Lucien looked at the woman before him, her head bowed, fingers gripping the fabric so tightly her knuckles turned white.
He lowered his arm, forcing the tremor to still as his nails dug into his palm. "I… apologize. It's my fault…"
Her head snapped up, eyes wide, and she shook her hands violently. She caught his hand, pressing her fingers against his skin.
[It's not Your Highness' fault. I lost my voice when I was kidnapped.]
Lucien met her gaze—those morganite eyes trembling with a shame she did not deserve. But what she didn't know—what she could never know—was that the cult had taken her solely to lure him.
And that made it his fault, no matter what she believed.
She released his hand and edged closer, wrapping the makeshift bandage around his waist.
Lucien watched her in silence as she carefully bound his wound; his mind swirled.
What could he possibly do to mend this? He couldn't marry her.
Her house's neutrality stood as an iron wall between them.
And worse still, in the eyes of the nobility, a mute lady was branded a liability. Her worth diminished to the dowry she carried and her father's influence. Even as a duke's daughter, no man of true power would choose a silent wife to stand beside him in court, where every word was a weapon.
At best, she would be sought after by some lesser lord desperate to climb higher, or an aging widower who valued her lineage more than her voice.
His jaw clenched. She could have had better marriage prospects, yet he ruined her life.
Lucien winced when a sharp pain tore through his abdomen.
Roschella flinched, panic flashing in her eyes as she fumbled to undo the knot.
He caught her hand, stopping her. "It's alright."
She froze, searching his face. [Are you sure?]
Lucien gave a small nod. "Yes."
After a beat, she relented with a slow sigh and helped him with his clothes before stepping back. As their eyes met again, her lips curled upward, and his chest tightened.
How could she still smile after losing her voice? Even when her future crumbled?
"Would you… like to rest a little longer?" Lucien broke the silence at last, his voice rougher than he intended.
She shook her head, and her lips moved with a silent question. [How about you?]
"I've rested enough." He needed to find herbs to slow the venom. "Shall we continue, then?" He extended his hand, and she took it without hesitation, her fingers brushing against his. "Once we get out of this forest, let's find a physician."
He prayed it was only a damaged cord, so that her voice could still be healed.
With that fragile hope, they pressed onward.
The mist coated his skin, heavy and cold. Damp leaves clung to his boots, and wet earth stung his nostrils while insects buzzed insistently overhead. Buttress roots and broad-leaved plants pressed in from all sides, their dark green fronds glistening in the thick humidity.
Lucien sighed. No matter how he turned it over in his mind, these were the unmistakable signs of a tropical land. Solairé's geography offered no such climate—the leyline could only twist mana, but not the weather, nor the land itself.
His brow furrowed. How had the cult managed this?
There was no transportation spell; trains and flights did not exist, and he couldn't recall a single Orbis Dei capable of moving them across regions in mere hours.
He halted, clutching his head as the world tilted.
A sudden pressure tightened around his hand. He turned to find Roschella watching him, worry etched across her face. Her lips moved slowly. [Are you all right?]
He blinked; the pounding in his skull made it hard to think. "I'm fine," he said, forcing steadiness into his voice.
She didn't look convinced, but he gestured forward. "Let's keep moving." Better not waste time.
But the deeper they went, the more his body rebelled. Each step drained strength from his limbs, and pain gnawed at the edges of his fading focus. His lungs burned; sweat glued his tunic to his skin.
Has the venom worsened?
Then—like rain upon a barren desert—he spotted jagged-leafed stalks, swaying faintly in the mist. Found it.
He stepped toward it, but his knee buckled.
"Ah!" Roschella caught his shoulders, only for them to crash onto the damp earth.
He met her horrified gaze and managed a breathless, "Be at ease, I am well."
His trembling hand tore a few leaves and placed them on his tongue. The taste exploded—sharp, acrid bitterness clawing down his throat. He doubled over, coughing, forcing himself to chew.
Roschella's worry deepened, but he waved her off, silently insisting she let him be. She hesitated, then steadied herself beside him.
Andrographis. Soldiers used it against fever and snakebites. It wouldn't cure the venom, but it might buy him time.
As he chewed, Lucien fumbled with the buckles of his vest until Roschella reached to help, removing it and his bloodied bandage.
He spat the pulped leaves into his palm and pressed the crushed mess directly over the wound. The sting drew a sharp hiss from his lips as dark green juice seeped between his fingers.
Roschella lifted the hem of her skirt and tore away the ruffle, fashioning a strip to bind the wound. Darkness crept at the edges of his vision as she worked.
The world tilted. Sound warped into a distant echo—
Then everything went black.