Lucien sighed as he stood up, the weight of memory pressing lightly on his shoulders. He opened one of the drawers beside his desk and retrieved a royal mantle—deep black velvet lined with crimson satin, the rich hue a mirror of his eyes. He swept it over his grey tunic, the fabric settling across his frame with practiced ease, like the return of an old role he no longer fully recognized.
"A walk would be nice…"
A faint grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he moved from the study, striding down long corridors wreathed in morning light. The halls echoed with his steps, their high ceilings and stone pillars dressed in tapestries and sigils of his lineage—dragons, shields, and fire. Soon, he reached the grand double doors at the estate's front, tall and carved from polished mahogany. As he approached, they swung open in perfect unison, guided by dutiful servants. Sunlight spilled through the opening, golden beams slicing across the marble floor and striking Lucien's face with warmth he hadn't realized he missed.
"Where are you going, my lord?"
The servant to the left asked with a respectful bow, hands clasped neatly behind his back, his eyes lowered in protocol.
"Just going on a walk," Lucien replied, voice calm—almost casual.
The servant on the right, sharper in posture, stepped to a nearby rack stationed just beside the door. Upon it hung a variety of arms, all polished and ceremonial yet functional. He selected a sword—neatly sheathed in an onyx-black scabbard adorned with subtle silver filigree—and presented it with both hands.
"Here, my lord."
Lucien accepted the weapon, fastening the scabbard to his hip with practiced grace. He offered a polite nod in return, lips still curved in a quiet smile—one he tried hard to maintain. A smile that once came naturally, now carefully constructed. Was he pretending to be his old self… or simply trying to remember who that was?
As he stepped into the open air, a soft breeze greeted him, carrying the earthy scent of dew-kissed fields and distant woodsmoke. Before him stretched wide farmland—expansive and orderly, dotted with swaying wheat, rows of vegetables, and windmills slowly turning under the morning sun. His estate wasn't grand by noble standards, but it was efficient, fortified, and strategically designed. He had traded grandeur for strength—and that strength had preserved his dominion.
To the east, nestled beside the estate, lay the town—a modest but vibrant settlement humming with industry and life. Its wealth came from fertile soil and tireless hands, its people loyal and well-fed. To the west, barely visible past the treetops, stood the beginning of Duke Brent's domain—shrouded by a dense forest that marked their territorial divide. The woods concealed not just land, but secrets—supply lines, soldiers, movements cloaked in shadow.
"How I missed this…"
Beyond the farming fields, Lucien's army stirred like a living organism. Units assembled with discipline—cavalry in polished armor, archers stringing their bows, pikemen forming tight formations, swordsmen sharpening their blades. They moved with quiet purpose toward the forest's edge, setting up barricades and fortifications, their banners rising high in the breeze. Upon each flag was his family's crest: a crimson dragon, fierce and forward-facing, poised before a blackened shield, all emblazoned on a clean grey field.
"I'm not going to let that bastard Brent take what is mine again…"
The words slipped from his lips like venom as he walked the leftward path, a cobblestone road flanked by hedgerows and guarded watchposts. He passed caravans carrying goods, merchants haggling over crates, and adventurers in worn leather headed to the frontier. His land was alive. Moving. Growing.
The town unfolded before him—a rustic mosaic of homes and shops, narrow alleys woven between low buildings of timber and stone. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the clang of forges echoed like a heartbeat. The blacksmiths were the pride of the region—renowned artisans who had outfitted armies and earned coin far beyond the duchy. As Lucien entered, townsfolk paused to bow or greet him, their expressions warm, voices cheerful.
Children scampered through the streets, and one small girl, no more than six, broke from the crowd. Her eyes were wide and shimmering with admiration as she held out a single tulip—its petals slightly wilted, the stem clutched in small, dirt-smudged fingers.
Lucien knelt and accepted it without hesitation, cradling the flower like a precious thing.
"How generous of you," he said softly. "Tell your parents they've raised a fine lass."
He smiled. And for a moment, even he wasn't sure whether it was real—or just another echo of a man long gone.
Nearby, on the edge of town, stood another estate—grander than most, its banners pristine, its windows polished like mirrors. It belonged to a baroness. One of his former vassals. Lady Josephine. She had betrayed him once—turned her allegiance to Duke Brent in his previous life, selling out her oath for false promises and safety.
It was her riders who opened the western gates while I was away—let in the bastard's men like honored guests…
"That reminds me…"
Lucien ruffled the girl's hair gently before turning toward the estate, the tulip still in hand, swaying faintly with each step.
A visit was long overdue.
"Lady Josephine… I truly wonder what caused you to rebel against me back then…"
His voice was a whisper, but his smile was sharp and cold.