tentatively against the younger man’s temple.
There was no trace of the Duke’s politics here, no fear of the King’s guard, only the raw, protective instinct of a man watching over something precious that had been nearly extinguished.
He moved his hand down, hovering just above the bandaging on Elian’s chest, his jaw set in a line of quiet, dangerous resolve.
"The manor is not safe for a soul like yours," Soren whispered, his voice so soft it was barely audible above the crackle of the candle.
He leaned closer, his eyes darkening with a promise that felt heavy enough to anchor the room. "You were meant for more than being a plaything for kings and dukes. I see what they have done to you, and I see what they have taken."
He smoothed a lock of hair from Elian’s damp forehead, his touch uncharacteristically tender.
"Sleep, then," he murmured, his gaze never leaving Elian’s unconscious face. "You have played your part for them, and you have suffered for their games. But I promise you this—from henceforth, I am the one who keeps watch. I will take care of you, even if it means tearing down these walls to do it."
The candle sputtered, casting a long, shifting shadow of Soren over the bed, effectively shielding Elian from the rest of the world. Soren remained there, a silent, watchful guardian, waiting for the flicker of life to return to the man who now held the key to the manor’s undoing.
The moment Rowena’s breathing deepened into the steady, rhythmic pace of a heavy slumber, Lucien carefully eased his hand from her grasp.
He lingered for a heartbeat, watching her face—the elegant arch of her brows, the faint lines of pain around her mouth. He felt a flicker of duty, a vestige of the man he was supposed to be, but it was quickly swallowed by the frantic, thrumming need that had been clawing at his chest since the forest.
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