Chapter 107 Fisherman Village

Lucien stepped into the room with purpose, his eyes landing on the tattered fisherman who had scrambled to his feet as he entered.

​"Where did you find the boy?" Lucien questioned calmly, not intending to scare the man more.

​He needed the man as comfortable as possible to get every piece of information from him.

​"Your Grace," the man bowed his head, looking scared. "In my village... I was fishing when I saw a man pull two men out of the river—"

​"What did they look like?" Lucien asked, balling his fists impatiently.

​"I... it had been a foggy morning, Your Grace. All I do know is that one of them had curly brown hair... that was all I saw, Your Grace," the man informed, bowing his head.

​Lucien felt like cursing the man out. The world was so vast that a lot of people with curly brown hair could appear anywhere and anytime.

​The poster he sent out had been specific; he put the height, the eye color, and the fucking skin tone. Yes, a lot of people might match his description, but coming to him with just a brown hair description left him feeling like he’d hit a dead end once again.

​But he wasn’t about to dismiss the only thread of hope he’d seen in two whole weeks.

​"You will take me to them," Lucien stated.

​"Your Grace..." the man hesitated.

​Lucien arched his brows. "Do we have a problem?" he asked.

​The man shook his head. "It’s just... the village native doctor, he made us all promise to protect the visitors. The other man with the brown-haired man made it clear that they did not want people knowing where they are—"

​"You will take us to your village," Lucien repeated, his voice dark and threatening.

​"Y-yes, Your Grace," the man nodded.

​"You will get your reward once we arrive at your village," Lucien stated and strode out of the room.

​His jaws were clenched so tightly they hurt, his fingers digging deep into his palms.

​He made it into his study and quietly shut the door, and like a gentleman, he walked over to his desk and shoved everything off the table.

​The clattering of hurricane lamps, quills, and parchment did nothing to soothe his anger.

​He wanted to scream, to lift his chair and throw it through his closed glass windows. But he could not; this was his manor, he was a duke, and screaming like a helpless man would not sit well with his name.

​Suddenly, his door opened behind him, and he didn’t bother to turn.

​"Is the carriage ready?" Lucien asked, straightening his shoulders.

​"It is..." Rowan trailed off. "The conversation did not go well, I suppose?" he asked, glancing around the study.

​Lucien did not reply; he just stood there, shutting his eyes and trying to recall anything that could calm him down.

​Elian’s smiling face appeared in his mind—it was their time in his cabin; that had been the briefest, happiest moment of his life.

​If only he had overcome his fear and given Elian and himself what they both wanted, maybe Elian would still be with him by now. Hell, he knew Elian would still be by his side... the man loved him, and hopefully, he hoped Elian still did.

​"I’ll get someone to clean this up. Why not head out?" Rowan suggested.

​Without a word, Lucien turned and walked out of the study.

​Rowan stepped out and looked toward Finn.

​"Come here," he gestured at Finn.

​Finn walked over to him, his head bowed slightly. "Lord Rowan?"

​"Clear up the mess in there," Rowan pinned his thumb over his shoulder and was ready to leave when Finn spoke.

​"It’s not my duty, Lord Rowan," Finn spoke calmly.

​Rowan paused, his brows knitted together in confusion as he tried to make sure he heard Finn right.

​Slowly, he turned and faced Finn again. "Did I hear you clearly, Finn?" Rowan asked, a soft smile playing on his lips, but his eyes held a dark warning.

​Finn blinked slowly, clearly aware of the anger behind that smile. But he wasn’t about to be reduced to a servant when he wasn’t one.

​"Yes, Lord Rowan," he replied quietly.

​Rowan chuckled, stepping closer until he was right in front of Finn, his height towering over him.

​He locked eyes with Finn, the smile dropping from his lips. "Now..." he placed a finger under Finn’s chin, lifting his face, "Get in there, and clean that mess. Now," he ordered.

​Never had he had his words refuted by any servant or guard, but this quiet-looking Finn—whose post at Lucien’s door he didn’t even fully understand—was challenging his order.

​Finn sighed and stepped away.

​"You’re angry about Elian... so am I, so is the Duke. But do not take your anger out on me," Finn spoke softly. "I will call someone to clear the study, Lord Rowan." He bowed.

​"His Grace is waiting outside... don’t keep him waiting," he added softly.

​Rowan stared at Finn with a frown, wondering why he felt like Finn was consoling him and not trying to insult him.

​"Do that," he said and turned away, striding down the hallway.

​Outside the manor, the night air was cool and sharp. Lucien stood beside the waiting carriage, his tall frame rigid, green eyes fixed on the dark road ahead.

​A large, heavy curtain of thick velvet had been carefully arranged inside—deep burgundy, soft enough to cushion and shield Elian on the long journey back. Lucien had ordered it himself. He would not have Elian jolted or exposed to the cold wind. Not after everything.

​Rowan approached from the main doors, his face still unreadable. He stopped a few paces from Lucien.

​"The fisherman is ready," Rowan said quietly. "I told him to sit with the coachman. He’ll guide us."

​Lucien gave a short nod. Without another word, he climbed into the carriage.

​Rowan followed, settling across from him. The door shut with a solid thud.

​Outside, the fisherman took his place beside the driver. The horses stirred, and the carriage rolled forward, leaving the glowing windows of the manor behind.

​They set off into the forest paths, the moon gently lighting their way. Silver light spilled through the canopy of trees, casting long, shifting shadows across the road. The wheels creaked softly over packed earth.

​The night was quiet except for the rhythmic beat of hooves and the occasional call of a night bird.

​Lucien stared out the window, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle jumped in his cheek. The velvet curtain brushed against his knee with every sway of the carriage, a constant reminder of why he was here.

​Elian. Alive. Somewhere ahead. In Cassian’s hands.

​His thoughts turned dark and sharp. Cassian had deliberately kept Elian hidden. Two full weeks. No word. No message. The man had taken Elian into some remote village and buried him away from the world—from him. The more Lucien thought about it, the hotter the anger burned in his chest. Cassian had known. He had known Lucien would search. And still he had chosen to keep Elian away, to play savior, to insert himself into a place that did not belong to him.

​Lucien’s gloved hands curled into fists on his thighs. He swore silently, the vow cold and absolute in his mind.

​The moment I set my eyes on them, I will rip Elian away from that royal guard. Cassian will not stand between us. Not now. Not ever again.

​The carriage continued deeper into the forest, the moon watching from above as Lucien’s obsession and fury rode with him into the dark.

​The road stretched long and uncertain, but Lucien’s resolve only hardened with every mile.

​They traveled through the night and into the following day. By the time the sun began its slow descent, casting long golden shadows across the landscape, the forest paths finally opened onto a quieter stretch of road.

​The air grew heavier with the scent of river water and damp earth. In the distance, the outline of a small village appeared—modest thatched roofs clustered near the riverbank, smoke rising lazily from a few chimneys.

​Lucien sat rigid in the carriage, the large velvet curtain still folded beside him like a silent promise. His gloved hands rested on his knees, but every so often his fingers would flex and tighten, as if trying to grasp something just out of reach. The closer they drew to the village, the more unbearable the waiting became.

​Rowan watched him from the opposite seat, saying nothing. There was no need. The tension rolling off Lucien was palpable.

​When the carriage finally rolled into the outskirts of the river village, Lucien’s heart began to pound harder.

​Villagers paused in their work to stare—women with baskets of laundry, children chasing chickens, old men mending nets. The fisherman sitting with the coachman leaned forward and pointed toward a particular hut set slightly apart from the others, near a stand of willow trees.

​"There," he called. "The native doctor’s place. That’s where they took the injured man."

​Lucien’s breath caught. He leaned closer to the window, green eyes fixed on the small wooden structure. Smoke curled from a clay chimney. The door was closed. Everything looked ordinary—and yet it felt like the center of the world.

​His anxiousness grew with every turn of the wheels.