Chapter 8: The Starch and the Suffering
Lucien knew he was being walked into a trap the moment the fabric touched his skin.
It wasn't a deadly trap. There were no poisoned needles or hidden daggers. This was much worse. It was formal wear.
He stood in front of the full-length mirror in the Morningstar estate, arms held out stiffly as if he were being prepared for taxidermy. The shirt was white, crisp, and possessed a collar so stiff it felt like it was personally offended by the existence of his chin.
"I cannot move," Lucien stated. His voice was flat, echoing in the dressing room.
"You're exaggerating," Seraphina said, hiding a smirk as she adjusted his sash. "You look like a little prince."
"I look like a structural pillar," Lucien countered. He tried to look down at his shoes, but the collar pinched his throat. "If I fall over, I will simply shatter. Is this the goal? To minimize my mobility so I cannot escape the social obligations?"
Seraphina actually laughed, a bright, un-regal sound. "Just for tonight, Lucien. Try to be… expressive. Or at least, try not to look like you're calculating the property value of everyone you meet."
Lucien didn't respond. He was too busy wondering if he could use mana to subtly incinerate the starch in his sleeves without setting himself on fire.
The Great Hall of the MorningStar Estate didn't just hold people; it held gravity.
The air was thick with the scent of expensive incense and the hum of a hundred different mana signatures. To anyone else, it was a party. To Lucien, it was sensory overload disguised as a gala.
"Stay close," Azrael muttered. His father looked perfectly comfortable in his own formal blacks, which Lucien found deeply suspicious.
"I have no choice," Lucien muttered back, taking a short, choppy step. "The trousers do not allow for a full stride."
They hadn't been in the room for thirty seconds before the first "predator" approached.
A tall noble with a mustache that looked like it required its own permit stepped forward. "Azrael! And the lovely Seraphina. I see you've brought the… rumor."
The man's eyes dropped to Lucien. There was a long, awkward silence where the man clearly expected Lucien to hide behind his mother's leg or perhaps eat a crayon.
Lucien stared back. He didn't blink. He just waited.
"He… has your eyes," the noble said, shifting uncomfortably when Lucien continued to offer nothing but a cold, analytical gaze. "Does he speak yet?"
"I speak," Lucien said. "Though I find the current direction of this conversation to be lacking in substance."
The noble's mustache actually twitched. He looked at Azrael, then back at the four-year-old who sounded like a retired philosophy professor. "Right. Well. Prodigious! Truly."
The man retreated faster than a scout who'd spotted a dragon.
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The evening proceeded in a blur of fake smiles and perfume. Lucien was doing well—until the Aunties arrived.
A woman in a dress that looked like a pink explosion crouched down in front of him. Lucien's internal alarm bells went off. Danger. Proximity violation.
"Oh, look at those cheeks!" she cooed.
Before Lucien's high-speed brain could calculate an escape route, her hand shot forward. Pinch.
Lucien froze. His soul briefly left his body. He slowly turned his head to look at the hand still touching his face, then looked the woman dead in the eye.
"Madam," Lucien said, his voice dropping an octave in sheer disbelief. "We have not been introduced. Why are you applying physical pressure to my zygomatic bone?"
The woman blinked, her smile faltering. "I… what?"
"Is this a traditional greeting? Do I pinch you back now?" Lucien raised a tiny hand, looking genuinely prepared to retaliate.
Seraphina swooped in, grabbing Lucien's hand and laughing nervously. "He's—haha—he's very tired! Past his bedtime! Such a jokester!"
She hauled Lucien away as he muttered, "I am not joking. It was a breach of personal sovereignty."
A sudden shift in the room's pressure announced the arrival of the true powers.
The crowd parted. A man entered— Henri Azazel . He was the definition of "quiet power." He didn't need to shout; the room simply adjusted its heartbeat to match his.
"Watch him," Azrael said, his voice dropping into 'Teacher Mode.' "That is how you control a room without saying a word."
Lucien watched. He noted the posture, the way Henri's eyes scanned the room, never staying on one person too long. Efficiency, Lucien thought.' I can work with that'.
Then, the doors practically rattled on their hinges.
"IS THIS A PARTY OR A FUNERAL? TURN UP THE LIGHTS!"
Sullivan thundered in. He was a walking thunderstorm of charisma and raw mana. He slapped a passing Duke on the back so hard the man's wine jumped out of his glass. Lucien stared as Sullivan suddenly… shrunk. One moment he was a giant, the next he was moving through the crowd like a blur, his presence condensing.
"He just changed his physical displacement," Lucien whispered. "That is… highly illogical."
Near the pillar where Henri stood, a girl was waiting. She wasn't playing with the glowing toys the other children were fighting over. She was just standing there, looking bored—but her eyes were sharp, tracking everything.
"That," Azrael said, gesturing toward the girl, "is Ameri. Henri's daughter."
Ameri caught Lucien looking. She didn't smile. She didn't wave. She just raised an eyebrow as if to say, *'You look like you're wearing a cardboard box.'
Lucien adjusted his stiff collar and gave her a sharp, singular nod. He didn't say a word, and neither did she. It was the most honest conversation he'd had all night.
"This evening is a disaster," Lucien sighed, leaning against his father's leg.
"But?" Azrael asked.
Lucien watched Ameri ignore a group of hovering children and kept his eyes on the shifting mana in the room.
"But the data is fascinating," Lucien admitted. "Even if the clothing is a crime against humanity."
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END OF CHAPTER 8