Lucas Stormrider, Classless noble

The afternoon air was warm and pleasantly swirling around. Barely a trace of humidity could be felt, which aligned with the clean expanse of blue sky above.

The city of Weydan was home to many troubled travelers. Situated near the border between the Etnal Kingdom and the Riverut Empire, it was a sanctuary that welcomed many races and religions. One could find not only Etnal's Church of the Goddess, but even Ureliar's shrines and Melidan's chapels serving their gods.

A bustle of people filled the main roadways - men, women, children, and the elderly, each voice intermingling. Prophecies, product advertisements, and conversations created a lively cacophony.

But there were other qualities to this city than just the marketplace. Weydan's Academy was a good example of such. A place where one could learn all the arcane teachings the professors knew, ranging from simple techniques to the most sophisticated spells. If one had talent (or money), they could attend it, receiving support from the city's leading 7th-circle Mages.

To Lucas Stormrider, however, this place was nothing but a palace of his .

He let out a painful exhale, his grip on the dark robe weak as he clutched it, his fingers smeared with blood. He desperately tried to stem the scarlet flow from his shoulder wound, his violet eyes straining through tears as he scanned for the source of the next attack - forward? Left? Right?

The impact hit him abruptly, confirming the direction: backward. Collapsing onto the uneven cobblestones, the ground offered no respite from the fall. His attempts to rise were feeble, his body drained of strength. Emphasizing his helplessness, one of his tormentors casually stepped on his back.

"Well, well, what a nice catch!" came the voice of Illan Breshnaw, laced with excitement. "Our little friend is feeling generous, it seems!" Laughter followed as Illan's thick hand jiggled a pouch of money, producing the distinct sound of clinking coins.

"Please..." Lucas managed to plead, mustering whatever strength remained to free himself from this grasp. "I gave you everything I had. Please, just let me go..."

A long hand suddenly found its way into his near-white hair, bony fingers gripping his skull from behind and forcing his head up. In his line of sight were two pairs of feet, clad in the familiar black boots worn by every academy student. Laughter echoed as one boot neared his chin, almost as though the wearer contemplated shattering his jaw. The polished leather, cold and smooth, pressed momentarily against his face before retreating.

"Hey there, Lucas," Illan's voice dripped with mockery. "Let's not resort to 'let me go.' Consider it a piece of advice. Thorne doesn't take kindly to begging during his watch."

"What more do you want?" Lucas implored, trying to muster strength through the pain.

"Hmm, let me think," Illan mused, lowering himself. The brown hair had a spiky appearance. His face, ruggedly handsome, held mischievous lips curved into a devilish grin. "Ah, yes," he made a noise before landing a swift strike to Lucas's face. "Satisfaction. No matter how many times I hit you, it never gets old."

"That's what sets him apart from other newcomers," another bully, Kieran, chimed in, his voice resonating like a blacksmith's hammer. He stood the tallest among them, his plump face crowned with a fiery red mane. Muscles rippled beneath his skin as he spoke. "He just keeps getting up. A worm regenerates even when severed in half, it appears," he sneered as he delivered a kick to Lucas's stomach.

The other two oppressors laughed in unison, happy to see the spectacle. Lucas's groan mixed with blood, his lips trembling and his body writhed with spasms of agony.

"Hey, look here," Illan poised his hand mere fractions of a meter away from Lucas's face. As his fingers moved a little, a small, circular sigil was created, floating right above his palm. "See this? Take a good look, my little friend. This is the '1st circle of magic'. Be grateful that I'm allowing you to see it from this close." he snickered momentarily.

"Hey, but isn't it a waste?" Kerian asked with a slightly questioning expression. "You had to use mana to summon it. Does it make sense to not use it?"

"Hmm, you're right. Look, Lucas, it's a two-in-one special, just for you!" the brown-haired man sounded excited whilst lowering his hand to point directly at his prey's nose. "But... what should I show you? Oh, I know. Get a good taste. I'm going to give you much more of it at the academy. <Stone Bullet>." Illan channeled the magic, and in an instant, a singular piece of rock appeared in front of the sigil. It was no larger than half a thumb and uniformly gray-brown.

Before Lucas had the time to even flinch, the projectile shot forward, instantly smashing his nose. A new torrent of scarlet started dripping, adding to his sorry state.

The bony fingers released their grip on Lucas's head, causing his broken nose to meet the unforgiving ground. Blood splattered as he tried to exhale.

"Aren't you embarrassed to keep living?" Illan asked, his hand clasping the lying one's chin forcefully. "Such a disgrace to your family. No class, suffering from mana block... I just feel sorry for your mother to who had to birth you. What would your old man say, should he be still alive?" ridicule soaked the strong man's voice.

Lucas felt a tinge of anger within him well up at the very mention of his father. In a momentary fit, he attempted to bite his hand. However, his advance was swiftly met with a quick jab that further displaced his nose.

Coughing violently, Lucas tasted the metallic tang of blood on his tongue, the pain a searing wave that seemed to blur his vision. Tears mixed with the red life fluid that was painting the cobble under him. The strands of his hair were taking on a similar hue, and his consciousness felt like it was slowly fading. He had no strength to even muster up his status screen.

"Anyway, take care. Bring more money next time, Lucas. We can't make a living off of marquess scraps." Illan said, slowly rising to a standing position. "Thorne, want a beer?"

Chatter between the trio ensued as they quickly left their victim alone in the dark, dirty alley. Lucas his body to shift its position slightly. Strong pain radiated throughout his entire being. However, after a short moment, he felt it wane slightly, allowing his arms to move and attempt to support the weight of his body. Almost subconsciously, the lying man used his only active skill.

'<Keen Senses>.' he commanded his spirit. In an instant, his blurry vision sharpened, and his hearing range expanded. Focusing his vision, he looked ahead. In the main street, the trio who thrashed him was visible, laughter hearable between them. Lucas focused his will.

"-usly, I can't believe a mongrel like him has sisters that hot." Thorne's voice appeared slightly muffled, his slightly squeaky tone emphasized by his mostly slender, tall frame. The long plume of blonde hair cascaded down his back, glimmering in the sun's rays.

"Right?" Illan snickered. "Both his sisters are busty beauties and a moron like he gets to see them every day. Silver spoons are handed to any idiot nowadays. Wonder how Ophelia will react when I crush him in front of her."

"What do you mean, 'wonder'?" Kieran sounded. "She'll be on her knees for you. You'll do a great servitude to the country, and their family."

"Exactly," Thorne interjected again. "A talentless nitwit like him doesn't deserve to live for as long as he did. If I were him, I'd have decided to kick the bucket already."

Hearing the blonde man's voice, Lucas immediately canceled his skill. A pained beat of his heart reverberated in his body. '...he's right.' he thought, slowly moving his knees and leaning on a wall to support his ascent. 'Why do I even keep going on...'

"Young master!" a soft, feminine voice entered his ears from behind, sounding with worry and fear. The woman's hard boots made clicking sounds against the hard surface as she approached.

"...Nimue?" he asked, his voice full of surprise. He shifted his gaze, locating the maid without an issue. Her brilliant, youthfully black hair of elbow length was made into a braid, her earthy green eyes staring into his with concern. The slightly pointy ears would allow anyone to easily tell that she wasn't human, unlike her master. She wore a long tunic of beige color and a black skirt that almost covered her boots - a typical outfit for when she was running an errand in the city.

Her large breasts came into Lucas's view quickly as she placed her hands on his shoulders and began inspecting the damage done to him. As she finished, she put her right hand under his armpit and let him lean on her for support. In a position like this, the height difference was easily noticeable, Nimue's head reaching only to about Lucas's lips. She was small, but surprisingly strong, as she took his almost entire weight on her legs and appeared to not struggle at all.

Doing his best to not simply be carried, Lucas his body to push itself up. He groaned, the pain flaring up and threatening to drown him. He felt her hands support him as he tried to steady himself.

"What did they do to you, young master?" she whispered in his ear, her half-full lips close enough that Lucas could feel her warm breath.

The young man glanced up at her worried face, his violet eyes clouded with pain. "I-I'm fine," he out, his voice barely a rasp. "Let's just... get out of here."

Nimue's gaze held a mixture of misgiving and anger, but she nodded. However, it appeared as though Lucas's oppressors sensed her presence.

Kieran glanced back with a sneer. "Well, well, if it isn't the little servant girl. Come to clean the mess?"

Nimue didn't respond, her expression maintaining a stoic mask. She continued to support Lucas, though her fists clenched and unclenched.

Illan, however, laughed. "Oh, how touching! She's playing the concerned caretaker. Must be quite the performance, huh?"

Ignoring the taunts, Nimue's arms held Lucas firmly as she carefully began guiding him away, her steps steady despite his weight.

Illan's laughter followed them for a moment before fading into the ambient noise of the city. This time, it appeared that they were going to let them leave.

As they moved away from the scene, Lucas's consciousness felt like it could fade out at any moment. The pain was excruciating, but Nimue's support was a lifeline. Reaching the main street, they both exhaled with relief. They were safe from the trio in between the people... even though some stinky stares were thrown at them.

Quickly stepping on and on, the duo made their way north, ignoring the bustling marketplace on the way. Entering one of the smaller exit routes out of the city, their trek did not stop for one moment. Lucas looked over the large buildings all around. Most of them followed the uniform architectural style of the Etnal Kingdom - simplistic, with a little color, but a powerful construct that would easily outlive even elves. However, a few of them appeared to be more intrinsic - the influence of Riverut as obvious as day, and once or twice, he could notice small, shabby houses that seemed to serve as abodes to homeless-looking inhabitants. What remained fully unchanging, however, was the nigh-perfectly even road made of polished stones.

Lucas felt his breathing soften as the two of them left the outer walls behind. What used to be a stream of people now became scarcely a trickle, a head or two going about their business. Taking a road that deviated slightly east, the maid and her master were trekking in a calm, yet slightly tense atmosphere. As he was starting to regain power in his legs, he eventually receded his leaning over Nimue to only locking his elbow with hers.

Eventually, the silent atmosphere was broken by the woman, "...your classmates don't like you, young master."

"...they... don't like Classless people, is all."

"..." she didn't answer, but Lucas could feel her muscles tense up with anger.

"...it's alright, Nimue," he tried to reassure her. "But why were you there?"

"I was running an errand for Mistress Aveline. I thought I'd come by since your lectures were supposed to end an hour ago."

"...right. Thanks for checking in." Lucas's voice bore a significant deal of gratitude in his tone. However, a pained groan escaped his mouth right after, prompting him to shut his trap. Lucas took a moment to look around whilst walking.

The area between the Stormrider mansion and Weydan consisted of mostly flat plains. The vibrantly green grass made a pleasant composition with the sky, and the softness of the dirt made the prospect of stopping for a while rather inviting. Some animals could be seen lurking around, ranging from mice eating grass seeds and rabbits running from foxes to a couple of buzzards stalking their prey from up above. It was a rather serene scene, one that Lucas always enjoyed looking at.

The walk took a little more than 40 minutes. Soon enough, a tall wall could be seen around an expansive, multi-part building with a size that could almost rival the Weydan's Academy. An image of extravagance and vanity - the Stormrider's mansion and land plot were as over the top as Lucas could remember them being.

Passing by the armor-clad guards and entering through the imposing front gates, not a word was spoken as the duo entered the main plot of land. The stone road transitioned into gravel, its crunching distinct with every step.

His violet eyes looked upward, inspecting the wide windows. Their clean, reflective surface disallowed much vision into what was inside the corridors and rooms. However, Lucas's eyes did notice a glint of gold move in one of them... or perhaps it was a trick of the sunlight. A sigh escaped his mouth.

Approaching the main door, he noticed a middle-aged man - Floyd. He stood tall with his thin frame, the suit he wore perfectly suited for his job as a butler to the Stormrider family. His gray eyes stared at him with a bit of concern, but the posture of his body appeared to contradict it with its neutral stance.

"Welcome home, young master," he bowed his head lightly.

"...hello, Floyd," Lucas himself to smile despite the radiating pain. With a bit of difficulty, he fought against Nimue's pull and stopped. "Has this day been good to you?"

"Looking at your state, young master, I'm afraid it was better than yours."

"So the norm is kept. Good to hear."

"So far, yes." the butler nodded. "Will the dinner in one hour be alright?"

"...it's alright, I'll handle it. Ina must've been frantic since I wasn't on time."

"You know her well enough," a gentle smirk entered Floyd's face. "I will tell her you are fine."

"Thank you. I'll go get patched up, don't worry about me."

-Roughly 45 minutes later-

Lucas let out a sigh as he raised his left hand, pointing it toward the door to the room he was in with Nimue. She was quickly patching his injuries with bandages, her small fingers moving with skill and precision. Her eyes gently traversed his body, meticulously examining every tiny place she might have overlooked while caring for him.

Her gaze expertly glanced over his hardened, slightly toned body - a work of years of incidents like the one that happened today. With a delicate touch, she took hold of his hand, applying an oily salve to his calloused palms - evidence of his struggles with learning swordsmanship and swinging an ax. She leaned in lightly, feeling the still-strong scent of his sweat - the product of his everyday persistence to keep going.

Nimue's touch guided Lucas's hand downward to his knee. A faint blush graced her creamy cheeks as for the first time since they entered, she looked over his almost naked body without searching for any more blood stains to wipe or cuts to manage. His face had a rather delicate, warm look to it, conjuring an image of refined features bathed in a gentle glow. Lucas's complexion held a soft, pale undertone below the subtle bruises that Nimue took great care to hide with underlay and slight makeup. His violet eyes bore signs of intelligence that most people could not discern. The way his rearranged, straight nose combined with his small ears and thin lips made him look like a painting. Flawed, yet... alluring.

"...how are you feeling, young master?" she inquired, her voice brimming with genuine concern mirrored in her eyes.

"I'm alright," he responded, his tone carrying a mechanical edge as if he had rehearsed this answer countless times.

"...I understand," Nimue collected her thoughts and stood from the bedside.

Her gaze swept the room. Besides the small bed Lucas had slept on, there was a tiny table with scattered scrolls, books, an inkwell, and a feather. As her gaze ventured further, she noticed a small dresser adorned with a few delicate accessories. The room felt somewhat barren, its walls marred by visible rat scratches and darker stains in the corners, signs of its weariness. A lone manalamp hung by the door, casting an orange glow and giving birth to long shadows.

The wooden boards creaked beneath her as the lithe woman approached a small box on the table. She brought it to the bed, swiftly opening the container and organizing its contents - discarded bandages, healing salves, oils, needles, and threads. Everything found its place within seconds.

"Please rest well, young master," she spoke softly, bowing her head as a sign of respect before taking her steps toward the door. Before reaching for the handle, she turned around and gazed upon him one last time. Her gaze emanated worry and care beyond anything he'd seen in his own mother's eyes. "Call for me if you need anything."

"..." he didn't answer, his pose fixed in one spot like a sculpture. His eyes bore barely any sign of life, and even his breathing appeared minimal.

A clicking sound echoed in the room momentarily as Nimue left him alone.

With a subtle shift of his legs atop the duvet, Lucas leaned back against the coolness of the wall, his muscles sighing in relief at the minor adjustment. His body felt like it could shatter at any moment, but at this point, he's gotten used to it.

'...Status.' he expressed within his thoughts.

[Lucas Stormrider (Age: 19)

Class: <None>

Level: 2

HP: 156/488

MP: 1124/1124

<Stats>

<Effects>

Skills: Magic Resistance (passive), Keen Senses, Pain Resistance (passive)]

'...pathetic.' he thought to himself. 'What's the point of me having so much mana when I can't even form a single circle...' he lamented. Sluggishly, he shifted his thoughts toward the submenu of more stats.

[HP: 156/488

MP: 1124/1124

-Base stats-

Strength: 7

Stamina: 21

Agility: 11

Intelligence: 97

-Special stats-

Insight: 37

Magical Resistance: 67

Physical Resistance: 29

Persistence: 19]

'...so uselessly elevated.' he sighed. 'Why... why can't they translate to an ability to control mana...!' he groaned lightly before straightening his sitting posture slightly. Assuming a meditation pose, Lucas did his best to concentrate on what he'd read a million times already. 'Concentrate... feel the mana...' he took a deeper breath and closed his eyes, doing his best to conceive the streams of arcane power flowing all around him. Mana was everywhere. It permeated everything, every last molecule.

...yet, he could not sense a sliver of it. An inhale, an exhale, the breathing techniques he'd been reading of and told about by his masters. It all ended in vain yet again.

Lucas's eyes opened, the violet orbs gleaming in the warm light of the manalamp. Stifling the pained lament that tried to pry his mouth open, the young man moved to the bedside and stood on the ground. Keeping his balance was difficult, but with some effort he shuffled his strained legs, soon reaching the dresser. Dropping to one knee, the young Stormrider opened the bottommost drawer and quickly picked a few pieces of fresh clothes.

He put on some pants, choosing a plain pair in a beige color. His feet slid into small, worn boots of brown color with ease. With some issues, he adorned a long, plainly gray shirt that had sleeves long enough to cover the remaining bruises and bandages, safe for his very hands.

"...why am I so weak..." he lamented momentarily, looking at how his fingers quivered with the mere act of stretching them. "Why must I remain as a Classless..." he gritted his teeth whilst placing his hands on the drawer. Looking at his face in the pocket mirror, he felt his anger elevate further. "Am I really that unlucky? Am I cursed by the gods?" he questioned his reflection as if he expected an answer. After a short second, he glanced away in defeat.

...

But suddenly, something in the room changed.

"Do you want power?" a male voice entered his ears, sounding powerful and attention-dragging.

"???" Lucas suddenly turned around, searching to locate the sound's origin. However, the half-dim interior of his room was empty. "...who... who said that?"

'Am I hearing things now? Did I get concussed too much?' he wondered whilst reaching to one of the top drawers. Without looking, his hand quickly found a small knife, which he grabbed with a bit of .

'<Keen Senses>.' he activated the skill, feeling and seeing the room suddenly become somewhat brighter. The quiet creaks of the floor under his feet were now hearable, and similarly, the man could hear somebody walking down the corridor next to his room. However... as some long seconds passed, nothing else could be heard.

A slow sigh escaped his mouth.

"Do you desire a class?" the voice sounded again. In an instant, Lucas turned around, looking at the wall.

It... it came from behind the wall? Yet... why was it so loud? This was a 50-centimeter-thick stone wall. Even with his skill, the best he would hear the words as was a faint whisper.

"...who said that?!" he raised his voice slightly, feeling his muscles tense up. With a slightly trembling motion, he pointed the knife at the wall, making some distance. Its worn handle felt slightly uncomfortable.

However... nothing answered. Again. A prolonged moment of silence appeared to stretch for longer than what ought to be possible. The young Stormrider's heart shook lightly with fear. A second passed... then another... and suddenly, he felt a sting of pain radiating from his lower spine. In an instant, he canceled his skill and dropped to the ground, coughing vehemently.

A bit of blood escaped his lips and stained the floor. 'Damnable mana block...' he cursed as his body's response was losing its effect. Sluggishly, Lucas raised on his knees, his head just barely clearing the drawer's top.

"Aren't you tired of your fate?" the voice echoed again. The manalamp on the wall flickered momentarily in response, almost as though to magnify the ominous effect of the voice's unknown source.

"Who said that? Show yourself!" the young man gritted his teeth. Fear of his mind and the frailty of his body made all his moves jerky as he ascended again. Leaning on the table, he did his best to scan the entire wall with his violet eyes.

Suddenly, he noticed something. The pocket mirror... why was it all black?

With a quivering step forward, his hand made a descending motion, poking at the accessory. Yet, as it clattered a little, nothing more seemed wrong other than its completely abyss-like surface. With an uncertain hand, he got a hold of the handle. Turning it toward himself, his motions suddenly froze. He saw... a man. And most importantly, that man wasn't himself.

The person he saw appeared to be an elf. Even though Lucas had experience in dealing with the pointy-eared folk, never once did he see one who would look as old as this one. Even with rough estimates, he must've had memories of no less than three centuries. His fair skin had several blemished spots here and there, all of which could be easily recognized as battle marks. The man's serious expression conveyed a sense of incredible pressure onto the young Stormrider's shoulders, making him feel weak by simply looking at him. The elf's amber eyes appeared to burn like flames as his gaze bore straight into Lucas's skull. Brilliantly silver hair cascaded onto his shoulders like rivers of moonlight, giving the man an aura that radiated authority and commanded respect.

In the reflection, his shoulders were visible, coated in a visibly weathered and tattered cloak of gray-green hue.

Lucas's breath hitched in his throat as his gaze locked with the image of the elf. A maelstrom of emotions surged within him - fear, fascination, and an inexplicable magnetism. The elf's piercing stare felt as though it could delve into Lucas's very essence.

The voice, powerful and resonant, echoed in Lucas's mind once more, "Lucas Tertius Stormrider. Son of Valerian and Ismeria Stormrider," it boomed with an air of authority as if he held complete dominion over the space he occupied. "The one cursed by fate. Do you wish to acquire power?"

"W-What? H-How do you...?" Lucas stammered half of a response, unable to finish the sentence as he felt his throat tying itself into a knot. Terror was overcoming him, causing his palms to sweat profusely as he dropped the knife and sank to the ground.

"Lucas, we shall hurry. Our time dwindles," the elf ignored Lucas's reactions. "I ask you once more. Do you desire control of your life? Do you wish to repay the transgressions you've suffered? Do you want to overcome your mana block?"

"W-Wha-- W-What do you mean?" Lucas felt his chest tighten. Every next beat of his accelerating heart sent a distant echo reminiscent of war drums into his ears. "W-W-Who a-are y-you?" he squeezed out the words with difficulty.

"My name is Eamon Cindermoon. I am the world's only 10th-circle Mage."

"W-What?" 'Isn't the highest circle 9th?! How is this even possible...?'

"Listen up, Lucas, for our time is running dry," the elf man stated a little coldly. "Just listen and remember my instructions. I will tell you how to--"

"Oh, I see!" Lucas exploded, a slight chuckle of nervousness escaping his mouth "I'm hallucinating! Illan did a number on me... haha. Hahahaha!" he laughed in a nigh-maniacal manner. "I'm finally losing my mind...! It's about time!"

"Lucas--"

"Madness, my dear friend!" he raised his voice, casting a gaze toward the ceiling as if addressing an invisible audience. "You've come to claim me at last!"

"Listen to m--"

"Take my troubled soul into your embrace!"

"LISTEN TO ME!!!" Eamon erupted with a palpable surge of power, the very room quivering in response. The drawers of the dresser slid open slightly as if compelled by an otherworldly . "Time is of the essence! You have only 7 days!" his commanding voice cut through Lucas's spiraling thoughts, his words infused with a potent urgency.

The room seemed to vibrate with an unseen , and Lucas felt a shiver run down his spine. The elf's proclamation, though enigmatic, held a sense of impending doom that could not be ignored.

His laughter tapered into a nervous hush, and his gaze flickered between the mirror and the room's dim expanse. The surreal nature of the situation seemed to press down on him, making the air feel thick and heavy.

"...7? 7 days for what?"

"..." Eamon remained silent for a moment. Though Lucas could barely see the elf on the mirror's surface, his amber eyes emanated a sense of... sorrow, almost. "Lucas, when that time expires, somebody close to you will die."

"W-What? What does that mean? W-Who?" he raised an eyebrow, feeling an unknown, eerie sense of danger crawl up his back. For some inexplicable reason, he felt like the elf was speaking the truth.

"...I cannot tell you that," the elf man replied, his expression bearing signs of pain. "It's too straining on me to reveal it. But I assure you, it's all true. Before that time comes, you must awaken your class. I'm here to assist you in that."

"...mister Eamon, but... how do I know you're not just a figment of my imagination? No, firstly... how do I know you're not a demon or the like?"

"...perhaps I expected too much of a youthful mind," Eamon sighed deeply, visibly disappointed in Lucas's reaction. "Do I even look like a demon?"

"..."

"With insight like this, you wouldn't recognize a demon even if it stood in front of you, Lucas. Ironic," Eamon snorted with a hearable glint of ridicule. "However, I do understand you may not want to believe me at first. Then, allow me to tell you something, and you'll decide if you want to believe me or not. Tomorrow in the afternoon, you will be called upon by your mother. The day after that, you will have guests," he uttered, and the pressure emanated from him appeared to decrease exponentially by the second.

"Gue--"

*KNOCK KNOCK*

"Young master?" Nimue's delicate voice could be heard from behind the door. "Is everything alright?"

Lucas's head snapped in the direction of the door. The table and chair on the way made him realize that for the past minute or two, he had been sitting on the floor.

His violet eyes shot toward the mirror on the ground. Its black surface was gone now, and the man saw a reflection of the dresser's slightly ajar drawers. With a shaky hand, he picked up the mirror. After slowly closing his eyes, he rapidly opened them, only to be welcomed by his reflection. Violet eyes stared at him, a mix of fear and surprise visible within.

"Young master?" Nimue's voice sounded again, this time bearing some signs of concern in its tone. "Are you alright?"

"...I'm fine," he replied, doing his best to stabilize the rate of the air exchange his lungs did. The beat of his heart was starting to abate slowly as well. "Why have you come, Nimue?"

"I heard some noises. I thought something might've happened."

"...is the dinner ready?"

"Yes, young master. Will you be coming now?"

"...I'll come out in a minute," he replied with a glint of hesitation.

The rugged boards of wood under Lucas felt... cold and unwelcoming. The stale air of his room was filled with the scent of sweat from his forehead, as well as blood that started to soak his fresh tunic.

A long moment of silence ensued between him and Nimue who stood behind the door. Taking a moment to bask in that stillness, the young Stormrider did his best to try and piece together all the information that flew around his head because of what just happened. The ajar drawers, moved accessories, and the parchment on the floor... it appeared as if what just happened was real.

...

'I've gone insane, haven't I?'