The old shack felt different with actual food on the table.
Lucien had dragged in a couple of crates from the baron's stores—nothing fancy, just enough that the wobbly wooden surface creaked under the weight of warm bread, a round of cheese that smelled sharp and alive, and a dusty bottle of red wine Elara swore came from her father's private stash.
The smell of fresh bread mixed with the usual damp straw and that sweet-smoke trace Nyx always left behind, making the whole place feel less like a hideout and more like somewhere people actually lived.
Nyx shifted to her human form, silver-pink hair loose, and started slicing the bread with a small knife she'd pulled from nowhere.
Her smile was wide but her eyes stayed sharp, watching Elara across the table.
"Eat up, princess. You're too skinny for someone who ran away from a wedding. Or was that part of the plan—starve yourself until the groom lost interest?"
Elara took the piece of bread, tearing off a chunk with her fingers.
Her laugh came out short and a little forced, the kind that tried to cover nerves.
"The plan was just surviving the night. Now I don't even know what surviving looks like when I owe someone for it."
She glanced at Lucien, green eyes searching his face like she was still trying to figure out the price tag.
Lucien leaned back against the wall, legs stretched under the table, chewing slow.
The bread was soft inside, crust crunchy, tasting better than anything he'd eaten in his old office life.
He felt the Primordial Conquest Bond humming low in his chest, like a string pulled tight but not yet snapped.
"Nobody here owes anything," he said, voice casual but with that weight underneath.
"I take what I want. The rest I give away… for now."
The words hung there.
Not a promise. Not a threat.
Just the truth with rough edges.
Nyx's tail flicked once under the table, brushing his calf like she approved of the subtext.
Elara chewed slower, processing it, the wine glass turning in her hands.
They ate in stretches of quiet broken by small talk.
Nyx poured the wine, the liquid glugging dark and rich into the cups.
It smelled heavy, like cherries left too long in the sun mixed with old oak.
She took a sip first, ears twitching.
"Back when the big seals were still fresh, primordial foxes like me slept in caves made of pure illusion. Whole mountains that weren't there if you blinked wrong. Safe. Quiet. Until greedy humans decided even illusions needed locking away."
Elara listened, fingers tracing the rim of her cup.
The wine had put some color back in her cheeks.
"Sounds better than growing up in the baron's manor. Every ball was the same—smile at the right lords, pretend the debts didn't exist, dance until your feet bled while my father counted coins in the next room. Felt like a pretty cage with music."
Lucien listened more than he talked, the bread turning to crumbs between his fingers.
His eyes kept that calculating shine even when he laughed at Nyx's dramatic retelling of some ancient fox trick that once fooled an entire army.
"Cages aren't bad," he said eventually, taking a slow sip of the wine that burned warm down his throat.
"They just need the right owner. One who knows what to keep inside and what to let out."
The words sat between them.
Nyx's golden eyes flicked to Elara, then back to him, a small smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.
Elara met his gaze across the table, something shifting behind the green—like she was testing how much of that statement applied to her right now.
For a moment the conversation turned lighter.
Nyx imitated the way the baron had fallen off his horse earlier, ears flopping dramatically.
Elara actually laughed, real this time, the sound bright and surprised.
Lucien joined in, the three of them clinking their cups together.
The wine went down easier after that, warm in the belly, loosening tongues without making anyone sloppy.
The shack creaked around them, old wood settling like it was listening.
Outside, the village had gone quiet again, but it was a different kind of quiet now—people probably still whispering about the forgiven debts and the seed in the square that had already started changing things nobody could quite explain.
Nyx leaned her head against Lucien's shoulder, possessive as always, one hand resting on his thigh under the table.
"See? This is nicer than running through mud at midnight. Bread, wine, and two pretty girls who don't want to kill you yet."
Elara rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the small smile.
"Yet being the important word."
Lucien felt the Greed Bloodline stretch lazily inside him, content with the small hoard of trust and warmth they'd built tonight.
Not a conquest. Not yet.
Just the slow stacking of pieces that would make the next move easier.
The ring from the stolen set still sat in his pocket, heavy with possibilities.
They laughed again when Nyx tried to balance a piece of cheese on her nose and failed spectacularly, sending it rolling across the table.
Elara caught it mid-fall and popped it into her mouth, the three of them dissolving into easy chuckles that filled the small space and pushed the outside world a little farther away.
The wine bottle was half empty, the bread reduced to crumbs, when the ground gave a low tremble.
Not strong enough to be an earthquake.
Just a steady vibration rolling through the dirt, the kind that came from many hooves hitting the road at once.
Nyx's ears shot straight up.
Elara set her cup down hard, the remaining wine sloshing.
Lucien felt it through the soles of his boots—rhythmic, heavy, getting closer.
Horses. A lot of them.
The laughter died quick, replaced by the sudden tightness in the air.
Lucien stood first, the crooked smile returning like an old habit.
The Greed inside him woke up again, interested in whatever was coming to test the new roots they'd planted.
"Looks like dinner's over," he said, voice low.
"Time to see how deep those roots already go."
Nyx shifted closer to his side, tail bristling.
Elara reached for her sword, eyes hard again.
Outside, the sound of approaching riders grew louder, cutting through the night like an unpaid bill that refused to stay forgotten.