Muninn stared at Luciel, those ancient eyes searching the boy's face for something—anything—that suggested he understood what he'd just revealed about himself.
Nothing.
Just that same empty curiosity, like a scholar examining an unfamiliar specimen.
The white raven realized with sudden, cold clarity: Luciel wasn't suppressing emotions. He genuinely didn't understand them.
The concept of honest feeling was as foreign to him as flight to a fish.
Muninn sighed—a very human sound from a very inhuman creature.
"You're hopeless," he muttered.
"Pardon?" Luciel looked up from his book.
"Nothing. Continue your reading."
Luciel did, already dismissing the conversation.
Muninn watched for another moment, then spread his wings and departed through the library window.
Some lessons couldn't be taught. Some understanding had to be earned through experience.
He just hoped Luciel survived long enough to earn it.
***
Days blurred together in their familiar rhythm.
Morning training with Master Aldric. Afternoons in the library. Evenings practicing blood resonance meditation in his private chambers.
Luciel moved through each day with mechanical efficiency, improving incrementally in all areas while excelling in none.
Then the fourth day arrived.
He was in the training courtyard, running through solo sword forms while Aldric corrected his footwork, when a servant appeared.
"Young master. The Duke requests your presence in the eastern parlor. Your guest has arrived."
Luciel lowered his practice blade. "Guest?"
"Lady Elira Salera, my lord. Your soon to be betrothed."
Something flickered across Aldric's weathered face—might have been sympathy, might have been resignation.
"Go," the old instructor said. "We'll continue tomorrow."
Luciel bowed and followed the servant, still wearing his training clothes.
He realized his mistake halfway there—he should have changed into formal attire first—but returning would only delay the meeting further.
Better to appear dedicated to training than vain about appearance.
That's what Father would think, anyway.
***
The eastern parlor was smaller than the formal receiving rooms, designed for more intimate gatherings.
Afternoon light—such as it was in this realm—filtered through stained glass windows, painting the floor in muted reds and purples.
Elira Salera sat in a high-backed chair, teacup balanced perfectly in one pale hand.
She was Luciel's age but carried herself with the poise of someone much older.
Platinum blonde hair fell in careful waves past her shoulders, those distinctive silver strikes woven through like threads of moonlight.
Red eyes—brighter than Luciel's, almost pink in certain light. She wore a formal dress in deep burgundy, every fold and pleat precisely arranged.
Beautiful, by any objective measure.
And completely unreadable.
She looked up as Luciel entered, her expression shifting into a warm smile that seemed genuine enough.
"Lord Luciel." She stood, executing a perfect curtsy. "Thank you for receiving me."
Luciel bowed in return. "Lady Elira. Welcome to House Nocthera."
They sat. A servant poured tea for Luciel before withdrawing silently.
Silence settled—not uncomfortable exactly, just... empty. Like two people sitting in the same room without actually occupying the same space.
Elira broke it first, her voice soft and cultured. "I hope I'm not interrupting your training. I saw you in the courtyard as we arrived. Your form is quite impressive."
"It requires improvement." Luciel sipped his tea. "Master Aldric identifies seventeen separate flaws in my current technique."
"Only seventeen?" Her smile widened slightly. "That seems rather good for someone your age."
"It's seventeen too many."
She laughed softly—a pleasant sound, like wind chimes in gentle breeze. "You're quite dedicated. That's admirable."
Luciel said nothing.
Compliments were statements that required no response unless they came from a superior.
Elira seemed unbothered by the silence. She set her teacup down with delicate precision. "May I ask what you do for enjoyment? Outside of training?"
"Reading."
"Oh?" She leaned forward slightly. "What subjects interest you?"
"Magical theory. Combat strategy. Historical analysis of duchy politics." He paused. "Currently studying blood resonance mechanisms."
"I see." Another soft laugh. "And for leisure reading? Poetry, perhaps? Adventure tales?"
"Those serve no practical purpose."
"Not everything needs a purpose, my lord. Sometimes we do things simply because they bring us joy."
Luciel's head tilted fractionally. "Why would I do something that serves no purpose?"
Elira studied his face for a long moment. Then she giggled—covering her mouth with one hand, shoulders shaking with genuine amusement.
Luciel frowned. "Why are you laughing?"
"I'm sorry." She composed herself, though her eyes still sparkled. "It's just... you're really straightforward, aren't you? Most people would at least pretend to understand social pleasantries."
"Why would I pretend?"
"Exactly." She smiled wider. "I find it adorable, actually."
Luciel's frown deepened. "Adorable?"
"Yes. Like a particularly serious kitten." She reached for her tea again. "Most nobles our age are so caught up in games and posturing. You're... refreshing."
Luciel didn't understand that either, but before he could ask for clarification, he remembered something.
The servants had advised him—quite insistently—to prepare a gift for this meeting.
Something thoughtful that would demonstrate proper courtship protocol.
He'd selected a book. Seemed logical enough.
"Wait here," he said, standing abruptly.
Elira blinked in surprise. "My lord?"
Luciel left without explaining, returning three minutes later with a leather-bound volume. He held it out to her without ceremony.
"For you."
Elira accepted it carefully, examining the cover. "The Theory of Enchatments in Vampire Blood Bonds." She looked up. "This is... quite technical."
"It's relevant to our upcoming bond formation. Understanding the mechanism should help optimize the process."
Silence.
Then Elira laughed again—longer this time, harder, pressing her free hand to her stomach. "Oh gods. Oh, that's perfect. You're perfect."
Luciel's confusion deepened. "I don't understand."
"I know." She stood, still smiling, tucking the book under her arm. "That's what makes it wonderful."
She executed another perfect curtsy. "Thank you for the gift, Lord Luciel. And for your time. I look forward to our next meeting."
"As is proper," Luciel said automatically.
"As is proper," she echoed, amusement still dancing in her eyes.
She departed with the same grace she'd arrived with, leaving Luciel standing alone in the parlor, increasingly certain he'd done something wrong but unable to identify what.
***
He returned to the library immediately, seeking the familiar comfort of text and solitude.
Muninn appeared almost instantly, settling on his usual perch.
"So," the white raven said. "How was the meeting?"
"Confusing." Luciel pulled out his book on blood resonance, opening to his marked page. "She laughed multiple times without apparent cause.
Called me 'adorable' and 'perfect' despite observing no particular achievements. Her behavior patterns don't align with documented courtship protocols."
"Did you enjoy her company?"
Luciel paused, considering. "I felt... a sensation. When she laughed."
"Oh?" Muninn's head tilted. "What kind of sensation?"
"Discomfort. Uncertainty." Luciel's brow furrowed slightly. "Like being watched by a predator. The instinct to be wary. To maintain distance."
He looked up from his book.
"Is that love?"
Muninn stared at him for three full seconds.
Then the white raven released a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan, took flight, and disappeared through the window.
"THICKHEADED FOOL!" his voice echoed back.
Luciel watched him go, genuinely confused about what he'd said wrong.
Then he shrugged and returned to his reading. Whatever love was, it apparently wasn't the sensation of being prey.
He filed that information away and moved on.
***
Meanwhile, several miles from the castle, a carriage rolled through crimson forests.
Inside, Elira sat with perfect posture, the book Luciel had given her resting in her lap.
She'd opened it to a random page—complex diagrams of blood flow patterns, dense paragraphs of technical analysis.
She laughed. Not the soft, cultured laugh she'd used in the parlor.
This was sharper. Hungrier.
Her fingers traced the book's cover with something like possessive affection.
"Soon," she murmured, that pleasant smile twisting into something else entirely. Something that belonged on a different face. "Everything you and yours will be mine, my lord."
The smile widened, showing just a hint too much teeth.
"Everything."
Outside, the pale sun continued its eternal watch, and the crimson leaves rustled secrets no one was meant to hear.