A man stepped forward, a falcon perched calmly on his shoulder. "We weren't looking for trouble."
Lucien's eyes narrowed, his ice blade raising toward him. Though he spoke the Empire's tongue, a faint foreign accent clung to his words.
"And why should I believe that?" Lucien scoffed. "You've been skulking in the shadows like thieves."
The man and his companions dropped their weapons. Metallic clattered against the ground. "We only wished to confirm whether you were truly the Imperial Prince and Lady Roschella. We did not expect to encounter you here."
A pale glow shimmered through the man's glove, forming the outline of an eagle with wings spread wide—the same mark Tristan branded upon him.
Tristan's mercenaries.
Lucien's grip tightened on the sword. "And why did you need to confirm whether I was the prince at all?"
A woman stepped forward, drawing a parchment engraved with code symbols from her magical ring. "We received this three days ago—an order from the mercenary founder himself to begin searching for you."
Lucien regarded them in silence. Every sign pointed to his brother's mercenary network, but after his knights' betrayal, trust was impossible.
"So you're saying you came here specifically to look for me?" Lucien asked.
"No," the falcon-bearing man shook his head. "Our unit was deployed to investigate this forest. But mercenaries across the continent received an additional directive: to locate you if possible."
Lucien's brow furrowed. "Investigate what?"
The timing was too convenient. And the fact that the cult hadn't pursued him at all only sharpened the unease coiling in his gut.
"I'm sorry," the man bowed apologetically, "but that information is classified."
He wanted to press further, but as a Private Military Contractor in his previous life, he understood the ethic: operational details were not to be shared with unauthorized third parties. And truthfully, he wasn't sure he wanted to know what Tristan and his mercenaries were involved in.
Lucien exhaled slowly through his nose. "Fine. Then tell me this: when did your mission begin?"
"We've been stationed here for three weeks now."
Lucien's gaze sharpened. Three weeks ago…
That was the day he and Tristan visited the plaza. Someone had reported something then… could it be related to this unit's deployment?
Lucien clicked his tongue in annoyance. He was thinking something useless again…
"The founder's orders came three days ago?" he repeated.
"Correct."
Today marked the fourth day since his abduction. If his mother sent a message to Cyrus the moment he disappeared, it would have arrived the next day—the same day Tristan issued the command. Which meant Tristan's letter would have reached them two days ago.
The timeline aligned perfectly.
Lucien's grip tightened on the hilt. He still didn't believe them—not even slightly. But with whatever the cult was planning against Zerounix and Solairé, wasting time was a luxury he could not afford.
He let out a slow breath and lowered his sword. Frost melted between his fingers. "You may lower your hands."
Tristan, I'm trusting this because they're yours.
The mercenaries exchanged nervous looks before eventually complying.
"First of all, where are we?"
The falcon-bearer inclined his head. "Vasch Forest, southern outskirts of the Zerounix Kingdom."
Lucien's jaw tightened. He had already suspected they were no longer in the Empire, but Zerounix? According to the novel, the cult had countless hideouts across the continent, yet why bring him here?
Returning to the man, Lucien asked, "So, what are the founder's orders now that you've found me?"
"We are to escort you back to Lumière."
He arched a brow, "And abandon your mission?"
The man shook his head, "No. Only the two of us will escort you," he gestured toward the woman beside him. "The rest would continue the operation."
Lucien stared at them in silence before sighing. "Fine. I'll let you escort us." His eyes narrowed, voice cold. "But if you try anything funny, you'll pay dearly."
The falcon-bearer dipped his head without protest. "Understood."
A small tug at his shirt drew Lucien's attention. Roschella's fingers tightly knotted in the fabric, her wide eyes brimming with unease.
His expression softened. "It's alright," he whispered, so only she could hear. "Even if you don't trust them, you can trust me." He extended his hand toward her. "If anything happens, I'll protect you."
Her lips pressed together—his reassurance still didn't fully reach her. After a beat, she exhaled and placed her trembling hand in his.
Lucien guided her forward, his spinning ice blades dissolving into mist as they approached the mercenaries. "Is there a physician among you?"
The woman from earlier raised her hand. "I am."
Lucien studied her for a long moment before speaking again. "Her vocal cords seem injured. Can you treat her?"
The woman stepped forward, stopping at a respectful distance. "May I?"
Roschella glanced at him, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. He gave a firm nod, and though hesitant, she sank onto a nearby rock—still refusing to let go of his hand.
The physician lifted her palm, murmuring an incantation. Soft light flared beneath her hand, washing Roschella's throat in a gentle glow. It pulsed once, steadied, then slowly dimmed.
Lowering her hand, the woman straightened. "Her ladyship's vocal cords are intact. Physically, she is unharmed. Most likely, it is trauma. And that…" A quiet sigh escaped her. "I'm afraid magic cannot heal."
Roschella's shoulders slumped, her head bowing as her grip tightened around his hand. He had expected this outcome, yet hearing it aloud struck harder than he thought.
"Will her voice return?" he asked.
"It may, or it may not. That depends on her ladyship and what she must overcome."
"I see." Lucien drew a slow breath. "You've done your part. Thank you."
The physician bowed lightly. "As you—"
"Uh!" Roschella shot to her feet, startling everyone. She jabbed a finger at his abdomen, then spun to the physician, pointing even more insistently. "A! Ah!"
The physician blinked, then shifted her gaze to Lucien. "Your Highness… you're injured?"
Roschella snapped her head back toward him, eyes blazing—demanding the truth. At that look, Lucien had an absurd feeling she would yell at him if he dared lie.
He sighed, defeated. "…yes."
The physician stepped forward. At her signal, Lucien reluctantly eased himself onto the ground. Roschella sank with him, still refusing to release his hand.
The physician carefully unwrapped the bandages. The moment the wound was exposed, surprise flickered across her expression. Lucien's jaw clenched, a low grunt escaping him when she pressed near the swollen edge.
"The flesh is inflamed," she said gravely. "The pus indicates infection. If left untreated, fever and blood poisoning would follow. It could cost Your Highness your life within days."
Roschella gasped, dread laced her features.
Noticing, the physician offered a reassuring smile. "Be at ease, my lady. His Highness will be healed in no time."
She retrieved a small kit from her magic ring and leaned over Lucien's wound. A hiss escaped between his teeth as she pressed, squeezing out the trapped pus. Only when the infection was fully drawn did she lift her hand, a pale glow spilling from her palm as she held it over his abdomen.
After a long, tense moment, she exhaled softly. "It's done."
Lucien pushed himself upright with Roschella's help. His gaze fell to his abdomen. The wound had closed, leaving a fresh scar among many.
"There was poison," the physician explained, "but your quick use of herbs slowed its spread. It hadn't yet reached your vital organs." She turned to Roschella with a gentle nod. "You may rest easy now, my lady. His Highness has been healed."
Roschella's eyes shimmered with relief. She offered a trembling smile and shaped the words with her lips: [Thank you.]
"It is my pleasure."
With a bow, the physician excused herself and returned to the group.
Lucien tugged his shirt down with his free hand. A faint scribble on his palm caught his eye: [How are you feeling?]
He looked up to find Roschella watching him, a warm smile curving her lips. Somehow, his chest tightened with guilt every time he saw her smile.
"I'm alright," he said finally, though the words felt hollow. "…But your voice…"
Her smile faltered, lashes lowering. For a moment, she didn't move—only silence and the faint squeeze of her fingers. Then she exhaled softly and pressed another word.
[The physician said it is up to me. So, I'll work hard to regain my voice.] She lifted her head and offered a steady smile.
Lucien met her morganite eyes, recognizing the same quiet resilience he'd seen in the cult's hideout. Her unwavering strength wasn't sudden—it was simply who she was.
He returned the smile. "I believe you… and I look forward to hearing your voice again."
"Let's go," Lucien rose, pulling her with him.
With that, they approached the group. The mercenary turned and bowed as they drew closer.
The leader stepped forward. "Your Highness, before we start the journey, may I ask something?"
"Speak."
"Where did Her Ladyship obtain the robe she is wearing?
Lucien moved ahead, shielding Roschella behind him, his eyes narrowing. "Why?"
Roschella wore the only robe; his, mud-soaked, had been burned alongside her inner dress to erase any trace of their passage.
The man hesitated, his expression shifting as he weighed his answer. After a brief pause, he spoke again, "We are currently looking for someone wearing a similar robe."
Lucien's brow furrowed. "…does your mission also include searching for their hideout?"
The man nodded firmly. "Yes."
Lucien's frown deepened. Something didn't add up…
"Before I answer your question, I'd like one in return." Lucien drawled, "Who sent you to investigate this forest? The founder—or someone else?"
Suppose it was the latter, fine. But what had the cult done to provoke such a response? In the original timeline, they kept a low profile until Tristan's confrontation in the original story.
If this operation was under Tristan's orders… why? Tristan wasn't supposed to start hunting them until much later. Why move now?
He knew the story had changed, but the pacing of events felt drastically accelerated.
"I apologize, Your Highness," the man replied, his posture stiff. "That information is classified."
One corner of Lucien's lips curled. Ah… that's how he wants to play. Fine.
Lucien shrugged. "A shame. The cult kidnapped us, and I know the exact location of their hideout. But good luck figuring it out." The man opened his mouth, but he cut it off. "So," Lucien shifted casually, "how far is the nearest harbor?"
The mercenary looked at him with a complicated expression before exhaling slowly. "Including the journey out of this forest, three to four days on horseback."
"I see," Lucien murmured, then turned his eyes to the eagle perched on his shoulder. "Can I write a letter to my family?"
The man nodded. "Yes, Your Highness may."
"One more thing." Lucien continued, "While we travel to the harbor, prepare two galleons—each staffed with a hundred and fifty mercenaries experienced in naval combat, along with provisions for three weeks."
The man's brow creased. "If Your Highness intends to return to Lumière, the Rebirth Mercenary Company can arrange everything. There is no need for it."
Lucien shook his head. "I'm not returning to Solairé. I'll be heading to Estrine."