Chapter 10 The Eve of the Storm
It was true that the pattern he carved on the nape of his neck was the emblem of the Vishtean organization, but it was a top secret. Which kingdom in the world would send spies to other countries and proudly engrave the emblem of the country?
However, there was one thing they didn't know. Lucien shrugged. He rolled up his clothes and showed a small pattern carved on his shoulder.
"You're still wearing that pattern. I was marked when I was young."
The man's eyes widened. Then, Shartus shook his head and continued.
"You said you would keep it as a surviving medal, but I get help in times like this."
"It used to be a slave seal who was captured, but before I knew it, it had become a secret organization."
The mottled phosphorus in Lucien looked almost like a burn. It was natural that it was a scar from the arnage.
Rosentine looked away from there and looked at the man. This suspicion has been going on for a long time. From the moment Lucien told his story. She recalled the story that Lucien had hesitantly brought up in the cloister.
'Thank you.'
It was the day she had requested relief for the slums. Lucien followed Rosentine slowly, not walking ahead. It would take time. Rosentine instinctively knew this, and they walked with a slight silence between them.
The long corridor felt strangely calming. Eventually, she heard Lucien's quiet voice as he walked ahead. It was a story about him and Shartus' childhood.
'It's nothing special, but I'm from the slums.'
Rosentine stopped dead in her tracks. The distance between her and Lucien, who continued to walk, narrowed. Lucien, who had approached right beside her, had eyes that shone the color of swamp water. It was the same gaze she seen occasionally. The childish atmosphere deepened.
Rosentine looked into those eyes, finally realizing the identity she'd noticed at the Aventua ball. Not only was he not a noble, but he hadn't belonged in this palace in the first place. If Shartus hadn't been there.
'These eyes are called the color of misfortune among the poor.'
A faint, wry smile graced Rosentine's once delicate face. Rosentine thought she'd heard of it before. The moment she'd learned she was classified as a sorcerer, she'd searched through every book on that subject.
Of course, it was just a rumor. But every rumor becomes reality to someone. Lucien turned his dark green eyes straight ahead, as if gazing into an old memory. His faint smile was somehow delicate yet profound. He slowly began to tell his story.
'It's a color I inherited from my mother. As you know, Kartazen is sensitive to magic. Needless to say, the lower you go, the more intense your aversion becomes.'
'Witchcraft...'
At the unexpected words, she followed Lucien. Lucien let out a small laugh. It was a laugh steeped in the past.
'My mother was a wanderer, and she came to the slums. Some people took pity on her as she was pregnant with me and searching for shelter. She tried to raise me with that help, but it turned out that living near the capital with those eyes wasn't going to be easy.'
From the slums, like Harun. That thought made Rosentine fall silent. The only sound in the hallway, aside from their footsteps, was Lucien's quiet voice.
'As soon as I started walking, my mother took me out of the slums. She thought there was hope across the sea in Vishtean, where sorcerers were not discriminated against. But we didn't have enough money to get there.'
At the end of Lucien's slurred speech, Rosentine thought quietly of his mother. If she had a similar appearance to Lucien, she would have been beautiful. A woman with dark green eyes and a sorrowful air. What could such a woman do with a child? A glimpse of Lucien's face as a child flashed across her mind. He spoke of the past with a calm demeanor, as if nothing had happened.
'I boarded a ship to buy slaves.'
‘You mean slaves?'
'Yes, it was a ship bound for Vishtean. It was a place of illegal activity, but there was always a shortage of places to board the ship. The Empire's borders were starving.'
Ghosts passed by like scenery around Lucien. They were silent ghosts. Lucien's presence faded, and she recalled the past as he seemingly blended into the crowd. A woman with long, straight hair stood at the center of the scene.
Vishtean was a nation with a slave system. Unlike Kartazen, it was still a distinct class, so they probably thought it was better than the sorcerers, who were treated as outsiders to the empire.
'I've been branded.'
He slowly pulled back the collar on his shoulder and showed Rosentine the mark. It was a symbol of black canes, overlapping diagonally. It was a scar from long ago, already mottled, but clearly visible. She then looked at Lucien.
'And then there was no room. The slaves were gathered in a rural village on the coast, and there was a great fear of the sorcerer. One man, of all people, shouted, 'Those eyes are ominous.'
Not many places consider green eyes to be ominous. So, one could say it was just bad luck, but that misfortune cost his mother her life. Next was Lucien's turn. The helpless child harbored a cold resentment of his homeland, but as fate would have it, the imperial Prince appeared.
The wolf of myth, or rather, a light descending from the sky. He smiled bitterly, recalling the miracle he had just witnessed. A noble being descended like a demon, biting those around him who had been beating him.
Even without a loud shout, people were forced to obey the boy with just one glance. His commanding voice, like a cold north wind, and the sword he drew.
"This child is a sorcerer's child!"
Shartus spat out with surprising coldness at the man who had shouted beside the still-warm corpse of the woman.
Prove it.
'Haha... It was just one word, but no one could open their mouths. There was no way they could. I was half-crying with a face that was filled with sorrow.'
Even if he could have used sorcery, there was no way he could have used it at that moment, so it was clear that Shartus had intended to save him from the beginning. Regardless of Lucien Aina's true identity.
'He raised his drawn sword and aimed at the tree with surprisingly neat skill even at such a young age. He asked.'
What is your name?
Even though his voice hadn't fully developed, it was intimidating. He was a born loser, and he didn't seem to care about his small stature. Everyone was on their knees. He answered, and the sword aimed at his throat was placed on his shoulder.
It was a real sword, not a ceremonial one. The surroundings were cold and silent, not even a whisper. Everyone was terrified by the cold fury, and they felt as if their throats were choked, unable to utter a word.
The little Prince asked Lucien if he would become his vassal. The dawn seashore was murky, and the air was tinged with the smell of blood. Whoever he was, at any moment, Lucien Aina would have answered yes.
He thus became the imperial advisor.
'It was still the same.'
'Yes, my lord, he has been my lord since then.'
A small smile drifted across his face, a flashback to the past. He drifted back to his childhood, barely able to grasp the present, and turned to Rosentine. It was a long time ago, but it was something he would never forget.
When she spoke of the slums, Lucien felt a sense of validation, a sense of self-pity he had confined to a deep drawer. It was a shock, a sudden dazzling light. The lives of the nobles were truly strange, and he had to continue to learn lest his origins become a burden to Shartus. A lowborn child brought in by a worthy lord.
Lucien Aina's origins were unknown, but for a long time, he kept quiet because of the anxiety that haunted him like a shadow. He tried to shake it off, but he couldn't. Even trying to ignore it was quite a task.
'Undeniably, my hometown is that slum.'
'All I cared about was a child I saw in that slum. At the same time, every child who grows up on the street sees the light.'
Lucien stopped walking. Rosentine, caught in his gaze, also froze in place. He looked at her, then stared into space, then returned to Rosentine several times. His gaze was like grasping the morning frost, as if seeing something that was simply beyond reach. Lucien Aina slowly reached out and took Rosentine's fingertips. Then, with the utmost respect, he kissed the back of her hand.
'Thank you. I think I can finally reflect on my past a little.'
Rosentine's gaze was unmistakable. Lucien let out a small sigh of admiration and smiled, unable to conceal the joy seeping through his vulnerability. It was for no other reason that he recalled Chartus from when they had first met.
He thought they looked alike. Now, standing before his eyes, this little sorcerer and his master at that time were standing straight.
A wolf from mythology, or rather, a light from the sky.
It was a rather sentimental thought, but he couldn't help thinking otherwise. At least, that's how they looked to him.
"Do you think there's anywhere else to run?"
Rosentine spoke coldly from the dark bedroom, addressing the spy and assassin. It was a bit like sarcasm. Considering the hardships she'd endured because of the interest, she couldn't possibly speak politely. She'd racked her brains to avoid suspicion, yet still managed to align the evidence that ultimately led her to him.
The man clicked his tongue in exasperation. Still, he was forced to disarm. His mind raced. He muttered to buy time.
"How on earth..."
"All I'm telling you is that the way you die depends on whether you pour the rest of it out or not."
Rosentine spoke firmly. She was forcing the spy to make a decision with limited information. It didn't matter how much time the man wasted. A spy could simply be beheaded, but someone who had been a spy for a foreign country for three years would have much more to gain.
Even though Vishtean harbored a hidden hostility toward the empire, they didn't believe he would dare poison the Prince. So they had to find out more details.
"It seems our maid knew everything."
"Now that even the sentence has been exposed, there's no room for evasion."
"Unless you want war."
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