Chapter 19: Despair and Hope
Lucien's ribs screamed in protest as he tried to sit up, coughing up blood. Every breath was agony. He barely managed to lift his head, and through the haze of pain, he saw boots—polished, blood-red boots—approaching.
The figure emerged like a nightmare. Black steel armor trimmed in Reynard's signature crimson—etched with a black sun—clung to a lean, deadly frame. A black and red cape of velvet draped over one shoulder, the fabric flowing with his movements.
The man removed his helmet, revealing a pale face with sharp features and black hair slicked back. His eyes were a deep icy blue, coldness and cruelty competing to peek through .
"Vern Balehart," Lucien rasped.
The infamous butcher. Reynard's most loyal executioner. A Warden.
"Ah, so the boy knows me." Vern smirked and crouched beside Lucien. "Who would have thought that we would end up in this situation someday. You so powerless before me." He mocked as he kicked Lucien in the ribs lightly, sending fresh waves of pain through his battered body.
'Not so mighty anymore without your guard dogs, are you?" He asked as he stepped on Lucien's arm cruelly, expecting some reaction.
Lucien only glared up at him, hatred blazing.
"You've got your father's eyes," Vern mused, tapping his armored fingers on his chin. "That same glare. You Aureville's always have some way to pull through some calamity." He regarded Lucien curiously.
"Look at you. The famous powerless disgrace, almost killing poor Caldus over there."
Vern seemed to remember Caldus. He stood and turned toward Caldus, who was leaning on his blade and still nursing his wounded shoulder.