Lucian
One year, four months.
Clara rose from Lucian's bed, stretching her arms. Lucian was already dressed, sitting at his desk, crunching numbers. He had grown to be respected—known and appreciated in the town. He'd moved up from petty hit jobs to creating his own business empire. Although all of his work involved trading with other shady companies, it allowed him to operate strictly at night.
Clara and Lucian would sometimes share a bed, but she always woke after him—and he was always at his desk, already working.
Lucian didn't notice when Clara tied her robe and filled her mug with coffee. She leaned against the desk, rubbing his shoulder with her thumb.
"I should be going soon," she whispered gently.
Lucian set his pen down and looked up at her.
"So soon?" he asked softly.
Clara smiled and kissed the top of his head. As she pulled away, she realized how Lucian seemed to glide through each day as if it meant nothing to him—like he was simply waiting for time to pass, barren of any goal or desire beyond what he already had.
As she reached the door, she stopped, pressing her hand against the frame. Lucian turned back to his work, his pen stroking the paper.
"Sometimes," she said quietly, "it feels like you're waiting for something."
"I don't wait anymore," he replied dryly.
Clara's face fell. She leaned her forehead against the doorframe, paused, then turned to look at him one last time before walking out—never to return.
"Then I hope it finds you anyway," she said, a soft, melancholy smile forming on her lips.
When Lucian heard the screen door close downstairs, he finally looked up from his work.
That night, Lucian quietly grieved his time with Clara. She had been good to him—but she deserved a different life.
It was well past midnight. A few candles lit Lucian's bedroom, flickering his shadow across the walls. The fireplace on the far side of the room burned low as he paced across the velvet carpet. An untouched glass of red wine mixed with blood sat on the mantel beside the jacket he'd discarded over a chair.
He wore a black shirt with the collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair was loose, the front curls full above his brows.
He paused when the curtains shifted as a breeze passed through them. His nerves eased when the scent of rose perfume followed.
Charlotte stood by the window in a pearl satin dress, her blonde hair half-pulled back.
"Well," Lucian said, "this is certainly a surprise."
"You look like someone just left you," she replied, sitting on the ottoman.
Lucian's voice was dry. "They did."
"Good. That means you're still capable of being abandoned."
She pulled a cigarette from her purse, lighting it and exhaling smoke into the dim room.
"You don't fall apart over endings anymore," Charlotte said, taking another drag.
"No?" Lucian raised a brow.
"No," Charlotte paused. "You fall apart when you're supposed to go somewhere—and you don't."
The words stung. Lucian's eyes dropped to the floor as his jaw clenched.
Charlotte changed the subject.
"The Court has decided."
Lucian stilled, his attention snapping back to her.
"Jules Thatcher will be initiated at dawn."
Lucian looked up sharply.
"Initiated?"
Charlotte realized just how isolated he'd been—how little he knew of what had unfolded back in Baton Rouge.
"As Vicar," she clarified.
Lucian ran a hand through his hair, considering it.
"They're putting a target on her," he said.
"They already did," Charlotte replied quietly. "She survived it."
Lucian's jaw tightened.
"She's not ready."
"Neither were you," Charlotte said without hesitation.
Lucian sank back, biting his tongue, defeated.
Charlotte stood and moved closer, her expression turning serious.
"If you don't go back now, Lucian… someone else will stand where you belong."
"And if I go?"
Her voice softened.
"Then she won't have to be brave alone."
By the next evening, Lucian Corvus was on his way back to New Orleans.