With that declaration, Presley ran off, slamming the door with a powerful thud that echoed through the chamber like a final insult. The heavy scent of spilt wine still clung to him, soaking into his clothes and stinging his eyes. His face was twisted with rage and disbelief—an affronted mask of a man who believed himself an untouchable mouthpiece of nobility.
How dare he disobey his liege?
How dare he defy the Church!?
The furious thoughts whirled through Presley's mind like a storm as he stomped through the grand halls of Lucien's estate, crimson stains blooming across his once-pristine tunic. He clutched the ruined parchment with trembling hands, half-tempted to tear it apart then and there. But no—he would deliver his message. The duke would hear of this.
Back in the study, Lucien slowly eased back into his chair, its leather groaning beneath him as he slouched and stared up at the wooden ceiling above. The shadows danced gently across the beams from the hearth's glow, flickering like old memories resurfacing from a grave he thought sealed.
"…What did I just get myself into…"
He laughed quietly, the sound rough, sardonic. One hand rose to cover his face, fingers splayed across tired eyes as the sharp edge of his headache finally receded. A war was brewing, and he could feel it in his bones—like an old wound reopening.
Then a voice rang through the thick silence, hesitant but determined.
"Should I… prepare the soldiers, my lord?"
Lucien didn't answer right away. Instead, he chuckled—low and deliberate—before straightening in his seat. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as his crimson eyes gleamed, already dancing ahead in time, plotting.
"Of course," he said smoothly. "I'm glad to have a servant as active as you…"
A cold, predatory smile curled across his lips. His gaze fell on something lying half-buried beneath other documents on his desk—a letter. A familiar one. The parchment was slightly yellowed with age, but the imperial seal was untouched, unbroken, pressed neatly into the wax with the crest of the royal guard.
"Vivienne…"
Her name slipped from his mouth like a secret confession, equal parts pain and curiosity.
He reached for the letter with reverent hesitation, fingertips brushing the edges before lifting it carefully from the clutter. The wax stamp shimmered faintly in the firelight—an old emblem of trust, now dusted with the irony of time. The envelope's weight stirred a strange nostalgia in him.
"If I remember correctly…" he murmured to no one, "she wasn't the head of the royal guard yet at this point in time…"
He paused, thumb brushing the seal.
"More importantly… she was my closest ally…"
Lucien exhaled, the breath tight in his chest. He reached for the silver letter opener on his desk, the blade catching the light. With a quiet snick, he slit the envelope open and drew out the folded contents, the parchment cool and crisp despite its age.
I never got the chance to open this in my first life…
I was too busy packing what little I could before I was forced to flee this estate…
Lucien carefully flattened the letter on the desk, fingers smoothing out the faint creases. He slid on his reading glasses with the unconscious familiarity of habit and began to read.
"Dear Lucien—"
It feels like ages since we last fought side by side against the southern tribes. I still remember how you made that arrogant commander eat dirt—I've told the story more times than I can count.
I've mentioned you to my parents more than once, and now they're terribly curious. They've asked to meet you in person, and I promised I'd extend the invitation. If you're free, they'd love to have you at our estate on Fielden (Wednesday), around the eighteenth hour.
I do hope you'll come. I think they're expecting some war hero in shining armor—let's not disappoint them, shall we?
Warmly,
Vivienne Alarys Demerell
Lucien's hands trembled faintly as he lowered the letter, the words echoing in his mind like a ghost's voice. He sat there in silence for a long moment, then carefully slid the letter beneath a stack of correspondence, placing it gently alongside others—some unread, others forgotten in the chaos of war.
His expression softened, just slightly—a flicker of something unguarded—but the coldness in his eyes remained untouched.
"Fielden, huh…?"
He glanced at the grandfather clock ticking softly by the window.
"That's later tonight…"
Lucien turned his gaze toward the tall panes of glass, sunlight still pouring in bright and golden. Birds chirped merrily outside, indifferent to the turmoil inside. It was still morning. Still peaceful. And in this timeline… he was still a respected duke. Not a traitor. Not a fugitive. Not a madman.
"Guess I'll take her up on that offer."
He tapped his fingers against the desk again, this time more thoughtfully than before.
"Might even get an alliance…"
His voice trailed off as his thoughts wandered. Not to war, not to politics—but to her. To Vivienne. Not the hardened war-hound who had tried to cleave his skull in two during his last moments—but the woman who once laughed beside him over wine and firelight.
He tilted his head, jaw tensing slightly.
"I still remember the bloodlust," he whispered darkly, "even after I took your life with my own hand…"
A low, bitter chuckle escaped him, heavy with memory.
Not yet.
This time, it wasn't too late.