The bed was almost offensive in how comfortable it was.
Lucien lay still, half-sunken into sheets that felt like they were spun from cloud silk or whatever stupidly expensive fabric the rich liked to sleep on when they weren't fighting monsters or ignoring the people who did.
It had been three days since they'd arrived at Rosehall, the grand ancestral estate of Baron Rosedale, Liz's father, and a man Lucien had nearly punched on day one. The man who hadn't said a single word to him since.
Not that Lucien cared.
The room was absurd. High-vaulted ceiling with ornate silver trim, four towering windows framed in crimson drapes that probably cost more than his entire village's combined earnings back on Earth. The floor was marble. The carpet was thick. The walls were lined with old oil paintings of people who looked like they'd never worked a day in their lives.
And the bed?
The bed was a betrayal.
Because Lucien knew—knew—that he should be too angry to enjoy it. Too bitter. Too closed off. And yet here he was, wrapped in comfort like some spoiled noble with nothing to worry about.
It infuriated him.
He rolled onto his side and stared at the ceiling.
The last few weeks had changed him, no question. Not just the body or the magic or the Rakai. The Living Hollow trait had slowly begun to reveal its truths. At first, it just felt like stamina. Then endurance. Then the strange realization that his body didn't need the same things others did.
Food? A nuisance.
Water? Only when he remembered.
Sleep? An afterthought.
Three days, and he hadn't closed his eyes once. Not really. He'd laid down. Let his body rest. But no dreams came. No sleep took him. Just a slow, dull pause. A simulation of rest.
It was like being undead, but with better posture.
He sat up.
His shirt clung slightly to his back, sweatless but tense. His muscles didn't ache, but he still felt tired. Not physically. Not even magically.
Just... soul-deep.
And pissed off.
There wasn't even a clear reason anymore. Just a rolling thunder of irritation that refused to settle. Every time someone walked past him in the hall and didn't speak. Every time Titus made small talk with a servant and didn't look his way. Every time Alice acted like their spar hadn't happened.
He was sick of it.
All of it.
Titus with his noble-boy charm and subtle dominance.
Alice with her flawless posture and disappointment-veiled-as-discipline.
Liz, too polite to break ranks. Michael, too broken to talk.
They all smiled. Ate together. Recovered together.
Lucien stayed in his room.
No one invited him.
Not once.
So now here he was, alone in a palace, lying in the best bed he'd ever touched, and all he could feel was resentment gnawing at his chest like a rat behind ribs.
He stood up.
Didn't bother changing. Just threw on his coat, checked the fit of the black ring around his finger, and stepped into the corridor.
Rosehall at night was a different beast.
The halls were long and wide, the stone floor softened by intricate rugs and runners. Oil lanterns lined the walls in perfectly spaced intervals, their flames flickering with steady rhythm—enchanted, no doubt, to never die out or burn too high. Paintings watched him pass. whispered of history he didn't care to know.
He moved in silence.
Bare feet. Slow steps. Eyes scanning the carved molding along the ceilings, the pristine artistry of nobility polished to perfection over generations.
He hated that he loved it so much
It reminded him of the Black Palace—the impossible throne-room in his ring. The difference was: that place had purpose.
This was just wealth.
He knew he was just rambling and a tiny bit jealous
As he neared the front entrance, the doors already slightly open, a breeze rolled in, sharp and cold. Lucien stepped through and out onto the grand veranda.
And there it was.
The black moon, high and unmoving. As always. Watching like a silent god hanging in the sky.
No stars. No warmth. Just a massive, lightless orb suspended in place like a god's discarded eye.
Lucien exhaled sharply through his nose. His breath didn't mist. The air was too dry.
He took three steps out onto the polished stone, hands in his pockets, head low.
And then—
"So. You do go outside."
The voice was familiar. Dry. Amused. A little too casual.
Lucien didn't need to turn.
"Titus," he muttered.
Titus leaned against one of the veranda's stone pillars, dressed in a long coat trimmed with golden thread, his hair a bit tousled from wind or laziness or both. His eyes—golden , that unnatural mix—reflected the ambient light with a kind of subtle intensity Lucien never trusted.
Lucien spared him a glance, then looked back to the courtyard. "Didn't think I needed permission."
"Didn't say you did." Titus smirked. "Just surprised. You've been doing your best hermit impression for days now. Thought maybe you'd fused with the mattress."
Lucien didn't smile.
"It's not like I've had much reason to socialize."
Titus didn't argue. Just nodded slowly, pushing off the pillar and walking to stand beside him. The silence stretched.
Then—
"Look," he said, tone softer. "I never thanked you. For saving us. For stepping in back there."
Lucien shrugged. "Wasn't that hard."
That was a lie.
It had taken everything.
Titus gave a sideways look. "Still. You didn't have to. And I know... I know it couldn't have been easy. Fighting alongside people who probably could of you losing you lost. Or worse, people who you don't care." for
Lucien said nothing. But his jaw tightened.
Inside, the vessel stirred. A pulse of bitter grief, pride, and pain. It offered flashes—images of the clan's fall, of the trees burning, of children buried in ash. He shoved them down.
Titus continued. "You've probably figured it out by now, but… that sunlight you saw when we got close to the estate? It's artificial."
Lucien blinked. "What?"
"Yeah. It's only on the Rosedale grounds and a few noble holdings nearby. A mana-driven skylight system—massive, o Keeps the crops alive. Gives people comfort."
Lucien turned his head slowly, frowning. "You're telling me the sun I saw… wasn't real?"
Titus nodded. "This whole part of Merrow is under the Eclipsed Belt. Black moon
Lucien stared upward again.
It suddenly made sense.
Why the air felt still. Why every tree looked a little off-color. Why his instincts never fully relaxed, even in daylight.
Because there wasn't any daylight.
"The light's a lie," Lucien muttered. "Figures."
Titus gave a half-laugh. "You get used to it. Doesn't mean it's comforting."
Lucien folded his arms. "So you came out here just to thank me and deliver weird sky facts?"
There was no edge to the words. Just exhaustion.
Titus hesitated.
"No," he said honestly. "I came out here because I've been where you are. Sort of. Maybe not as deep. But… close."
Lucien finally looked at him.
Titus's expression was unreadable. Not smug.
"You're angry," Titus said. "I get it. You're tired of not getting the treatment you think you deserve
Lucien's fingers curled slightly.
He didn't want to hear it.
Didn't want truth. Not now.
Titus went on anyway.
"You saved us. That doesn't make you our friend. Doesn't mean you forgive us. But it means something. And if you ever decide that you want to… talk. Or train. … just know I'm not afraid of you."
Lucien blinked. "You should be."
"Maybe