Chapter 43: Dealing with Diabolical Cuteness

"I have not walked this far on my own two legs in centuries," Valgereth announces to no one in particular.

He steps out of the clearing already complaining, boots crunching over the uneven ground with the resentment of a man who considers walking beneath him as both a dragon and a gentleman of considerable means, shoulders hunched, arms crossed, radiating displeasure like heat off a forge.

"The village had better have a proper bed waiting for me, or I’m burning the whole place down out of principle." Val announces, eyeing the village with contempt.

"Val," Lucien grabs his sleeve before he can build up any real momentum, tugging him back a step, glancing worriedly toward the distant rooftops now visible across the fields. "You need to promise me you won’t scare, intimidate, or eat any of our potential clients."

"I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep." Val scoffs, unmoved.

"Val."

"Fine. I’ll try my best. That’s the most sincerity you’re getting out of me before lunch, and you should be grateful for it."

Serenith drifts ahead of them both, weightless and unbothered, glancing back over one shoulder. "Just a friendly reminder... I’m still invisible to everyone but you."

"Oh, thank you so much for the heads up," Lucien says, deadpan. "That only cost me an entire date last time."

"You didn’t have a date."

"I had five seconds of uninterrupted eye contact with a wolf-kin woman before she ran off. Give me five minutes with a beastkin and I’m in their den by dinner. Possibly in their bed shortly after."

Serenith rolls her eyes so hard her whole head tilts with the effort.

"Just hurry up." she groans.

The path toward the village cuts through wide, sun-warmed fields, workers bent low over rows of green, planting, harvesting, pulling weeds with practiced, efficient hands.

The air smells of turned earth and cut grass, warm and green and nothing at all like the brimstone and sulphur that plagues the Ashlands.

A few glance up as the trio passes, curious, wary, one older farmer pausing mid-swing with his hoe just to watch them go by, eyes lingering a beat too long on Valgereth’s fine clothes and obvious, unplaceable strangeness.

Then, further along the path, a pack of beast-kin children come tearing around a bend, laughing and shrieking, chasing a battered leather ball between them. Fox-eared, horned, one with a tail so fluffy it seems to move independently of the rest of her, another with small, fuzzy wings too underdeveloped to do anything but flap uselessly as she runs.

Dust kicks up around their bare feet.

Someone trips, laughs harder, and scrambles right back up without missing a beat.

Lucien stops dead in his tracks, one hand rising slowly to press against his own chest like his heart might actually give out.

He melts, visibly, on the spot, pointing with barely restrained glee, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.

"Oh my gods." he calls out, practically squealing. "Look at them. Look how diabolically cute they are. They’re like little sentient plushies."

"I didn’t know you liked kids." Serenith laughs, genuinely startled by the sincerity in his voice.

"I love them," he says, and means it, something unguarded slipping into his voice for just a moment. "Pure. Innocent. Right up until they understand the value of money, and then they become little demons. But until then? Diabolically adorable. A perfect little pyramid scheme waiting to happen."

She chuckles, not bothering to argue the point, and tilts her head at him.

"Did you have kids? In your previous life?"

Lucien barks out a laugh, loud and immediate, the kind that comes without a second thought.

"Never. Wouldn’t dream of it. Kids kill careers. I lived for my job. Got a vasectomy at twenty-one, actually, purely as a business decision. Would’ve been a terrible father anyway."

Serenith is surprised at that, blinking, caught somewhere between amusement and quiet disbelief, and then, slowly, almost reluctantly, nods in agreement.

The children’s ball bounces off course and lands with a splash in the narrow stream running alongside the road, bobbing lazily downstream and a chorus of dismayed wails goes up immediately, small hands reaching uselessly for it as the current tugs it further from the bank, out of reach of even the tallest of them.

Lucien doesn’t hesitate.

He’s crouched at the water’s edge a heartbeat later, sleeves shoved up past his elbows, wading in far enough to soak his boots without a second thought, fishing the ball free from where it’s caught against a half-submerged root and tossing it back with a grin. The kids swarm him instantly, small hands tugging at his sleeves, cheering, chattering praise in overlapping voices.

Lucien blushes, actually blushes, rubbing the back of his neck and waving them off with the particular awkwardness of a man who has closed billion-dollar deals without blinking but has absolutely no idea what to do with unfiltered, sincere admiration from a six-year-old.

Serenith watches the whole scene from a few feet back, arms loosely crossed, and something in her expression goes soft and open... the particular, helpless fondness of a woman watching a man be unexpectedly, uncomplicatedly good with children, even with no audience worth performing for and nothing to gain from it.

Valgereth passes her on his way up the path and catches the look on her face.

"You’re hopeless." He chuckles from low in his throat.

She startles hard, wings twitching. "It’s not what it looks like!"

"Your secret’s safe with me, angel." he says, throwing up both hands in mock surrender and walking on without breaking stride.

Serenith opens her mouth to argue, finds absolutely nothing convincing to say in her own defense, and bites her lip instead, watching Lucien wring water out of his sleeve up ahead while a small crowd of children still orbit him like he’s the most interesting thing that’s happened to their village in weeks.

Maybe, she thinks, he is.