Luke didn't walk into the chamber. He was pushed. Gently, but firmly, by the guards escorting him.
He staggered forward, catching himself with a hiss as the pain in his side flared again. Bandages wrapped around his chest beneath the rough tunic someone had dressed him in, but every breath reminded him that he was still broken.
Seven stab wounds. One blade had missed his lung by inches. He remembered that much—the copper taste in his mouth, the cold creeping in as his body started to give. Then the flash of steel that wasn't his, the chaos as Thorne arrived.
Now, he stood—barely—at the center of a stone chamber large enough to house ten families. The air was dry and smoky, the scent of burning cedar rising from a wide hearth. Tall windows filtered pale light across dark banners. Red flowers, petals of flame. The Emberlily sigil.
At the far end of the room, a tall man leaned against a carved table, one hand resting near a goblet of wine. Lord Emberlily. His attire was simple, wearing a well-made dark wool tunic and trousers, a muted cloak draped over his shoulders. The fabric, though unadorned, had a rich quality to it, suggesting careful attention to detail without being flashy. His hair, dark and slightly unkempt, fell around a face that could be described as sharply handsome, though his features were more stern than inviting. His eyes, a cold shade of grey, held a calculating look, sharp, observant, and always measuring. A few strands of silver threaded through his hair, betraying a man who had seen many years pass in service. Despite his relatively unpretentious appearance, there was an undeniable sense of authority that clung to him, as though his true power lay in being underestimated.
Lord Emberlily.
Luke didn't bow. Didn't speak. Just tried not to collapse.
"You look like death," the man said.
Luke blinked. The voice was colder than he expected, measured, aristocratic, but not theatrical. Just... efficient. Like a blade sharpened for function, not ceremony.
"I've felt better," Luke said hoarsely.
That earned a single raised brow from the noble.
"You speak strangely," Emberlily said. "Your tongue has the right shape, but none of the rhythm. What province are you from?"
Luke didn't answer.
The man studied him.
"No seal. No ring. Not even a guild mark. You're not a noble. Not a tradesman. You're not even a soldier. Yet you were found bleeding in my daughter's arms, soaked in blood and very much alive while three of her would-be killers lay dead nearby."
Luke shook his head slowly. "I didn't kill them."
"Oh?"
"Captain Thorne did. I just... bought her time."
"How?" Emberlily asked.
Luke hesitated. He didn't know what answer would help him here.
"I got in the way," he said. "Slowed them down."
The lord was silent for a time.
"You nearly died," he said. "Stabbed seven times, if the count of your wounds is accurate."
"Yeah," Luke muttered, his legs starting to tremble. "That's about right."
Lyra stood to the side, watching silently. She hadn't spoken since he was dragged in. Luke couldn't read her face. She hadn't looked away, but there was a wall behind her eyes now. Not fear. Not regret. Something more careful. Like she was waiting to see who he became now that the dying part was over.
"You're not from anywhere I know," Lord Emberlily said at last. "And that makes you dangerous."
Luke looked up. "I saved your daughter."
"And I thanked you by not letting you rot in some low quality clinic with no way to pay," Emberlily said flatly. "Let's not pretend this was charity. You saved my daughter, and I'm grateful for that. But now the question is whether you're someone I can use... or just a pain in my behind."
Luke clenched his jaw. His side throbbed. Every breath was work.
"I didn't ask to be part of this," he said.
"No one ever does," the lord replied.
A quiet beat.
"But here you are. Alive. That's more than I can say for most unarmed men who take on cutthroats."
Luke shook his head. "I'm not a fighter, I'd be dead if not for the quality of care."
"No," the man agreed. "But you didn't freeze in the moment, either. That tells me something."
Luke frowned. "What, that I'm brave?"
Emberlily's lips curled slightly. Not quite a smile.
"No," he said. "Only that you're not dead."
He turned away and picked up the goblet, swirling the wine.
"I have no idea what to do with you, Lucan. You're a blank page in a world full of scripts. No title, no bloodline, no sworn oaths. But perhaps... that makes you flexible."
"I'm not joining your army," Luke said. "Or your secret guard. Or your... whatever this is."
Before Luke could finish, one of the guards stepped forward, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword. "Watch your tongue, boy," he snapped.
But Emberlily cut him off, his voice colder than before. "I don't recall offering."
Silence again. Luke swayed slightly, and one of the guards took a step forward as if expecting him to drop.
"Rest, for now," the lord said at last. "You'll stay in the lower wing under watch. You leave the keep without permission, I'll consider it treason. I will treat you better than most for saving my daughter... but I won't let you wander free either."
Luke didn't move.
"Is that supposed to be mercy?"
"No," Emberlily said. "It's reality."
He set the cup down and looked at Luke one final time.
"Men like you don't fall from the sky without reason. I'll find out what yours is."
Then he turned his back.
A guard took Luke's arm and gently guided him toward the door. He didn't resist. Every step felt heavier than the last. But as he glanced back once, just once, he saw Lyra watching him still.
Her eyes gave nothing away.