Lucien lay flat on the bed.
Eyes open. Unmoving.
He wasn't angry anymore. Not really. The fury that once flared so easily had faded
He stared at the ceiling. Ornate. Gilded. Carved with care only the wealthy could afford. It was beautiful, sure. But lifeless. Like everything else in this damn estate.
He hadn't moved in an hour.
Not sleeping. Not thinking. Just existing.
Then—
Knock. Knock.
The sound didn't jolt him. It didn't pull him upright or jar him out of thought. It landed softly in the silence, like a stone dropped in still water.
Lucien sighed. Slowly rolled to his side. Stood. No hurry.
He didn't fix his hair. Didn't smooth his clothes. Just walked to the door and opened it.
And there she was.
Grace Rosedale.
Youngest sister of Baron Rosedale. Silver-blonde hair curled around her shoulders, gray eyes sharp and delicate all at once. Dressed modestly, but not plainly. Every inch of her posture screamed noble etiquette. Polite, rehearsed, emotionally restrained.
Lucien raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Didn't expect a Rosedale to knock."
Grace didn't flinch. "Dinner is being served," she said, voice quiet, almost hesitant. "My brother has requested your presence."
Lucien didn't move. His expression darkened, though his voice stayed dry.
"Oh? So now he wants to talk? What changed?" He tilted his head. "If I come to dinner, do I get to watch him kneel? Or is he only bowing tonight?"
Her expression barely shifted. But the flicker of discomfort was there. A subtle twitch at the corner of her mouth. She didn't rise to the bait. "No one's asking you to forgive anything," she said. "Only to show up."
Lucien stared at her for a long moment. Then, with a tired sigh, he stepped past her. "Fine. Let's get this over with."
They walked through the halls in silence.
Rosehall was quieter than usual. Not peaceful—tense. Like the walls had absorbed every cold stare, every whispered slight, every unspoken guilt and turned them into pressure. Even the chandeliers above seemed dimmer.
Finally, they reached the grand dining hall.
Lucien paused at the threshold.
It was just as grand as he expected. High ceilings. Long table. Too many chairs. The kind of room built to impress and intimidate in equal measure. Every plate gleamed. Every candle burned steady.
Everyone was already seated.
Titus sat near the head, no longer in armor, but dressed sharply. Relaxed, but alert. His eyes met Lucien's for a second—measured, not unkind.
Liz sat beside him. Tired, but composed. Her gaze flickered, and she gave a faint, polite nod.
Across from them was Alice. Poised as always. Her fork untouched. Her eyes didn't linger on Lucien for long—but they did meet his, briefly, with something unreadable.
Michael sat further down. His arm still in a sling, his posture stiffer than usual. But he nodded when Lucien entered—shy, almost apologetic.
There were others, too. Strangers.
Twins—boy and girl, maybe sixteen. Dressed in green and silver. Liz's siblings?
And one more—a man. Older. Stern. Broad-shouldered with a retainer's posture. A scar along his jaw. Likely the captain of the household guard.
But none of them mattered as much as the man at the head of the table.
Baron Rosedale.
The same man who'd tried to grab Lucien by the collar three days ago. Now dressed in full noble regalia, seated with perfect posture, his expression unreadable.
Lucien didn't speak. Didn't sit until Grace did.
Then the Baron rose to his feet.
He didn't raise a glass. Didn't offer a toast.
He just spoke.
"I've brought you here tonight," he began, voice calm, "not simply to eat. But to speak. To clarify. To atone, if that word still means anything."
Lucien didn't respond. Didn't blink.
The Baron went on.
"I won't excuse how I greeted you. I won't justify my suspicion. You saved my daughter. You fought beside my people. You bled so they wouldn't."
His voice tightened.
"And yet… even knowing all that, I still saw you first as what you were, not who you are."
Lucien's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
The Baron paused. Then:
"The nobility of this land failed you. We failed your people. We let greed and politics write history. We turned your clan into monsters—on parchment, in law, and in memory—because it was easier than facing what we'd done."
He bowed his head.
Fully.
No ceremony. No flourish.
Just honesty.
Lucien's breath caught—not because he was moved. But because it was the last thing he expected.
No one spoke.
Then the Baron raised his head.
"There's more," he said. "Word has reached us that Count Ravelin is en route."
Titus stiffened. Liz paled. Even Alice's brows drew together.
"He claims to want to trial you and the compensate you
Lucien laughed once—cold and sharp.
"So. Let me guess. You thought I was going to extort you?"
The Baron didn't flinch. "No. But I knew others might. I expected worse. And I let that expectation poison how I saw you."
Lucien leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping the edge of his plate. "So what now? You want to apologize and pretend we're allies?"
"No," the Baron said. "We want to offer you benefits
Lucien's eyes flicked between them.
Liz. Titus. Alice. Michael.
Even the twins, even the retainer.
None of them looked away.
"I should be flattered," Lucien said at last.
"No," the Baron replied. "You should be furious. And if you are—I will not blame you."
Titus spoke next. "I told him everything. What you did. What you risked."
Michael added, "Same. He needed to hear it."
Even Alice, though she hesitated, finally said: "You earned more than a thank you."
Lucien blinked slowly. It didn't feel like victory. Not exactly.
But it felt like something.
He looked around the table.
And for the first time… they looked back at him like he belonged there.
Not a weapon. Not a servant. Not a mistake.
A person.
Lucien exhaled through his nose.
Tapped the black ring once against his plate.
It pulsed—quietly. A heartbeat only he could feel.
Then, with a small smirk: "If Count Ravelin thinks I'm some random he can pass a couple coins too he will regret not killing me
Titus smiled faintly. "Then we make sure he never gets the chance."
Lucien raised his glass.
And for the first time since arriving in this foreign land—
He drank among equals.