Lucanis looked at Althéa in a new light. He could almost still feel the dryness of her words in his chest—not an attack, not a reproach… but a blow meant to set him straight. She no longer had anything of the arrogant princess he had known: she had spoken like someone who demands, who shapes, who lifts others up.

  She was not waiting for an answer.

  Only a reaction.

  She turned on her heel.

  “Follow me. I have someone I want you to meet.”

  Her voice cracked through the air like a military order.

  Lucanis followed her.

  They passed through the great gate.

  A warm, radiant gust of air enveloped them at once. The vast courtyard unfolded before them like a living painting: hurried silhouettes, snapping fabrics, hooves striking stone, bursts of voices, mingled scents of flowers and sweat.

  Servants, stable hands, guards… an entire world in motion.

  The courtyard was immense, breathing sunlight, greenery, life.

  A paved path ran from the palace to the ramparts, gleaming like a silver thread beneath the light.

  To the left stretched meticulously trimmed gardens: fruit trees heavy with sweet fragrance, bushes sculpted with surgical precision, flowerbeds bursting with vivid colors that seemed almost to vibrate in the warm air.

  Intricate fountains let clear water fall into stone basins.

  The murmur of the water filled the space like a calm, steady breath.

  Lucanis took it all in with the silent gaze of a man discovering another world.

  His journey here had taken place at night: never had he seen these wonders lit by day.

  And he caught himself slowing down, almost despite himself, absorbed by so much harmony.

  To the right, white military tents stood in neat lines, draped with colorful banners.

  Althéa spoke without turning around:

  “These are the soldiers’ barracks. A little farther on is the arena where my family holds jousts and tournaments.”

  She took the path to the left.

  They walked along the gardens.

  Each step drew Lucanis deeper into a world he could never have imagined: the scents of fresh herbs, ripe fruit, clear water, the quiet buzzing of insects, the whisper of tiny creatures stirring in the soil, the wind slipping through the leaves in a delicate rustle.

  This place breathed life.

  The steady sound of the fountains soothed his ears.

  The soft, cool breeze caressed his skin like a living hand.

  For a few steps, he even had the strange impression of forgetting his fears, his confusion, his shame.

  The palace might have been built to intimidate… but this place soothed.

  They came upon a small circular metal structure crowned with the Soleandre sun.

  A guard stood posted at the entrance.

  At the sight of the princess, he straightened and bowed deeply.

  “Princess. Do you wish to go down?”

  She simply nodded. They stepped inside.

  It was a kind of steel cage at the center of the structure.

  The guard pulled a lever, and the whole mechanism began to move.

  Lucanis nearly lost his balance.

  Althéa, meanwhile, remained perfectly upright, her hands behind her back.

  The platform was descending.

  They were sinking underground.

  Lucanis felt his unease rising, like an animal caught in a trap.

  Without looking at him, Althéa said calmly:

  “The place we’re going is forbidden to most people.”

  At last, they emerged.

  The first thing that struck Lucanis was the immense blue expanse stretching before him, so vast it seemed to swallow the horizon. The sunlight burst across its surface, throwing back flashes of silver that almost burned his eyes.

  He gripped the bars of the lift, stunned, breath stolen from him.

  A smell of salt and sea spray hit him—sharp, vivid, almost foreign.

  The sea wind, heavy with moisture, twisted in his gut and made him shiver.

  He blinked— the salty air stung his eyes.

  And far away… despite the dizzying distance, he could make out a line of land, thin as a dark thread laid between sky and ocean.

  He looked at Althéa with a bewildered smile.

  She, however, was staring at the sea… her gaze heavy with mute regret, as though the sight awakened something she did not wish to relive.

  The lift finally touched ground.

  “If you thought Kael was terrifying… then the man you’re about to meet will make you rethink that judgment,” Althéa said in a calm, almost indifferent tone.

  She stepped out without waiting.

  Lucanis followed her—and the moment he set foot outside the cage, a carpet of autumn leaves gave way beneath his sole.

  A sharp crack, almost too fragile.

  The ground was nothing but an ocean of deep oranges, muted reds, and warm browns.

  A breath of wind stirred the leaves on the ground and those still clinging to the branches, lifting a silent rain of autumn petals.

  He raised his head.

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  The cliffside stretched out to the right, bordered by ancient stone railings worn by time.

  Reddish trees bathed the place in amber light, as if the season itself were holding its breath.

  Between them stood steles, plain, perfectly carved, lined up like frozen prayers.

  Althéa was already moving ahead in the distance.

  Lucanis, meanwhile, lingered—as though wrapped in that strange softness.

  It was not the silence that struck him… but that deep peace, almost too pure to be real.

  The waves broke against the rocks far below.

  A few seabirds let out hoarse cries.

  And the autumn wind slipped over the stone, cool, almost caressing.

  He thought:

  It is a perfect place… to rest forever.

  With every step, the leaves crackled beneath him— and Lucanis felt as though he were disturbing a sanctuary.

  At the end of the cliffside, Lucanis made out a man kneeling before a grave.

  He was cleaning the stone slowly, with almost ritual care.

  When he saw Althéa approach, he rose—so slowly it looked as though the earth itself were lifting him.

  His gaze met Althéa’s.

  And everything changed.

  He was a broad-shouldered man, slightly heavyset, his face marked by the years but softened by a thick beard. His gray-white hair, swept back, gave him an ancient, almost unchanging air. His brown eyes, however, held a rare warmth. No arrogance. Only restrained tenderness… and a worry that was finally easing.

  Althéa stopped short.

  Like a blow to the heart.

  The man took one step toward her.

  Then a second.

  His breath trembled slightly in the autumn air.

  Then Althéa drew her clasped hands from behind her back… and a smile burst across her face.

  Not the cold, controlled smile she offered the world.

  No.

  A radiant smile.

  Pure.

  The smile she showed absolutely no one.

  She began to run toward him—first quickly, then very quickly, as though her legs had been waiting for this moment for years.

  Her arms outstretched.

  “Grandfather!”

  He crouched down to receive her better, opened his arms— and caught her with a strength mixed with gentleness. He lifted her as though she were still a child. He spun her around, a broken laugh on his lips, while tears gathered at the corners of his eyes.

  “My dear little one…”

  His voice trembled.

  Not with sadness.

  Not with pure joy.

  With something deeper: relief.

  At last, he set her down again, with the care one reserves for something that nearly was lost.

  Althéa immediately hugged him again, her head against his chest.

  As if the contact were the only proof that he was truly alive.

  That she was too.

  She rubbed her face against his stomach, searching for his familiar scent—that mix of sea salt, old leather, and warm earth. As if to anchor herself. As if to make up for entire months of loneliness.

  Then, in a teasing, almost childlike tone:

  “You didn’t put on a little weight while I was away, did you?”

  The old man burst into a deep, warm laugh.

  He placed his broad hands on his granddaughter’s cheeks and stroked them with infinite slowness, as though trying to engrave every second into memory.

  “That’s possible, yes. Your grandfather had no one left to cross blades with… so I let myself go a little.”

  Althéa laughed in turn—a clear, unrestrained laugh.

  A laugh Lucanis never would have imagined coming from that amethyst princess.

  She embraced him again, tighter this time, almost trembling with contained emotion.

  Then the old man let his hands glide over her shoulders, then her arms, as though reading her story through her muscles.

  “And you… haven’t you put on some muscle?” he said, feigning surprise.

  He took her hands.

  Once fine and delicate, they had changed.

  They had become hands forged by effort.

  Calloused. Dry. Strong.

  He brushed them with his fingertips, with the tenderness of a man who recognizes the strength— and the pain— he missed.

  Then, slowly, he raised his eyes.

  His gaze slid toward Lucanis.

  Lucanis, who had not moved a single inch.

  The old man’s gaze finally settled on Lucanis.

  Instantly, his entire body froze. Not a hesitation. A total, brutal lock, as if his muscles had just received an order from too far away to question.

  A raw, primal instinct surged through him— a wave so ancient it did not even seem human.

  The old man was looking at him.

  Not violently, not threateningly.

  Just a calm look.

  And that was enough.

  Lucanis felt his heart pounding in his temples, each beat heavy, deep, like a war drum struck from inside his skull. His muscles tensed to the extreme, rigid enough to tremble.

  His fingers curled, his toes clenched… his entire body wavered between leaping and fleeing.

  Between surviving and dying.

  The slightest movement felt fatal.

  A monstrous pressure mounted in his head; tiny vessels strained to burst behind his eyes.

  He was nailed to the ground.

  A prisoner of an instinct that no longer even belonged to him.

  And in his mind, only one word kept turning over and over, like a deep cry:

  Danger.

  Again.

  Again.

  Again.

  The idea crushed everything else.

  It invaded every heartbeat.

  His gaze slipped despite himself toward the cliffside.

  A possible escape.

  Only one.

  The cliffside was becoming his only way out.

  The old man then calmly turned his attention back to Althéa.

  As though Lucanis did not exist.

  As though he were no more than a breath in the wind.

  “Is he your friend?”

  Althéa nodded without hesitation.

  The old man took one step.

  Only one.

  Lucanis immediately went rigid, muscles taut, fingers curled like claws.

  A second step.

  Althéa placed a hand on his arms, as though restraining a lion suddenly too curious.

  “Grandfather… his name is Lucanis,” she said quickly. “He is the heir of the Velcranns.”

  The old man gave a quiet smile.

  “Oh, I know. I would recognize that look among a thousand.”

  A third step.

  Lucanis clenched his teeth—so hard a dry crack echoed in his jaw.

  A fourth.

  A thought imposed itself, brutal, drilling into him:

  She warned me.

  She warned me…

  and she did not lie.

  He studied the man.

  No sign of hostility, none.

  The old man even seemed serene. Almost warm.

  And yet, his instinct saw something else entirely:

  a bottomless abyss.

  An unmoving titan.

  An absolute predator.

  Lucanis inhaled—a trembling breath.

  And he took a step.

  A wrenched step.

  A step that nearly made him let out a growl from how loudly every muscle screamed.

  I am a man.

  Not an animal.

  A man.

  Not an animal.

  Again.

  Again.

  A mantra to stay standing.

  He took a second step.

  His skin was drenched in sweat, cold and burning at the same time.

  His heart pounded so hard it made his ribs vibrate.

  The old man came to a stop.

  A dense, heavy, unfathomable silence fell around them.

  Lucanis tried to take a third step.

  No… it was not even a step anymore.

  His foot slid forward, inch by inch—unable to lift itself.

  His body refused.

  But he kept moving anyway.

  Until he was only one step away from the old man.

  The old man’s warmth almost brushed against his skin.

  Lucanis kept his eyes lowered.

  He did not dare meet his gaze.

  Not yet.

  His breathing was short, broken, ragged.

  His instinct was still screaming.

  And yet…

  he was there.

  Standing.

  In front of him.

  The old man inclined his head slightly, a calm smile on his face, almost paternal.

  “Hello, Lucanis.”

  His voice was soft, steady, enveloping.

  Devastating in its simplicity.

  He held out his hand.

  A broad, powerful hand… but warm.

  Terribly warm.

  Lucanis felt his stomach turn over.

  His instinct exploded, begging him to step back, to break the contact.

  He clenched his teeth until it hurt.

  Then, slowly— almost holding his breath— he grabbed his own right hand with his left, like a child forcing his body to obey… and raised his trembling arm.

  At last, his spasming fingers brushed the old man’s palm.

  Lucéran closed his hand around his.

  Not to crush it.

  Only to hold it.

  Then he placed his other hand over it, a broad, enveloping gesture—

  and a deep warmth, almost ancient, spread through Lucanis’s arm.

  A shiver ran through him.

  Not fear.

  Something else.

  Something older than his instincts.

  The old man smiled—a smile so bright it seemed to light the whole autumn around them.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lucanis. My name is Lucéran de Soléandre, the former king consort.”

  Each word fell softly.

  But Lucanis felt every one of them resound like a drum in his chest.

  And then, his legs gave way.

  They buckled all at once.

  He collapsed, his breath torn from him.

  His hand, however, remained enclosed in the old man’s— a steady, warm, unshakable grip…

  …that of a man who, he finally understood,

  meant him no harm.