Chapter 63 The Leash of Grace
"Lynda, Lynda!" Lynda’s mother suddenly rushed over, panting.
She pulled Lynda away from the Duke and bowed her head. "Good morning, Your Grace. Please, forgive my daughter, she’s quite a chatterbox." She sounded nervous, her gaze cast down.
Lucien stood, taking his hands behind him. "You seem to be quite busy, Rosalie," he spoke calmly, staring at the woman’s face, his expression revealing nothing.
Rosalie nodded, "Yes, Your Grace. But I am happy to do every work; I owe you my life." She bowed in gratitude.
Lucien glanced at Elian, who seemed to be frozen beside Rowan, his fists clenching beside him as he realized that Elian looked extremely worried for the woman.
Was there a contact he didn’t know about?
"I hope you do more work, Rosalie. Do not spend your time daydreaming about men," Lucien said, taking a step backward.
Rosalie flushed red, nodding her head. "Yes, Your Grace." She bowed, stealing a glance at Elian and lowering her head again.
"But can Elian be my papa, Your Grace?" Lynda asked so softly, smiling beautifully at Elian.
"Excuse me, Your Grace, I will return to the kitchen now." Rosalie quickly turned Lynda around and steered her away from the noble men before she put them in trouble with her runny mouth.
"Well, it seems like everyone wants a piece of you, Elian. Are you a magician of some sort?" Soren asked.
Elian cleared his throat, stepping away from Rowan. "Your Grace, may I be excused to return to my room?" he asked quietly, not meeting Lucien’s gaze.
If he had a choice, he would choose to walk away without a word to anyone, but he was bound... bound to the Duke.
Lucien simply ignored Elian and turned away, walking ahead.
"That means no," Rowan murmured and took Elian’s hand, leading him behind Lucien.
Soren stood for a while, watching Elian and trying to read deeply into why Elian looked so different that morning.
They were walking past the stables when Elian suddenly halted, face paling like he had seen a ghost.
Rowan and Soren paused, staring at Elian in confusion, but Lucien looked absolutely unbothered, already aware of what had happened.
"M-mother," Elian stammered, voice shaking as he saw his mother, now looking so thin, pale, and frail, as she struggled to stack the hay up beside the stables, her limbs shaking slightly.
Elian frowned, unable to even move from his spot. He knew his mother had heard him, but why was she ignoring him? Has she forgotten him?
"Mother?" Elian called again, tears brimming in his eyes as his mother simply walked away to continue dragging the hay over.
"Mo—"
"Stay where you are, Elian," Lucien cautioned, slowly striding over to Elian.
He paused in front of Elian, blocking his view of his suffering mother.
"You’re not allowed to speak to her. No communication, or she’s back where those came from. For what it’s worth, she might still plot to finish what your father failed to do," he stated coldly.
Elian suddenly hardened his eyes, staring at Lucien with such bitterness. "What else do you want?" he whispered. "You’ve taken everything from me. Not her, too. Please..." His lower lip trembled, chest rising and falling in contained anger.
Lucien’s breath snagged, his chest tightening as he watched the hate flash in those eyes that had looked so beautiful last night. Now, they stared at him with the hate he’d almost forgotten was there.
Lucien leaned in, voice lowered. "You asked for her to be released," he murmured and walked away.
Elian furrowed his brows, snapping his head toward Lucien in disbelief.
Could it be his mother was out of the dungeon because Lucien was granting his request? He blinked, glancing at the stables, but his mother had disappeared behind the stables, gone.
He quickly hurried to meet Lucien, bypassing Rowan and Soren.
"Your Grace," Elian tried to keep up with Lucien’s steps, "Your Grace—oh!" He stumbled over a pebble and almost fell, but did manage to straighten himself.
However, Lucien did not pause to look back; he didn’t even flinch.
"Are you alright?" Rowan asked, placing his hand on Elian’s waist.
Elian was panting, his pulse racing as impossible ideas grew in his head.
Did Lucien release his mother because of what they did last night?
Was the Duke growing soft for him?
"Come on, stay close," Rowan held Elian’s arm, not saying a thing about what had just happened.
He knew it was a sour topic to poke at, so he chose to be quiet, letting Elian settle before he questioned.
Lucien led the way through the eastern gardens; Rowan and Elian walked together, their stance stiff and tense; beside them, Soren followed at a more leisurely pace.
The archery grounds were only a short walk from the main manor, nestled beyond the stables and bordered by tall pine trees that shielded the range from the rest of the estate. The pines swayed gently beneath the afternoon breeze. Rows of straw targets stood at varying distances, their painted red centers scarred by countless arrows.
Servants were situated by the side, ready to gather the arrows; the wind was soft and warm, rustling through clothes and hair.
"Will you be okay over there?" Rowan pointed toward an oak tree just six steps away from them.
Elian sighed and nodded; did he have a choice?
He glanced at Lucien, who was already picking up his bowstrings, and gulped, his thoughts jumbled. He wanted to stay mad at Lucien, but at the same time, he wanted to be grateful to him.
Lucien might ask him never to communicate with his mother, he might threaten Elian endlessly, but, somehow, Elian could not push away that feeling of gratefulness and being protective even when he knew he was dealing with the devil in person.
Slowly, he walked over to and sat himself on the short bench beneath the oak tree.
He watched them get ready, his eyes following every single movement Lucien’s hand made—his posture, his gesture as he spoke calm orders to the servants.
Lucien was the finest man Elian had ever set his eyes on, but he was also the most dangerous one. One he should quickly retract his steps from before it was too late.
But... it was too late.
Elian remained beneath the shade of an old oak tree, watching in silence.
The rhythmic twang of bowstrings echoed through the clearing, followed by the sharp thud of arrows sinking into packed straw.
Rowan was the loudest of the three. Every successful shot earned a triumphant grin or some boastful remark that carried across the field. His arrows flew with enthusiasm rather than precision, occasionally striking close enough to the center to earn his own applause.
Soren, on the other hand, approached archery the same way he approached medicine—methodically. He drew, aimed, and released with steady discipline, each arrow landing neatly around the center of the target. There was no celebration, no frustration, only quiet concentration.
And then there was Lucien.
Even from a distance, he commanded attention.
Dressed in black, he stood with effortless confidence, the dark bow appearing almost weightless in his hand. Every movement was smooth and deliberate—from the way he nocked an arrow to the way he pulled the string back. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty.
The bow bent.
The string sang.
The arrow became nothing but a blur.
Thud.
Directly into the center.
Again.
Thud.
Another perfect strike.
Lucien barely reacted to his own success. He simply reached for another arrow as though hitting the bullseye was the most ordinary thing in the world.
Golden sunlight filtered through the trees, catching against his dark hair and broad shoulders. Around him, servants gathered baskets of spent arrows while Rowan complained loudly about impossible standards and Soren quietly ignored him.
Elian found himself watching longer than he intended.
The sport itself was impressive, but what truly caught his attention was the contrast between the three men.
Rowan shot with his heart.
Soren shot with his mind.
Lucien shot like a man who never missed.
"Do you want to try?" Soren spoke up, glancing at Elian.
"Huh?" Elian snatched his eyes off of Lucien, facing Soren’s grey eyes.
Soren lifted the bowstring. "Do you want to try it?" he repeated gently.
Elian glanced at Lucien, hoping to seek permission before he moved. But Lucien was too concentrated shooting his shots, or rather, he was too concentrated ignoring Elian.
"No. I’d rather not," Elian replied, choosing to stay obedient for once.
Lucien had granted his request; he needed to show his seamless cooperation for once.
Soren nodded once and went back to shooting his arrows.
After a while, he glanced at Lucien and smirked, "You’re like a monthly bleeding woman, Your Grace," Soren said, sharing a meaningful look with Rowan.
"Perhaps he is bleeding. His emotions have been all over the place," Rowan snickered.
"Or..." Soren raised his arrow to the target, "He have not spilled his manly seed for a very long time." He shot smoothly, hitting very close to the target.
Meanwhile, Lucien’s arrow flew right past his target for the first time, his shoulders tensing as he heard Soren’s accusation.
"I think it’s quite the opposite. He looks like a man who—"
"Enough," Lucien’s voice slithered, his eyes snapping right to Elian sitting under the oak tree.
He did spill his manly seeds, but not in a way they thought...