After three more days, Lord Valemont departed for the capital. Lady Valemont and his eldest son, Eric, were left in charge of the estate.
Over the following months, Lucien divided his time between researching Tuberculosis, planning his next moves, and sparring with the best guards in the household.
Eric, on the other hand, spent his days training and his nights slipping into the nearby village of Ravenford. Rumors whispered that he was courting a blacksmith's daughter there — a scandalous affair for the heir of House Valemont.
Within four months, Lucien had developed three more cures: one for Pulmonary TB, another for Meningitis, and the third for Intestinal TB. He made no effort to summon Doctor Drummond again. His plan was to release each cure two years apart, allowing the doctor to enjoy fame and credibility before unveiling the next "miracle."
Drummond had already written to report the astounding success of his published cure for King's Evil. He had been celebrated across the kingdom and even received gifts from the royal court itself. In his letter, Drummond had offered to send Lucien his share of the coin, but Lucien declined.
"Keep it," he had written. "There's little profit in it yet, and I have no need for small change."
He was right. Few in the region suffered from the disease, and the money was trivial. But after three months of growing fame, both agreed that Drummond should relocate to the capital, where wealth, influence, and new patients would be plentiful.
With Martha now under his influence, Lucien quietly extended his reach through the rest of the servants. Within weeks, whispers flowed back to him like a steady current, gossip about household affairs, rivalries among the staff, and even his brother Eric's secret romance with a village girl.
It was then that Lucien decided to pay the village a visit. One calm afternoon, he departed the estate accompanied by Gregory, one of the household guards, and Joffrey, the boy he had cured of Scrofula. He went under the pretense of getting his sword reforged.
"You ever been to the village before, my Lord?" Joffrey asked, his voice bright with excitement as he adjusted himself on the horse Lucien had given him.
"It's been a while," Lucien said, glancing at the dirt road ahead. "If I remember correctly, the last time I was here, I was eight."
Gregory's face remained unreadable, though Lucien could sense his mild discomfort, perhaps he thought nobles had no business mingling with commoners.
"I hadn't reached the age where I could come here alone," Lucien added, half-smiling.
"The place has changed since then, my Lord," Gregory said. "The rebellion changed everything."
"I hear many from this village took part in it?"
"Yes," Gregory replied as their horses splashed through the shallow river crossing. "Some of my friends joined the rebels. A few didn't make it back."
"That's sad news, Gregory," Lucien said quietly. "This rebellion tore the realm apart. We're all still paying the price."
He could feel the tension between his companions — the subtle stiffness, the unspoken resentment that hung in the air. Most of the smallfolk still carried grudges against the nobility. Against the King who feasted in marble halls while his people starved in the mud.
As they entered the village, Lucien felt the weight of hostile stares. The villagers eyed his clean clothes, the healthy horses, the subtle insignia of nobility on his cloak. Hatred simmered in their gazes. Lucien didn't mind. He understood. The world, after all, was not meant to be fair.
If everyone were rich, who would till the land? If no one suffered, how would strength or ambition exist? The world needed balance — the master and the servant, the ruler and the ruled. That was order.
"The blacksmith lives just up ahead," Gregory said, steering his horse toward a forge at the far end of the village.
---
The forge was small but lively, filled with the clang of iron and the hiss of steam. For a village smith, the man seemed to be doing rather well for himself — the workshop was tidy, his tools well-kept, and the furnace burned strong.
Lucien studied him quietly. The blacksmith was in his forties, sweat glistening down his arms as he hammered a blade against the anvil.
He had the look of a man who'd started a family young, perhaps before he had even found his place in the world. His eyes were sharp and alert, but not deferential. He didn't bow when Lucien entered, didn't stop his work. That alone told Lucien what kind of man he was , one who respected effort, not titles.
The young lord didn't press him. He wasn't in the mood for conflict over pride. Instead, he took a slow look around the forge. Spears hung along the wall, shields stacked in the corner, and a fine selection of swords gleaming beneath the dim light.
One in particular caught his attention. A slender blade with a polished hilt and fine engravings along its fuller. He picked it up, testing its weight. It was balanced and light enough for a quick strike, yet solid enough to break bone.
He gave it a gentle swing. The hum of the steel cut through the air cleanly. He could tell the difference at once — this was no decorative weapon like those hanging in his father's hall. This was a warrior's tool.
Lucien smiled faintly, his reflection glinting in the metal.
"This one's fine work," he said aloud, though mostly to himself.
The blacksmith didn't look up. "Aye," he said between strikes. "Forged it for the captain of the guard. You're holding a soldier's blade, not a lord's toy."
Lucien's smile lingered with interest. The man spoke his mind, even to a noble. That made him useful.
"Merlin, isn't it?" Lucien said, stepping closer to the forge.
The blacksmith didn't look up. Sparks hissed as his hammer struck the glowing metal again and again.
"I'm here to have a sword forged," Lucien continued, his tone calm but carrying authority. Then, after a brief pause, he added, a little louder, "And to have a word with your daughter… if you don't mind, of course."
The rhythmic clang of metal stopped. For a moment, only the crackle of the furnace filled the silence. Merlin lifted his head slowly, his soot-streaked face glistening under the orange light. His eyes met Lucien's.
"My daughter?" the man said, setting the hammer aside. "And what business does a noble lord's son have with a blacksmith's girl?"
Lucien smiled faintly. "Personal business."
The answer wasn't arrogant but it was testing.
Gregory shifted uneasily behind him, sensing the tension. Even Joffrey, still adjusting his posture on the horse outside, seemed to feel it.
Merlin wiped his hands on a rag, his jaw tightening. "You nobles and your 'personal business' usually mean trouble."
Lucien stepped closer, unbothered by the tone. "I assure you, blacksmith, if I wanted trouble, I wouldn't be asking."
The man's gaze lingered for a moment longer before he finally nodded toward the back door. "She's inside."
Lucien inclined his head politely. "Much appreciated."
He turned and started toward the house, walking confidently like a young lord on his first act of quiet conquest.