The sound of a knife being drawn across the table was heard as Lucien paused right beside Elian's curled body.
His jaws clenched as he stared at the boy bleeding in front of him.
"I'll give you one last chance, young Morel," he said, lowering himself to a squat.
His hand shot out and gripped Elian's collar, pulling him back onto his knees.
Elian's body was going limp, swaying from side to side in Lucien's hold.
"Why did he poison me, Young Morel?" Lucien murmured darkly behind Elian.
Elian suddenly chuckled, causing Lucien to pause and narrow his eyes at him.
Lucien's eyes darkened. If there was one thing he never tolerated, it was insolence.
"A-ah!" A sharp gasp escaped Elian's lips as he suddenly felt the cold press of the sharp blade against his throat.
Lucien's hand slid down his chest with all the patience of a predator, pressing and holding him in place as he pressed the blade deeper against Elian's skin.
"Y-your grace..." Elian stammered as the warm crimson liquid trickled out from the small cut Lucien's blade had made.
"Understand this..." Lucien hissed close to Elian's ear, his blade showing no mercy as it dug deeper, pooling out more blood as if he was really going to cut him fully.
"Your life means less than a horse's dump. Now, you will do well to answer me rightly when I speak to you. Do you understand?" Lucien whispered darkly.
He could feel Elian's heartbeat against his hand on his chest.
It was fast, unsteady.
Good.
He was scared.
"Kill me, your grace. Kill me!" Elian suddenly snapped, heaving as he'd used his last strength to scream his lungs out in rage.
"Stop," Lucien raised his hand to Edgar, who was moving forward to teach Elian a lesson.
He smiled and released Elian, watching him fall face-first onto the floor.
"You will get your wish, young Morel. But after I've gotten mine," he said, stepping away from the bleeding boy.
"Edgar," Lucien's voice cut through the silence, calm and cold.
Edgar straightened immediately. "Your grace."
Lucien's gaze remained fixed on Elian's crumpled form on the floor.
"Take him to the guard's latrine," he said smoothly. "If he can bleed, he can work."
Elian's fingers twitched weakly against the cold marble.
Latrine.
Of course.
A hollow breath escaped him, something close to a laugh—but it died the moment blood followed instead.
Edgar stepped forward without hesitation, grabbing Elian roughly by the arm and hauling him up.
"Up."
Elian's body barely obeyed.
His legs trembled violently beneath him, his injured foot screaming the moment it touched the ground.
Still—
He forced himself upright.
He refused to be dragged like a corpse again.
Even if it killed him.
Lucien watched.
Silently.
There was something in the way Elian held himself—barely standing, barely breathing—but still…
Resisting.
Not bending.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Interesting.
"Move," Edgar snapped, yanking him forward.
Elian stumbled, a strained sound slipping past his lips as his weight fell onto his wounded foot.
Warm blood spread beneath it instantly.
Still—
He moved.
Step.
Drag.
Step.
Drag.
Each step slower than the last.
Each breath heavier.
The polished floors reflected him back—broken, filthy, barely human.
He kept his head down.
Not in submission.
But because he knew—
If he looked back at Lucien…
He might forget himself... and either act out or bring the truth to light, or... do something else that was suddenly not what he was supposed to do... or think.
Behind him, Lucien had not moved.
Not yet.
His gloved fingers rested lightly against the edge of the table... Still.
But his gaze… Followed.
Tracked every falter.
Every stagger.
Every drop of blood staining his perfect floor.
A trail.
Messy.
Unacceptable.
Human.
His jaw tightened.
"Faster," Edgar barked, tightening his grip.
Elian's vision blurred again.
The world tilted.
But he bit down hard and forced another step.
Then another.
He would not fall.
Not here.
Not in front of him.
Outside the dining hall, Edgar dragged him down the stairs and toward the horror hallway where he'd been let out from the dungeon last night.
The doors to the lower corridor opened, and the air changed instantly.
Damp.
Cold.
Rotten.
The smell hit him like a blow.
Filth.
Decay.
Neglect.
The guard's latrine.
Edgar dragged him inside and released him without warning.
Elian collapsed forward, his hands barely catching him against the wet stone.
"Clean it," Edgar said flatly.
Elian didn't answer.
His chest rose and fell unevenly, his breath shallow, broken.
His fingers pressed into the damp ground, trembling.
This…
This was what they had reduced him to.
For a moment—
Just a moment—
His vision burned.
Not from pain.
From rage.
Hot.
Sharp.
Alive.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
Slow.
Measured.
Familiar.
Edgar stepped aside instantly.
Elian didn't turn.
He didn't need to.
He knew who it was.
Lucien.
He stopped just inside the doorway.
Untouched.
Unmoved. Above it all.
The contrast was almost cruel.
One was controlled. The other was vulnerable.
Elian swallowed, his fingers curling into the filth beneath him.
Silence stretched.
Then—
"Why?" Lucien's voice came, quieter now.
Not sharp.
Not commanding.
Something else.
Elian's jaw tightened.
"My father…" his voice came out hoarse, uneven, "was innocent."
Silence.
Lucien didn't respond immediately.
He simply watched.
Truly watched.
Not the dirt.
Not the blood.
Elian.
And there it was again.
That defiance.
That fire.
Still there.
Even now.
Even here.
A faint crease formed between Lucien's brows.
It didn't make sense.
It shouldn't exist.
And yet—
It did.
Lucien stepped forward.
Once.
Then again.
Stopping just behind him.
Close.
Too close.
Elian felt it immediately.
That presence.
Heavy.
Pressing.
His breath caught—just slightly.
He hated that.
"I wonder…" Lucien murmured, voice low, almost thoughtful, "how long that will last."
Elian's fingers curled tighter.
His shoulders tensed.
But he did not turn.
Did not look at him.
Because if he did—
If he saw his monster's face up close again—he didn't trust what he might do.
"This is just the beginning of your hell, Young Morel," he took a step back. "Until you decide to take a different path from your traitor father." With that, Lucien walked out of the latrine just as quietly as he came.
"Hurry up, flea bag! You heard the Duke; this is just the beginning!" Edgar laughed wickedly and left the latrine.
"Argh!!!" Elian tilted his head back and screamed.
He never knew he had ever so much hate in him until he met the duke and his followers.
He was raised to be forgiving, enduring.
But this?
This was inhumane brutality, and none of the people involved deserved his forgiveness, especially not that arrogant, wicked duke.
'Don't worry, Mr. Duke. My father might have been innocent, but I never said I would be.'
He hated Lucien… yet, somehow... he saw him.
That evening, Lucien had just dismounted from a horse on the field when he heard a loud thud behind him.
"Good evening, Your Grace," Edgar greeted respectfully.
Slowly, Lucien turned to find Elian lying sprawled on the grass in front of Edgar.
Unmoving.
He frowned.
He was quite disappointed; he thought he'd seen a fire in Elian's eyes. Turns out it was nothing.
He really died without living up to his defiance.
He would have really loved to see Elian's stubbornness break little by little.
But it was too late; his punishments were over.
"You bring his body for what, Edgar? Do away with it," Lucien said coldly and turned away.
"No, Your Grace..." Edgar started, his voice dying down as he realized he might have spoken too abruptly.
Lucien paused, not turning.
"Do speak, Edgar. What do you plan to do with a dead boy?" he asked calmly.
"He's not dead, Your Grace," Edgar informed.
A pause.
A slight tilt of the head.
Lucien felt a negligible tightness slowly loosen in his chest.
"Not dead?" he questioned quietly, gazing down at Elian's face.
How had he missed it?
The soft blush on Elian's dirty nose and cheeks should've given way to his livelihood.
Perhaps the dirt on his skin was too much to see through.
The wind picked up, blowing Elian's curls out of his face, baring his unconscious face to the enemy.
Lucien frowned as he noticed a glaring bruise on Elian's lower lip.
He had done that.
He had left that bruise there from the slap in the dining hall.
Elian was unsightly, ugly.
That was why he could easily pass off as dead.
"Take him to Charles," he ordered.
"Yes, Your Grace," Edgar replied and roughly lifted Elian from the ground.
"Edgar," Lucien called.
"Your Grace?" Edgar paused, turning instantly.
"The moment he opens his eyes... bring him to me. No matter the time," Lucien instructed and strode away.