The last light of the day melted into the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of fading gold and bruised lavender.
Shadows stretched long across the hillside, reaching like lazy fingers through the tall grass, until only the moon remained—casting her pale watch over Mermaid’s Cove.
Lucien stood at the cottage door, axe in hand, posture firm, gaze unwavering.
The wind had cooled. It bit at his sleeves, sweeping in from the cliffs beyond—sharp, salt-laced, and restless. Every now and then, the porch creaked beneath his boots. But otherwise, the night was still.
Too still.
He had been standing there for hours.
Waiting.
Watching.
Just in case.
Behind him, the door creaked open with a soft, hesitant push.
“Lucien-sama,” came Elia’s voice. “Please, come inside. You shouldn’t be risking yourself like this.”
“I’m fine,” he said without turning.
“You’re a prince, not a sentry,” she added gently. “This isn’t your duty.”
Lucien’s fingers tightened slightly on the axe. “It is a prince’s duty to protect his people, Mrs. d'Ark.”
Elia sighed. “Very well, my prince. Just… don’t put yourself in harm’s way.”
“Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “I’m stronger than I look.”
There was a pause. Then the door clicked shut behind him, leaving Lucien alone with the night once more.
Then—a sound.
A soft rustle down the hill.
He stiffened.
Two figures were approaching, their shapes shadowed in the moonlight—hooded, slow-moving, cautious. He couldn’t see their faces. Not clearly. Not yet.
He raised the axe.
“Who goes there?”
No reply.
He stepped forward slightly, eyes narrowing. His grip tightened. One figure was taller; the other moved with a familiar, fluid grace that sparked something in his chest.
Then the breeze shifted—and the scent of lavender drifted to him.
Lucien lowered the axe.
“…Mira?”
The taller figure stepped into the moonlight first—Cassian, scuffed and winded but upright. “You’re a hard one to find, Your Highness.”
Mira followed a step behind him, brushing stray grass from her sleeves. “Thanks for guarding the house,” she said lightly.
Lucien let out a slow breath and leaned the axe against the porch rail. His shoulders eased, the tension slipping from him like melting frost.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he muttered.
“You don’t seem like the type who scares easily,” Mira replied with a faint smirk.
Cassian chuckled. “You should see the mercenaries we left tied up down the hill.”
Lucien blinked. “Tied up?”
“They were hiding in the brush,” Mira said, gesturing toward the bend. “Scouting for Count Elmhurst.”
Lucien’s expression darkened. “Elmhurst?”
“I don’t think they were lying,” Mira continued, stepping past him toward the door. “But their leader wasn’t with them.”
Lucien turned to watch her. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Is the leader dangerous? Are you alright?”
Mira paused in the doorway and looked back.
“Thanks for asking, Your Highness. But I’m alright,” she said quietly. “And you should worry about yourself. Crimson Crow is targeting you.”
And with that, she disappeared inside.
Lucien remained on the porch, alone again, staring down the path as the grass shifted with the wind.
Cassian joined him a moment later, his boots thudding softly against the wooden planks.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The night stretched around them, cool and humming with the faint rustle of wind through grass and distant waves.
Lucien’s gaze stayed on the horizon. “She said Crimson Crow is after me. How did she know that?”
Cassian leaned against the porch rail, folding his arms. “Because she just saved me from them. Five A-class assassins.”
Lucien frowned. “Five? And you’re still in one piece?”
“I almost wasn’t,” Cassian replied. “If she hadn’t shown up in time.”
Lucien’s hand closed slightly around the axe handle. “Any idea who hired them?”
Cassian shook his head. “Too many suspects.”
The two men exchanged a long, knowing look—and sighed in near unison.
Then—from inside the house, Elia’s voice floated out, warm and tentative.
“Lucien-sama, would you like to stay for dinner?”
Lucien blinked, as if pulled from a distant thought. He looked toward the door, where a sliver of golden lamplight spilled out onto the porch.
Cassian raised an eyebrow. “That sounded more like a royal summons than an invitation.”
Lucien gave a soft snort. “If you’ve got somewhere else to be, don’t let me stop you. But I could really use a warm meal after a long day.”
“Mrs. d’Ark is too kind,” Cassian said, stepping toward the door. “When people want to be nice to me, they just send letters.”
Lucien smirked faintly, then gently pushed the door open.
Inside, the warmth of the cottage embraced them immediately—soft candlelight flickering across wooden beams, the faint scent of rosemary and roasted vegetables curling through the air.
Elia stood near the hearth, her apron slightly askew, brushing flour from her sleeves. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be staying the night,” she said gently, glancing between the two men, “but Mira made extra, just in case.”
Cassian inhaled deeply. “Smells like mercy.”
Mira was at the small kitchen table, slicing bread with the ease of someone who did it daily. She looked up when they entered—expression calm, but her eyes flicked briefly toward Lucien, checking him, measuring something quietly.
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“It’s not exactly a royal banquet,” she said, nudging a stool back with her foot. “But dinner’s ready.”
Lucien hesitated at the doorway for a heartbeat longer than necessary, then stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him.
For the first time in hours, the axe was no longer in his hand.
Just the scent of food, the glow of lamplight, and the quiet comfort of four people sharing a roof in the dark.
Peaceful—for now.
And he intended to savor it.
Meanwhile, back at the Adventurers' Guild…
The sound of parchment crackling filled the quiet hall like the muttering of ghosts.
Garron exhaled heavily and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
His thick fingers—better suited to gripping a sword than leafing through brittle parchment—left a faint smear of dust across his forehead.
“Still nothing,” he muttered, tossing another cracked ledger onto the growing pile beside him.
Across the long table, Captain Alric shut a leather-bound volume with a dull thud. “At this point, I’m convinced Crimson Crow’s either a myth… or so good they erase their own shadow.”
Garron grunted, folding his arms. “Not a myth. That’s what money and power look like when they’re afraid of being seen.”
The lamplight above them flickered as the night wind sighed through the guildhall’s old windows.
Dozens of scrolls, faded tomes, and mission logs lay scattered like the aftermath of a battlefield. The air smelled of oil, mildew, and quiet frustration.
Alric leaned back with a groan, his armor creaking as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ve combed through three decades of guild records. I’m starting to think we’ve hit a dead end.”
“I’ve been thinking the same,” Garron muttered, narrowing his eyes at the clutter. “Might be time to send a formal request to the central guild in the capital. They’ve got deeper vaults—and more eyes.”
Alric nodded. “We should. This whole thing is above our pay grade.”
“Yeah,” Garron said quietly, gaze distant. “If Mira wasn’t here… I don’t think anyone in this town could’ve stopped them.”
Silence followed—heavy and uneasy.
Then Alric spoke again, voice firmer. “We should post extra guards. The prince is vulnerable.”
Garron’s expression hardened, but his voice softened slightly. “Count Mira in. The prince’s safety is our priority now.”
He rose slowly, joints cracking as he stretched.
Then he reached up toward a high shelf, tugging down an old, dust-caked scroll. “As for Crimson Crow… there might be one place we should look.”
Alric raised an eyebrow. “Where?”
“The Elmhurst estate,” Garron said grimly. “That manor’s older than this town. If anyone’s been keeping records off the books, it’s them.”
Alric gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “That abandoned estate? You’re serious? I’ve heard that place is haunted.”
Garron gave him a tired look. “So have I. But I’d rather face a ghost than keep chasing shadows with empty hands.”
Alric exhaled sharply through his nose and shook his head. “Then let’s go in the morning. I’m not stepping into that place when I can’t even see my own fingers.”
Garron barked a low, gravelly laugh and gave the captain a firm clap on the shoulder, sending a dull jolt through Alric’s pauldron. “Fair enough. You’re braver than most, but even you have your limits, eh?”
Alric gave a dry smirk. “I prefer ghosts where I can stab them, not trip over them in the dark.”
“Wise man,” Garron said, already pushing the scattered papers into a rough pile. “We’ll gear up properly at dawn. Bring a lantern, a sword, and a prayer, just in case.”
He stretched, bones creaking like old floorboards, then nodded toward the back of the guild hall. “But for now, forget Crimson Crow. Come grab a beer with me. The records can wait, and I think we’ve earned a drink.”
Alric hesitated—then rolled his shoulders and stood with a grunt. “If you’re buying.”
Garron grinned. “I always buy. That way I get to complain about the tab.”
They stepped out of the dusty archive room together, the door creaking shut behind them.
The lamplight flickered one last time over the abandoned records, still and silent—until the wind outside howled a little louder, as if something out there had been listening all along…
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