Golden leaves crunched under Lucien's boots, curling like sleeping foxes. Thick moss hugged roots and stones, soft and damp beneath his feet. Above, the canopy barely let moonlight through, painting everything in muted amber. He could feel autumn creeping in, quiet, restless, and old as time.
With a mere thought, the trees responded to him, not out of obedience but recognition. A branch bent slightly ahead, clearing the way. Roots curled politely away from his path.
It wasn't a command, not really. The forest listened, as it always had, to one of its own.
Lucien walked with a slow, calculated gait, each step sinking him further into his thoughts. The emissary title had been laid down for now. His courtly obligations set aside like a too-heavy cloak. He wasn't needed at the High Lord's table this week. He wasn't wanted beside Elain either. She had grown weary of his presence, politely so, carefully distant.
He, in turn, had grown tired of pretending it didn't carve something hollow in his chest.
So he wandered.
Gladeport, a minor village barely brushing the edge of the map, had nothing special to offer but distance.
The forest began to thin, and soon, cobbled paths replaced moss and stone. His boots echoed as he stepped into the Gladeport proper, its streets modest and sleepy, sat quiet beneath the sea breeze. Locals glanced his way, then quickly looked elsewhere.
Not out of fear, but habit. They'd seen the likes of him before. Likely seen worse. But Gladeport had survived this close to the Wall by pretending it never saw anything at all.
Lucien didn't mind. The silence suited him.
That was why he chose this place to rest and think. Far from court politics, far from people who spoke in riddles and war plans, and far from a mate who couldn't even look at him. As though his life wasn't already a rotating court performance of betrayal, exile, and curses, the Cauldron had decided to toss him one last dagger, shaped like a bond he never asked for, tied to a fate he couldn't outrun.
Lucien scrubbed a hand over his face and forced the thoughts out of his mind.
A drink. Just a drink. No thinking. No remembering.
The Mossy Mugs stood half-sunken into ivy-covered stone, its sign crooked and painted with an ale mug that had clearly seen better days. The interior was dim, lit by uneven candlelight and a single hearth that wheezed more smoke than flame. The scent was a mixture of sour ale, roasted onions, and faint mildew.
Perfect. Almost empty. Just how he liked it.
A couple of tables were occupied by grumbling old villagers. A bard's lute leaned abandoned in a corner, beside a pot of dying fern. Behind the bar stood a tall woman with arms that could probably strangle a bear and eyes that looked like they'd done it before. She brought his drink without a word, save for a grunt that might've meant "here." Her emotions rolled off her in subtle waves.
An odd mix. Worry. A sliver of fear, not for him exactly. And a flick of something sharper. Annoyance. Directed not at him, but someone nearby.
He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Took a sip instead and welcomed the taste of something bitter.
He was content to sit and mope. A pastime he had mastered well.
Then the door opened.
He caught the scent before he saw her. A confusing swirl. Curiosity. Weariness. Fear, faint but flickering. Herbs, crushed and carried in cloth. Truffles. Ink. And citrus. Orange peels?
She walked in, a whirlwind of chaos dressed in a mortal body. Her dark hair was braided, though only barely. Strands fell out in places. The braid was tied with…were those vines? Her dress was a collection of sins against fabric: cat fur, crushed grass, and what looked like two stubborn dry leaves clinging to her hem.
He blinked. Did she wrestle a beast in the woods? And lose?
Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, time slowed. He saw the fear in her widen, the way her pupils dilated.
He was used to that. Mortals often looked at him like that.
The woman darted to the farthest table, rummaged her satchel and pulled some parchments and quill. She then began glancing his way every few moments like a nervous bird trying to steal seeds.
Lucien let out a soft exhale. A curious cat then. Definitely her first time seeing a fae up close.
He turned back to his drink. Whatever. Let her look.
And so the fae resumed his mourning, cloaked in amber silence, while a mess of truffles and citrus settled across the tavern.