Lucien's hand shot out before his brain caught up, fingers closing around black feathers that felt too warm for something that had just flown through the night chill.
The crow flapped once, hard, beak clamped shut around a thin silver ring that caught the lantern light like it didn't belong there.
He held it tight against his chest, the bird's heart hammering against his palm like a tiny drum someone forgot to turn off.
Same seal on the ring as the one he'd lifted from the baron's strongroom weeks back—fancy crest half-worn from too many nervous fingers.
Nyx dropped from his shoulder in a swirl of purple-pink, landing human beside him, tail already lashing.
She leaned in close, nose brushing the crow's ruffled feathers, and inhaled slow like she was tasting bad wine.
"Smells like desperation," she muttered, voice low and sticky.
"He hasn't given up. Not even close."
The bird stopped fighting after a second, wings going slack but eyes still sharp, like it knew the message was already delivered.
Lucien pried the ring free with his thumb, the metal cold and slightly greasy from the bird's beak.
Elara stepped up behind him, close enough that her breath hit the back of his neck, the bond between them giving that familiar warm tug like it was checking if he was still hers.
She read the scrap of paper he unrolled over his shoulder, handwriting shaky like the baron had written it while drunk or scared or both.
"Return my daughter or the count will know about the 'monster' that took Eldoria."
Her voice came out flat, but Lucien felt the way her fingers tightened on his sleeve.
Face pale under the lantern glow, chin still up like she was daring the words to stick.
"He still sees me as property. Even now."
Lucien didn't answer right away.
Just held the paper between two fingers, the ink smudged where sweat or tears had hit it.
The Greed Bloodline uncoiled behind his ribs, not loud, just curious, already calculating how much desperation like this could multiply into points later.
He pushed a thread of pure mana into the corner of the note, the kind he'd farmed endless in the pocket universe, and watched the edges curl black without any smoke or drama.
The paper burned clean, ash drifting down to the dirt floor like it had never mattered.
"Property changes owners," he said, voice low, the São Paulo edge still clinging even after all this time.
No big speech. Just fact.
Nyx pressed her cold nose to the side of his neck, right where the scar met skin, tail curling once around his wrist like she was anchoring herself there.
"I'm the first," she whispered, breath warm against his ear but carrying that primordial bite underneath.
"She's the second. No one takes what's ours."
The words sat heavy, possessiveness mixed with something sharper, almost scared, like even she knew the bond could stretch only so far before it pulled back.
Elara didn't pull away.
She just leaned heavier into his side, the three of them standing there in the shack while the lantern flickered and the village outside stayed quiet like it knew better than to interrupt.
Lucien felt the ash on his fingers, gritty, and wiped it on his tunic without thinking.
Random thought hit sideways—back in the office this would've been an email chain that never ended and a boss pretending he cared. Here it's crows and burned paper and two girls who smell like they're ready to bite for me.
Made his mouth twitch.
The afternoon dragged lazy inside the shack, the kind of slow that only happened when the Greed decided to take a breath.
Elara stirred a pot of stew over the small fire, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back messy with a scrap of cloth she'd stolen from somewhere.
The smell filled the space—onions softening, garlic hitting hot oil, that faint earth tang from the vegetables the mana seeds had pushed up early.
Nyx sprawled across the mattress telling some old legend, voice lilting between languages Lucien half-understood, about foxes that used to steal stars right out of the sky and hide them in their tails until the gods got pissed.
Lucien sat on the edge of the table, legs swinging, listening more than talking.
He watched Elara taste the broth with the wooden spoon, nose wrinkling when it needed salt, and felt the bond hum steady between them.
Nyx's tail kept brushing his calf every time she gestured big about the foxes outsmarting the heavens.
He calculated quiet in the back of his head—how many points the baron's desperation might drop into the system later, how the village was already yielding extra without him twisting arms, how the Greed Bloodline kept purring like a cat that just got fed scraps it didn't earn.
Elara caught him staring and flicked a drop of broth at him, laughing when it landed on his cheek.
"You gonna help or just sit there looking like you own the recipe too?"
Nyx snorted from the mattress, rolling onto her stomach.
"He owns everything eventually. That's the point."
They ate straight from the pot when it was done, spoons clinking, the stew burning tongues and warming chests.
No big talk about crows or barons. Just the three of them fitting into the small space like the shack had grown used to their mess.
Lucien scraped the bottom with his spoon, the metal ringing soft, and thought about how normal this felt now—normal in the way a stolen life could.
Night came quick.
He slipped out alone while they dozed, boots quiet on the dirt path that led to the village edge.
The mana seed he carried in his palm felt warm, already multiplied twice in the treasury before he even left the shack.
He crouched at the boundary line where the fields met the treeline, pressed it into the soil with two fingers, and pushed a little extra mana through the Greed Bloodline.
The ground glowed faint blue for half a breath, then settled back to normal dirt like nothing had happened.
Tomorrow the harvest would push harder. The village would thank the land instead of asking questions.
He wiped his hands on his tunic and stood, the cold wind cutting across his neck, the scar itching like it approved the quiet investment.
Morning brought footsteps on the path before the sun even cleared the roofs.
Lucien was already up, standing in the square with Nyx back on his shoulder in fox form and Elara half a step behind him.
The baron arrived on foot, cloak torn at the hem and hanging crooked, eyes sunken like he hadn't slept since the last time he'd ridden out of here with his tail between his legs.
No soldiers. No horse.
Just him, alone, boots scuffing the dirt like they weighed more than they should.
He stopped ten paces short, hands open at his sides, voice cracking on the first try.
"I… I came to negotiate. Not as a baron."
He swallowed hard, the words scraping out like they hurt.
"As a father."