Han Jae-min drifted into sleep faster than he ever had in his life. He had not even remembered closing his eyes; one moment he lay staring at the ceiling of his cramped room in Seoul, and the next, his mind was swallowed in darkness. There was no dream, no fluttering of images, no slow sinking—only a sudden fall.
When he opened his eyes again, it was Lucien Graves who breathed into the cold morning air, not Jae-min. His boots rested on the uneven cobblestones of Riverside Quarters. The sky above was washed in gray, streaks of smoke rising from chimneys. Children darted past, shouting as they chased one another through alleys. The world smelled faintly of stale ale and river dampness.
Lucien touched the pouch at his hip. The coins Lady Elowen Valebridge had pressed into his palm were still there. He drew it open, the clink of gold echoing softly. Strange, how the sound of money could feel heavier than steel.
He remembered Elowen's expression when she had given it to him—not pity, not contempt, but something quieter. A gesture that expected nothing in return. Nobles rarely gave without a price attached, yet she had. Why?
She is not like her father, Lucien thought. He could still see the Duke's sneer as his hand struck her cheek. The violence had been casual, thoughtless. That she had endured it with such calm made Lucien's chest tighten in a way he could not name. She carried her pain in silence, and in that silence, she resembled him.
And Corin—the trembling boy who had knelt before her as though she were a saint descending. Lucien's lips curved faintly. There was loyalty there, the kind that burned hot, reckless and untrained. Perhaps the boy would grow into something sharp if the world did not break him first.
But Lucien had no use for sentiment. The streets were not kind to the sentimental. They devoured such people whole.
He turned his gaze back to the pouch. The money would not last forever, but it was enough to buy him something he had not had in a long time: walls and a roof.
---
The lodging house leaned at an angle as if time itself had bent its spine. Its sign, painted in curling letters, declared: Rooms by Week or Month. Inside, the stench of boiled cabbage clung to the walls, and the wooden counter bore scars from years of elbows and spilled drink.
The landlord looked up, his eyes gleaming the instant they caught the glint of Lucien's coin pouch.
"Looking for a room?" he said, tone oiled with false geniality.
Lucien nodded. "For rent. How much?"
The man tapped his chin as if weighing carefully, though the twitch of his eyes betrayed him. "Two silver a week for the ground floor—though it's a bit damp. Five silver for the middle. If you want the top floor, quiet, with a window… one gold coin a month."
Lucien unfastened the pouch and began counting coins slowly. The golden gleam made the man's throat bob. Lucien could see the thoughts flicker in his gaze: I could raise the price. He looks like he can pay more.
Lucien's hand stilled. His eyes lifted and met the landlord's.
The man froze. Lucien's gaze was steady, unblinking, as if it could bore through skin into marrow. The landlord felt, absurdly, as if something were pulling at him, a black emptiness tugging from behind those dark irises. His greed shriveled under it.
"One gold," the man said quickly, voice cracking. "As agreed."
Lucien placed the coin on the counter with deliberate calm. "The top floor."
The man shoved the key toward him and looked away, as though relieved to no longer be the focus of that gaze. Lucien collected it without a word and ascended the narrow stairs.
The room was small, with walls stained by age and a window that overlooked the crooked veins of Riverside below. Yet it was quiet, and in the quiet Lucien felt a faint stirring of something unfamiliar—safety, or something close enough to mimic it.
Strange, he thought, setting his bundle down. Four walls, a door, and suddenly a man pretends he belongs to the world.
---
Coins still weighed down his pouch. Enough for food. Enough to remind him that Elowen's hand had steadied him when she had pressed them into his palm. He clenched his jaw. Gratitude was a dangerous thing; it bound you more tightly than chains.
He left the room and walked into the heart of the market.
The street was alive with merchants' cries, voices layering into a cacophony. A baker thrust warm loaves at passersby, the crusts browned from the oven. The smell struck Lucien hard—memories stirred, unbidden. He saw for a moment his mother's hands dusted with flour, a kitchen table, laughter he had not heard in years. He shut the memory out.
"One loaf," he said, voice flat.
The baker's wife smiled brightly, unaware of the ghosts behind his eyes. "Three copper for plain. Six for rye."
He slid six copper across. The loaf was placed into his hands, still warm.
Next, a vegetable seller. Carrots, onions, and a bundle of leeks. Lucien pointed at each.
"How much?"
"A copper each for the carrots, two for onions, three for the leeks."
The man's gaze lingered on Lucien's face. People always stared too long, as if they sensed something coiled just beneath his skin. Lucien ignored it, laid down the coins, and moved on.
At the butcher's, he bought half a pound of salted pork for eight copper. The butcher's hands were thick, his apron stained. He did not bother with words, only wrapped the meat and handed it over. Lucien almost respected him for that—honest labor, honest silence.
---
When he returned to his room, his arms full of food, the silence welcomed him like an old friend. He set the loaf, vegetables, and meat carefully on the table, each motion deliberate.
He filled the pot with water, lit the small iron stove, and began to chop vegetables with slow precision. The rhythm of the knife was steady, grounding. For a long time, Lucien had lived in motion—streets, shadows, survival. Now, for the first time, he could breathe without looking over his shoulder.
The broth began to bubble, steam rising in soft curls. The scent of onions and leeks filled the small room, warming the air.
Lucien sat back in the wooden chair and let his gaze rest on the simmering pot.
He thought of Corin, kneeling. Of Elowen, her head bowed beneath her father's hand yet unbroken. Of the Duke, a man so drunk on power he could not see how meaningless it was to those who had looked into the abyss and survived.
And of the landlord—weak men, Lucien mused, were always eager to clutch at scraps of power. They measured worth in coins and missed the shadows that swallowed them whole.
Lucien closed his eyes for a moment. For the first time in a long while, he was not running, not fighting, not bleeding. Only sitting, with food and silence and walls.
It was enough. For now.