Dust rose off the main road in slow, fat clouds, the kind that stuck to the back of your throat like cheap incense from those corner shops back in São Paulo where the guy behind the counter always short-changed you on purpose.
Lucien planted himself dead center in the square, arms crossed tight enough that the fabric of his tunic pulled across his chest, cold wind whipping his purple-cosmic hair into a mess that glowed faint pink at the tips.
The banner flapping at the head of the incoming riders wasn't the count's neat crest.
Silver spike of wheat stitched on gray cloth, edges frayed like it had seen too many roads and not enough washing.
Nyx stayed fox-shaped on his shoulder, small claws digging through the cloth just enough to remind him she was there.
Her nose twitched once, twice, sniffing the air like it owed her money.
"Smells like merchants thirsty for profit," she murmured straight into his ear, voice low and scratchy.
"Not soldiers. Worse."
Lucien didn't move.
The wind carried the scent too—horse sweat mixed with oiled leather and that metallic tang of coin pouches that hadn't been emptied in weeks.
His golden scar itched over the left eyebrow, the Greed Bloodline waking up slow but interested, like it smelled lunch before the plate even hit the table.
Elara slipped out from the shadow of the nearest hut, cloak pulled low but her hand already wrapped around the hilt of the short sword he'd lifted for her days ago.
She stopped beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
The Primordial Conquest Bond between them gave a low pulse, warm and steady, like a rope someone had just yanked taut but not hard enough to hurt.
Her breathing came even, but Lucien caught the faint tremor in her fingers where they rested on the grip.
"They're here for the miraculous harvest," she said, voice quiet enough that only he and Nyx caught it.
"My father used to rant about collectors showing up the second the land 'wakes up' too much. Said it ruined the numbers."
Lucien curved the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile, more like the face you make when the bus is late again and you're already calculating how late you'll be for the thing you didn't want to do anyway.
"Then let's give them something they didn't plan on collecting."
The riders reined in at the edge of the square, six men in light gray cloaks that looked expensive but worn at the hems.
Horses stamped, bits jingling, dust still swirling around their hooves like it couldn't decide where to settle.
The leader dismounted first—thin guy, sharp cheekbones, eyes that moved like they were pricing everything in sight.
He tossed the reins to one of his men without looking and walked straight up, boots crunching on the packed dirt.
His finger came up, pointing right at Lucien like he was marking a spot on a ledger.
"The orphan who turned himself into lord of the village," the man said, tone flat but carrying that calculating edge that screamed merchant more than knight.
"The count wants to know how Eldoria squeezed wheat out of soil that used to be nothing but rock and regret."
Lucien let the words sit there a second, wind tugging at his hair again, the scar itching harder now.
He felt the bond with Elara thrum once, warmer, like she was feeding him her own stubbornness through the line.
Nyx's tail flicked against his neck, small and sharp.
"Maybe the soil finally learned not to be dumb," Lucien answered, voice low and almost lazy, the kind of drawl that came easy when you already knew how the conversation ended.
The leader's eyes narrowed, but he didn't laugh.
One of the other riders shifted in the saddle, leather creaking, a low mutter passing between two of them about "village tricks" and "bad for business."
The thin guy rubbed his thumb along the edge of his cloak, the gesture small, almost nervous, like he was used to numbers adding up and this one wasn't.
Nyx didn't wait for permission.
She pushed a thread of illusion out, subtle, just a faint golden glow rolling across the wheat stalks someone had planted near the fountain after the mana seeds started working.
Nothing flashy. Just enough shimmer to make the horses toss their heads and whinny, ears flattening like they'd seen something that didn't belong in the math.
The leader's gaze flicked toward the glow, then back to Lucien, jaw tightening.
Lucien let the Devourer's Gaze click on without a word.
It peeled the man apart easy—posture, the way he planted his feet like he owned the dirt, the tiny hesitation before every calculated word.
The Greed Bloodline copied it clean, twisting the rhythm until it felt like Lucien's own.
He stepped forward once, boots scraping, close enough to smell the faint ink and coin dust on the guy's cloak.
"You take ten percent," Lucien said, voice still low but now carrying that same measured weight the leader had used a second ago.
"But today I decide what ten percent actually looks like."
The square went quiet except for the wind and the horses still fidgeting.
Elara stayed glued to his side, the bond pulsing steady between them, feeding him her steadiness even while her own pulse kicked up under the skin of her wrist where it brushed his.
The leader's thumb stopped moving on the cloak edge.
He glanced at his men, then at the glowing wheat, then back at the pouch Lucien had already pulled from the treasury and was holding out casual, like spare change from a bad bet.
One of the riders muttered something about "not worth the headache," and the thin guy exhaled through his nose, sharp and defeated.
They took the pouch.
Not all of it—Lucien made sure the cut was lighter than they expected, the Greed Bloodline already multiplying what stayed behind in the treasury before they even turned their horses.
The leader mounted up without another word, cloak flapping once as he wheeled around.
The whole group rode out slower than they'd come, pouches noticeably slimmer, faces stuck somewhere between confusion and the sour taste of a deal they couldn't quite explain later.
Villagers watched from half-open doors and cracked shutters.
The old lady with the basket paused by the fountain, lips moving like she was whispering a prayer or a curse, hard to tell.
The blacksmith leaned on his doorframe, rag still in his hands, nodding once slow like he'd just seen the scales tip and liked the new balance.
Murmurs drifted out—quiet stuff about "Lord Voss having the land on his side" and "maybe the baron should've paid better attention."
No cheers. Just that low buzz of people deciding the math had changed and they weren't mad about it.
Lucien stood there until the dust cloud shrank back down the road, arms still crossed, the wind cooling the sweat on his neck.
Elara let out a breath she'd been holding, shoulder still pressed to his like she hadn't noticed she was doing it.
Nyx stayed on his shoulder, tail still now, golden eyes scanning the square.
The bond between him and Elara gave one last warm pulse, solid, like it had settled into something neither of them was ready to name out loud.
Lucien felt the Greed hum low in his chest, satisfied with the indirect steal—authority lifted without a single swing, coins redirected, faces left scratching their heads.
As the last of the dust settled, the system blinked in the corner of his vision, discreet blue text that didn't scream for attention.
[Greed Points +8,400 for indirect theft of authority. Conquest Bond detected in random villager.]
Nyx's ears suddenly shot straight up, fur bristling along her spine.
She leaned in close, voice a bare whisper against his ear.
"Master… someone watched us from the tavern roof. And it wasn't a villager."