The hunting grounds stretched wide beneath a pale autumn sky, banners snapping sharply in the wind as if the heavens themselves were eager for spectacle. Horses stamped. Armor clinked. Laughter rang sharp and hollow among men who had never known hunger, never known chains.
And among them stood Lucien.
Not in riding leathers.
Not in tailored hunting attire stitched with house insignias.
But in a black butler's uniform—immaculate, pressed, the silver embroidery at his cuffs catching the morning light like restrained steel.
He stood straight, gloved hands resting lightly at his sides, posture refined, gaze calm.
And he could feel them staring.
"Is that… a servant?"
"A butler?"
"For House Valeris?"
"How laughable."
Their whispers carried like gnats—persistent, irritating, meaningless.
Lucien did not look at them.
He did not need to.
He had survived auction blocks. He had survived collars. He had survived being passed from hand to hand like an object that did not bleed.
The scorn of pampered nobles was… decorative.
Still.
His fingers brushed his forehead—lightly, unconsciously.
There.
Where her lips had touched.
The memory struck sharper than the wind.
Lady Niana.
Standing on her toes.
Determined.
Flustered.
Soft.
He closed his hand.
Focus.
The horn had not yet sounded. Representatives mounted their horses, adjusting reins and bows. Servants hurried. Ladies stood beneath parasols, offering embroidered handkerchiefs and ribbons—tokens of favor tied carefully around wrists and weapons.
Lucien had none.
He required none.
His mistress's order was clear.
Win it for me.
That was enough.
A horse snorted near him.
Hooves circled.
Lucien did not turn his head, but the presence loomed large enough to block the sun.
"Well," came a drawling voice from above, "I suppose even the Valeris have fallen low enough to send servants into sport."
Lucien lifted his gaze slowly.
A nobleman, draped in emerald riding attire, gold threading at the collar. His bow alone likely cost more than the average estate's yearly income. His expression curved in thin amusement.
Lucien bowed—precisely fifteen degrees.
"My lord."
"You plan to compete in that?" the noble gestured to his uniform with theatrical disdain. "Or are you simply here to polish someone's boots in the forest?"
Soft laughter from nearby riders.
Lucien folded his hands neatly before him.
"I apologize if my attire causes discomfort, my lord," he replied, voice smooth as poured tea. "I was unaware that fabric determined competence."
A few snickers died abruptly.
The noble's smile thinned.
"Mind your tongue."
"Forgive me. It is a butler's failing to speak plainly when addressed."
His tone was mild. Perfect. Harmless.
Inside—
Inside, Lucien imagined how easily he could pull the man from that saddle.
How quickly he could break a wrist.
How cleanly a blade could slide beneath ribs.
His former master had trained him well.
But Prince Kael had saved him from becoming nothing more than that weapon.
So he remained still.
The noble's irritation sharpened. He guided his horse closer, towering.
"You forget your place."
Lucien's eyes lifted slightly.
"I am exactly where I should be."
The blade was drawn so suddenly that several nearby gasped.
Steel gleamed inches from Lucien's throat.
The noble's voice dropped low.
"A servant competing among us is insult enough. But answering back?"
Lucien did not flinch.
Not when steel reflected in his eyes.
Not when death hovered at his neck.
He had been threatened by men far crueler.
If this blade moved, the noble would not survive the second that followed.
Lucien calculated angles.
Distance.
Speed.
He did not even need to shift his stance.
Then—
"How vulgar."
A new voice.
Cool. Unhurried.
The blade paused mid-air.
Lucien's gaze shifted—finally turning his head.
A young man stood several paces away, leading a dark bay horse by the reins.
Red hair.
Not copper.
Not auburn.
But a striking, vivid crimson that caught sunlight like flame licking through silk.
His features were refined—elegant jawline, sharp eyes half-lidded in mild disapproval. His hunting attire was tailored to perfection, but lacked excessive ornamentation. His posture alone commanded attention.
And silence.
Even the wind seemed to hesitate.
The noble stiffened.
"You—"
The red-haired man tilted his head slightly, as if bored already.
"Threatening a participant before the horn sounds?" His voice carried just enough for surrounding nobles to hear. "I did not realize this competition had lowered its standards to street theatrics."
The noble's face paled.
Red hair.
An omen.
A whisper of misfortune.
Superstition ran deep among those who feared what they could not control.
The noble clicked his tongue and sheathed his blade with unnecessary force.
"Tch. Not worth my time."
His horse turned sharply, retreating with wounded pride.
Lucien watched him go without expression.
Then he turned to the red-haired man and bowed.
"My gratitude."
The young man studied him.
Slowly.
Not with mockery.
Not with curiosity.
With… assessment.
"You did not flinch," he observed.
"It would have been discourteous to interrupt him mid-sentence."
A pause.
Then—
A faint smile.
Small.
Genuine.
"How disciplined."
Lucien met his gaze evenly.
"Habit."
The red-haired man mounted his horse in one fluid motion.
"Try not to die in that uniform, Butler."
Lucien inclined his head.
"I will do my utmost to remain presentable."
The corner of crimson lips lifted again—barely.
Then he rode away, reins loose, posture relaxed as though the world could not touch him.
Whispers followed him.
"Red hair…"
"Unlucky…"
"Why is he even here…"
Lucien's eyes narrowed slightly.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
The horn finally sounded.
Long.
Deep.
Resonant.
The air changed instantly.
Laughter died.
Smiles sharpened.
Horses reared slightly in anticipation.
Lucien mounted without flourish. Clean. Efficient. Controlled.
He adjusted the reins.
And once more—
His fingers brushed his forehead.
Her kiss had been impulsive.
Soft.
Unthinking.
He had not prepared for that.
It unsettled him more than blades ever could.
He inhaled slowly.
Exhaled.
This was simple.
Track.
Hunt.
Win.
Bring the holy artifact to Lady Niana.
That was his purpose.
The gates opened.
Hooves thundered forward in a storm of dust and pride.
Lucien moved with them—
Silent.
Precise.
Unbothered by scorn.
Unbothered by superstition.
A butler among wolves.
And the forest swallowed them whole.