The afternoon light poured honey-thick over the paved road, highlighting the slow, creaking wagon in gold as it trundled through the town’s winding streets. The sight was almost pastoral—if not for the unmistakable glint of raw Mana Crystals stacked in wooden crates and white and black panthers lounging atop them like house cats.

  Skhav held the reins up front at the driver’s seat, his tattooed face a strange sight in the barony. The donkey—stoic, unamused—plodded along with the fatalistic patience of all beasts doomed to hard labor. In the back, Lucon reclined among the rattling boxes, boots crossed, a bottle of something amber dangling from his hand.

  Beside him, Hilda sat stiff as a marble statue, hands folded primly in her lap as she eyed the panthers curled beside her. Every so often, she extended a trembling hand toward one—and just as quickly snatched it back when a tail flicked or a whisker twitched.

  The wagon rolled through the heart of the town, the sound of wooden wheels mingling with the street chatter and the hum of spring traffic.

  Lucon tilted his head back and took another long pull from the bottle. The liquor burned warmly through him. With every swallow, the world didn't dull—it sharpened.

  It was everywhere—around him, through him—endless currents of every color and colors that didn’t exist. The world breathed in threads of energy and exhaled patterns of motion that his mind understood like a conductor knowing every instrument that made up an orchestra he conducted.

  The more he drank, the stronger it became—this ever-shifting tide that lapped at his mind like a lover’s touch. intoxicating, endless, inviting. He felt as though he could step into it and simply…vanish. Dissolve into the Flow and leave the burdens of flesh and blood behind.

  He was halfway to convincing himself to try when he caught Hilda staring.

  Her gaze darted away the moment their eyes met, but not before he saw the worry in it. The kind that belonged to someone who cared far too much.

  “Your father and mother,” she reminded him softly, “wouldn’t want you doing that. You shouldn’t drink so much, Master.”

  Lucon was about to answer with whatever witticism resided on the tip of his tongue when something in the Flow caught him.

  It was her.

  In the Flow, Hilda’s words were a discordant jangle. They didn't match the emotional currents radiating from her. There was no disapproval, no judgment. Instead, there was a strange, deep-seated familiarity. A twisted sense of comfort.

  He lowered the bottle, his gaze piercing. “You like when I drink?”

  Her eyes went wide, her mouth opening and closing without sound. It was as if he had exposed a crime she committed. “N-no, Master! Of course not! You…you shouldn’t drink…!”

  “Stop lying to me.”

  The words were soft. But they struck her as if he had backhanded her.

  All the color drained from her face. She withdrew, pulling her knees to her chest, her eyes fixed on the gaps in the crates that glowed blue, unable to bear his scrutiny. The Flow around her became a torrent of churning energy—spiking uncertainty, fear, and a guilt so immense it threatened to floor her.

  Lucon studied his maid, eyes dropping to the Mana Pool at her center that she did not want to discuss.

  “Not only do you lie to me,” he murmured, “you keep secrets too.”

  At that, she began to unravel, the emotional storm becoming a vortex threatening to consume her. She curled tighter, trying to make herself small, to disappear into the corner of the wagon among the crates.

  Lucon leaned back, bottle in his hand. He remembered her when they first met—barely a woman of age, yet assigned to tend to him. She’d brushed his hair, read to him when his mother was away, scolded him with the boldness only a young servant would possess.

  But had he ever truly known her?

  The wagon’s wheels clattered over a stone. For a heartbeat, all was still.

  If not for the hyper-clarity granted by his enhanced state, he would have missed her next words, a whisper so faint it was little more than a breath lost to the rumble of the wheels.

  “Have mercy, Master…”

  Lucon became motionless. The words were too small, too full of past fears he could not perceive.

  He exhaled slowly, shoulders easing. The questions he was going to force upon her dispersed. Setting the bottle aside, he reached out.

  Hilda flinched when his hand neared her.

  But Lucon’s hand only rested lightly on her head, his fingers threading once through her hair before settling there. The gesture, so uncharacteristically gentle, seemed to still the trembling in her shoulders.

  “If you don’t want to talk about it that badly,” he said at last, voice calm, “then there must be a good reason behind it.”

  In the Flow, the torrent of fear and guilt around her didn't vanish, but it was suddenly eclipsed by a burst of incandescent relief and joy. A single tear fell down her cheek as she looked up at him, her eyes shimmering.

  “Thank you for understanding, Master,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

  He said nothing. Just leaned back against the crate again, bottle back in hand, and let the wagon roll on.

  The town opened before them—banners strung between the narrow lanes, the smell of bread rising in the warm air. Children darted past shouting whilst in play, a shopkeeper sweeping dust clouds outside his shop, and a few people recognizing Lucon that stared openly with wariness.

  Hilda fidgeted next to Lucon.

  She hesitated, then reached out a steady hand toward the nearest panther. The great beast turned its eyes on her, blinked once, and then, to her astonishment, began to purr—a deep, resonant rumble that vibrated through the wood. She laughed softly, pink coloring her cheeks, and kept petting it, giddy with the tiny victory.

  Up front, Skhav grunted, gesturing with a confused hand toward a crossroads.

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  “The market. Which way?” he asked, his accent thick.

  He’d already confessed to Lucon that he’d been holed up in the bandit camp since arriving in the barony, uninterested being around people, let alone a whole town.

  During that same conversation, he’d also shared other, far more troubling details—mentions of plots and veiled enemies. Little stones Lucon would need to turn over and examine soon. But not now.

  “Go right,” Hilda piped up, her confidence returning. “Then straight on until you see the square.”

  Skhav nodded and tugged the reins, guiding the donkey and their bizarre caravan through the turn.

  For a time, no one spoke. The rhythmic clop of hooves filled the quiet, the town’s chatter fading to a dull backdrop. Then Hilda’s voice came—soft but sure, as though she’d been mulling it over for some time.

  “Master,” she said, “you’re…more yourself when you drink.”

  Lucon raised a brow but didn’t interrupt.

  “I like my master when he can be himself,” she finished, looking down, her cheeks still faintly pink.

  He grinned. “I like being me too.”

  She looked up, and finally, her smile was wide and unguarded.

  But in the Flow, Lucon still saw the ripple of contradiction. A half-truth. But he let it pass. Let her be happy…for now.

  It was strange. The thought of a possible betrayal from her didn’t bother him. The more the Flow taught him, the more he understood things like betrayal and death was all a part of the same inexorable current.

  He didn’t even feel the least bit sorrowful.

  The wagon rattled along until two women stepped out from the doors of a brightly painted establishment with a sign depicting a scarlet silhouette of a young woman posing.

  Their dresses were scandalously short, their makeup designed for allure. One had a long pipe in hand, plumes of smoke rising from her mouth, the other a ribbon tied loosely around her throat.

  “Lucon!” the one with the pipe called, voice melodic. “Don’t pretend you don’t see us, Prince of Revelry!”

  The other pouted dramatically. “Oh, prince! You’ve been ignoring us on purpose!”

  Lucon’s grin was instant and wide.

  “My lovely flowers!” he called back, lifting his bottle in greeting. He called Skhav to stop and the courtesans immediately swarmed the wagon.

  They laughed, one grabbing Lucon’s right hand, the other grabbing his left. “We miss you at the Scarlet Maiden!”

  Hilda’s face turned stony. She looked away, muttering under her breath, “Whores…”

  Lucon laughed, the sound full of his old charm. He grabbed their hands in return.

  “Come aboard, my lovelies,” he drawled.

  The two women hesitated, their painted faces fearful at the sight of the two massive panthers, whose ears had now perked up with interest.

  Lucon wiggled his eyebrows. “Their bites are nothing compared to mine,” he said, tone velvet and smoke. “But you both already know that.”

  The courtesans shrieked with giggles then began to squeal as he suddenly pulled them in, landing in a heap of carefree laughter atop him. Hilda rolled her eyes with a huff, turning her back to the scene and pointedly stroking the white panther's fur as if for moral support.

  In the Flow, Lucon could feel the prickly heat of Hilda's jealousy. But beneath it, to his continued astonishment, was that same twisted thread of approval. She disliked the women, but she was comforted by his behavior—by the return of the reckless, charismatic Young Lord she was used to.

  Hilda, he thought, glancing momentarily at her stiff back, I feel like I barely know you anymore.

  Skhav flicked the reigns and the donkey continued onward.

  Lucon’s attention was pulled by the woman with the pipe as she pointed a delicate finger. "Ooh, what's in this, prince?" she cooed, indicating a sturdier chest tucked between the crates of crystal.

  She gasped as she popped it open—a glimmering pile of gold coins inside, spilling over the edges.

  It was the bandits’ stash—the profits they’d collected from the Mana Crystal they’d been stealing from the barony, never to be delivered to its originally intended destination. He’d asked Skhav if there’d been anything valuable hidden before they left the camp. The barbarian had lied, but lies were useless against the Flow.

  The courtesan with the pipe trailed her red-painted nails over the coins.

  “Handsome Prince,” she purred, “surely you could let your favorite flowers have just a handful…”

  Her friend bounced eagerly beside her, her movements deliberately emphasizing her bosom. “Just a little, prince! We love you and you love us!”

  Lucon chuckled and shut the lid with a solid thunk.

  “It’s not good to water flowers too much,” he said smoothly.

  He plucked the pipe from the first courtesan’s fingers, brought it to his lips, and drew a slow, steady breath. The smoke coiled upward like gray silk ribbons.

  “This flower’s parched,” the woman whined playfully, clinging tightly to him.

  The second courtesan pressed closer, rubbing against him. "Your water is the sweetest, prince!"

  Up front, Skhav looked deeply uncomfortable, his shoulders rigid. Hilda’s sigh could have blown the smoke away on its own.

  Lucon took another pull from the pipe, laughing. But his amusement faded when his eyes caught a familiar figure in the street—a young woman in a servant’s dress, her mousy brown hair pinned neatly beneath her cap. She walked with the careful gait of someone accustomed to being invisible.

  “Skhav,” Lucon said, pointing. “Pull the wagon up next to her.”

  The barbarian obliged, and as they slowed, Lucon leaned on the side of the wagon.

  “Hail, Bethea!” he called.

  Hilda brightened instantly. “Bethea!” she cried, waving both hands.

  The young maid turned at the sound, her eyes lighting up. “Young Lord Lucon! Hilda!” she said, smiling shyly and dipping her head.

  Lucon smiled back. Bethea—one of the newer servants, though she’d already proven reliable these past few years. More importantly, she was Lieutenant Kaeson’s sister.

  The moment the wagon stopped, Hilda and Bethea fell into animated conversation, Hilda’s earlier irritation forgotten in her friend’s presence. Meanwhile, the two courtesans continued their campaign, their voices syrupy and insistent.

  “Just one little coin, my prince?” one whined, tracing a finger down his arm.

  “We’d make it worth your while,” the other added, her breath hot against his ear.

  Up front, Skhav looked up at the clouds, toward the donkey’s ears, even down at his boots—anywhere but behind him.

  Lucon, though, wasn’t listening. Something about Bethea tugged at the edge of his memory.

  He found she truly was one of the good ones.

  He reached down, scooped up a handful of gold coins, and the courtesans squealed with excitement—right until he rose and stepped past them. Their protests turned to exaggerated whining.

  “Bethea,” Lucon called. “Come closer.”

  The maid approached hesitantly. Lucon took her hand and poured the glittering gold into her palms. The coins were heavy, more money than she would see in years.

  Her eyes widened in sheer, uncomprehending shock. “M-Milord? What is this for?”

  “That’s for opening the manor servant’s door for me two years ago,” Lucon said with a impish grin, “when I was sneaking back in after a night of revelry.”

  Bethea’s gaze swept over the fortune in her hands then to the empty bottles, the women, and the pipe he was smoking. Conflicted anxiety contorted her expression before finally shaking her head and giving it back.

  “I…I can’t, Young Lord. Lord Auric would not approve. This is…this isn’t right.”

  Lucon nodded slightly. His father’s shadow was long indeed. “The gold isn’t from gambling, Bethea. It’s from trade. Honest work.”

  It wasn't entirely a lie.

  “It’s too much, milord,” she murmured, her hands trembling under the weight, more moral than physical.

  “I know about your mother,” Lucon said, his voice dropping to a more gentle tone. “Kaeson told me she’s ill.”

  Bethea looked up, her eyes glistening with sudden emotion. The mention of her brother and her mother’s plight broke through her resistance.

  “Winter draws near,” Lucon continued. “And I will not have the mother of one of the barony’s elite guards suffer through it. Take it. See that she’s comfortable.”

  A tear escaped one of Bethea’s eyes. She sniffled, clutching the gold to her chest as if it were a lifeline.

  “Th-thank you, Young Lord. Thank you…!” she stammered, overwhelmed with gratitude. Hilda patted her shoulder.

  Lucon gave a nod, then glanced around. “What are you doing out here, anyway?”

  Bethea, still teary-eyed, pointed toward a nearby weapons shop.

  “I’m escorting Young Lady Lyris.”

  The shop’s door opened and the very person in question stepped out. Lyris, with her long gray hair and pale eyes, scanned the street until her gaze landed on Bethea beside the wagon. Her expression was one of mild curiosity, which quickly shifted to confusion as she took in the scene.

  Then her eyes found Lucon, and the two courtesans currently trying to drape themselves over his shoulders like bears on a tree with honey.

  Confusion melted into outright fury.

  She marched toward the wagon, her blue dress swishing with the force of her steps. She planted herself before them, her pale eyes blazing as she pointed an accusatory finger at Lucon.

  “Lucon Edelyn,” she seethed, “you dare disrespect the betrothal you have with my sister?!”