Chapter-7: The Grass and the Tree
The lake beside the palace garden reflected the grey morning sky, its surface cold and still. Servants moved through the corridors with quiet efficiency, preparing the chambers for Duke Shrita's family—the Palace would return to its rightful occupants now that the Prince's stay was ending.
Lucien emerged from his bath chamber, water still beading on his skin. Two maids stood nearby with towels and fresh clothes, their faces flushing crimson as they caught sight of him completely nude. They kept their eyes down but couldn't quite hide the way their breath caught, the way their hands trembled slightly as they held out his garments.
He dressed without acknowledging their discomfort. A long cloak that fell to his knees, dark velvet trousers bearing the imperial seal embroidered in silver thread. Every piece was chosen for effect—nobility and elegance wrapped around a predator's frame.
Once dressed, he settled into a chair near the lake. One of the maids began working oils through his silver-white hair with careful fingers while a figure approached from the garden path.
Black suit. Impeccable posture. Muscular build contained within the controlled bearing of a professional servant. Alcine—thirty years old and Lucien's most trusted operative, though no one who looked at him would guess he was anything more than a well-trained butler.
"Master Lucien." Alcine bowed precisely, placing a small carved box on the table between them. "I've done what you asked."
Lucien gestured for the maids to leave. They departed without a sound, like smoke dissipating.
"I confirmed personally that Maid Geilla, Ira Ombres, and the other two consumed the Kushi berries." Alcine remained standing until Lucien gestured toward the opposite chair. "All of them, as prescribed."
"I trust you." Lucien's gaze drifted across the garden to where a young man practiced sword forms in the distance—deliberate, clumsy swings that accomplished little. "No one else could handle this with your discretion."
"The herbalists mentioned that this year's harvest was difficult." Alcine's tone remained neutral, professional. "They're requesting additional payment."
"People always have that tendency." Lucien stood, beginning a slow walk along the lake's edge. Alcine fell into step beside him. "They see an opportunity and convince themselves they deserve more than what was agreed upon. It's predictable."
They approached the garden entrance where, across the manicured grounds, Nian Marian continued his frustrated attempts to break through a wooden training dummy.
"There are two more berries in that box, Master." Alcine bowed once more, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the flow of servants and guards with the practiced ease of someone who'd mastered the art of being unremarkable.
Lucien watched Nian struggle for another moment before approaching. The young man's technique was abysmal—all force, no understanding, like trying to break down a wall by throwing yourself against it repeatedly.
"Nian. You're here?" Lucien's voice carried just enough surprise to sound genuine. "But I haven't left the Palace yet."
"Prince Lucien!" Nian's eyes lit up like he'd been granted an audience with a deity. He immediately set his sword on the weapons rack and hurried over, barely containing his excitement.
Instead of greeting him directly, Lucien moved past him toward the training area, examining the available weapons with casual interest.
"Do you know the difference between an open river and a dam, Nian?"
He selected a saber, testing its weight. The guards nearby tensed visibly—they'd heard the stories about the Prince's prowess with blades, had seen the way he moved like violence given form.
"Open river means... no control? Just flow?" Nian looked uncertain, confused why such an obvious question would be asked. "And a dam means control?"
Lucien's response was to swing the saber in one fluid arc.
The blade cut through two wooden targets simultaneously, shearing through them so cleanly they seemed to fall apart rather than break. The contrast with Nian's earlier efforts—dozens of strikes that barely dented a single dummy—was stark.
"Offense and defense aren't about force." Lucien handed the saber to Nian, moving behind him to adjust his grip. His hands guided the young man's fingers toward the rear of the handle. "They're about who controls them. Who wields them properly."
He kept his hands over Nian's and swung together. The blade cleaved through the wooden target effortlessly.
Across the garden, partially hidden by the decorative plant walls, Duke Shrita and Chief Minister Mireth stood watching. The Duke's expression held less fear than respect. Mireth's face was tighter, more cynical, but even he couldn't deny what he was witnessing—genuine teaching, not manipulation.
"Move your grip to the rear when you need more force and reach," Lucien instructed, shifting Nian's hands forward on the handle now. Another swing, this one only cutting halfway through the target's head. "See the difference? Front grip gives you accuracy and precision."
Nian was absorbing every word, every movement, learning faster than he'd ever learned before because for once someone was explaining the 'why' instead of just the 'how'.
"Power isn't about standing like a tall tree in aggressive wind." Lucien released his grip, letting Nian try on his own now. "It's about being like grass—knowing how to adapt, how to bend without breaking."
He watched Nian attempt another strike, noting improvements already.
"Don't tighten your hands so much. Your index finger is the command. Your wrist and arm are the bridge between intention and execution." He tapped Nian's wrist lightly. "Use them efficiently. With time, you'll master swords."
Lucien stepped away, leaving Nian to practice. As he walked toward the main path, Duke Shrita emerged from behind the plant wall.
"I couldn't agree more," the Duke said warmly, genuine appreciation in his voice.
Mireth followed a step behind, his expression carefully neutral. Whatever thoughts he had about the Prince seducing his daughter, he seemed to have accepted certain realities. That resistance was futile. That Lucien Aurevane operated on a level most men couldn't reach.
"Well then." Lucien yawned—partly from the night's exertions, partly from performative boredom. "I suppose it's about time." He glanced back toward the main garden where chairs and books waited. "Where is Ethelia?"
The question was casual, almost lazy. As if meeting a legendary Death Knight was no more significant than asking about the weather.
Behind him, Nian continued practicing, the sound of blade striking wood echoing across the morning air.
And somewhere in the state barracks, Death Knight Ethelia De Colisson finished sharpening her sword and began the walk toward Nurin Palace.
Toward a meeting that would change everything.