Lucien's body stiffened the moment his eyes landed on the young lady sleeping beside him. The damp cloth slipped from his fingers and fell to his chest.
He lifted his gaze to the cave's ceiling, hand raking through his hair.
I don't remember…
The last thing he recalled was Roschella fastening his bandage and then—nothing. Just blank.
But does a lack of memory absolve the offense? Does unconsciousness excuse the ruin?
Her gentle, steady breathing suddenly felt deafening. The warmth from her body against his side, their loosely entwined fingers, her arm draped across his torso—none of it could be ignored.
Lucien swallowed a groan.
He dragged his hand down his face. No—don't jump to conclusions. He was not that kind of man. Assess the situation first.
Lucien carefully tried to disentangle their hands, but her brows twitched at the slightest movement.
He stilled.
When her breathing steadied again, he slowly pushed himself upright—only for pain to sear through his abdomen. A hiss broke out of him as he clutched his stomach and slumped back against the cold stone wall.
Something soft cushioned his fingers. He glanced down, noticing the padding beneath him was Roschella's inner skirt. His gaze swept across the cave: no remnants of a fire, just their boots and gloves scattered nearby.
Outside, fog clung low to the forest floor, veiling the trees in shifting grey. Droplets slid from broad leaves and tapped softly against the ground.
So it rained last night—
A faint sound tugged his attention back to her. Her eyes fluttered open, and their gazes collided.
For a heartbeat, she simply stared.
"Er, good morning?" he muttered, unsure what to say.
Her eyes widened, and she jolted upright. Tears gathered, spilling over as she covered her face with both hands. Wrenching sobs tore out of her throat, muffled against her palms. She rumbled something beneath her cries, but he couldn't decipher it.
Lucien's expression softened at her shuddering frame. …a psychological release.
It was no wonder. She dragged his deadweight, shivered in the dark, and nursed him all night—alone, exhausted, terrified. Anyone would break.
He wished he knew how to comfort her. If it were Roseanne, he would pull her close, but Roschella was a different matter entirely. He had held her before, true, but those were purely survival reflexes, not intentional.
And after what happened last night, he couldn't risk complicating things further. The political implications alone pressed against his ribs like a quiet, suffocating weight.
Lucien fumbled in his trousers and produced a folded square of pale linen—her handkerchief. He offered it to her. "Please don't cry, I am all right. Thank you… for taking care of me."
Fortunately, he washed it beforehand.
Her tears persisted, but after a moment, she lowered her hands and took it with a subtle nod. She scrubbed at her cheeks, trying to regain control. Though she had stopped crying, her shoulders still hitched with residual sobs.
She glanced at him and gestured toward his forehead, "Ah, aah?"
Lucien touched the spot, "My fever has gone down," he said—still lingering, but manageable.
Then she pointed at his hand. He extended it without hesitation. The moment her bare fingertip pressed into his palm, a faint warmth bloomed beneath her touch.
[I'm sorry for touching without permission last night.]
Lucien's expression softened. "It's alright, last night must've been cold, right?"
Roschella dipped her head, embarrassed, before writing again. [How is your wound?]
"I haven't checked it yet," he admitted. "We need to find water to cleanse it."
At least the venom wasn't lethal, small mercy.
[Should we move now—]
Her stomach answered for her.
A loud growl broke the quiet, and she froze mid-gesture.
Mortified, she whipped around with her back to him, burying her face in the handkerchief. A soft pink crept across the tips of her ears.
Lucien blinked, startled for a heartbeat, then let out a quiet breath that might've been a laugh.
"I see," he murmured. "So that's the real emergency."
Thinking back, their last proper meal had been breakfast at the cult hideout the previous morning.
She mumbled something into the cloth, shaking her head vigorously. She still refused to face him, as though the handkerchief could swallow her whole.
"There's nothing to be embarrassed about," he said calmly. "Truthfully, I'm hungry too."
Roschella froze at his admission. Slowly—very slowly—she peeked over her shoulder, only one eye visible above the handkerchief.
He gave her a small smile and offered his hand. "Shall we move, then?"
Her gaze flicked from his hand to his face. After a moment's hesitation, she reached out—tentatively, almost shyly—and placed her hand in his.
After putting on their gloves and boots, they climbed down from the cave. The fog dampened every sound, leaving the forest wrapped in an uneasy hush. Only the wet squelch of mud beneath their boots and the faint buzz of insects broke the silence.
They encountered a few monsters along the way, but Lucien dispatched them swiftly, though he could feel his mana draining faster than usual, thanks to the Leyline.
Still, unease coiled in his chest.
Before they leapt from the waterfall, he'd seen monsters surging after them, yet there had been no sign of pursuit since. Given the cult's nature, they wouldn't simply give up.
Lucien ran a hand through his hair. Something's wrong…
"A, aah?"
He glanced over. Roschella was tilting her head, concern etched on her features.
Lowering his hand, Lucien shook his head, "It's nothing."
She didn't look convinced, but she didn't press the matter either, turning her gaze back to the path ahead.
His eyes fell to their joined hands. Only then did it strike him: he had never once walked side by side with a woman, much less through a forest crawling with monsters.
A gentle tug on his hand snapped him back. He turned to find Roschella pointing toward a bush in the distance, its branches sagging beneath clusters of ripe berries.
Lucien narrowed his eyes, studying the foliage. "Those are safe," he murmured. "Wild raspberries. Edible."
Her face brightened, and they moved toward the bush—
A subtle ripple brushed against his senses.
Lucien stilled, bringing Roschella to a halt. She glanced up at him, puzzled.
Ignoring her questioning look, he strained his senses, sweeping the treeline's shadows. Speak of devils, and surely they appear.
He returned his attention to her. "When I count to three, get behind me."
Surprise flickered in her eyes, but she nodded.
"One," he began.
"Two," his voice dropped into incantation, Mana gathering in the air.
"Three!"
Roschella darted behind him, hands clutching his shirt. Several ice swords bloomed at once, spinning in a tight horizontal ring around them.
"Show yourself!" Lucien's command cut through the fog, an ice blade forming in his grasp.
A breathless pause.
Then the bushes parted.
Five figures stepped into view with hands raised. Olive-skinned, dark-haired, dark-eyed—clearly not natives of the Empire. Their light armor, devoid of any crest, told the rest.
Mercenaries.