Mirianne's Marked

Before the carriage had even reached Vivienne's estate, it lurched to a sudden halt in the middle of the winding forest road. The rhythmic clatter of hooves gave way to silence—followed a moment later by a sharp, panicked scream from the coachman.

Vivienne's body tensed beside him. Lucien's crimson gaze narrowed like a drawn blade.

"Bandits, is it…?" he murmured, fingers twitching instinctively. The air shifted, pressure dropping ever so slightly—like the calm before a storm.

"I guess it is the season for them," he added with a soft laugh, standing smoothly. His eyes sparkled, not with fear, but something far more dangerous.

He turned toward the door, reaching for the handle.

"Let me handle—"

But his words cut off as Vivienne's hand shot out, seizing his sleeve.

"Wait." Her voice was sharp, urgent—layered with concern. "While I don't doubt your prowess, we don't have our weapons with us. It's suicide to take on bandits barehanded."

Lucien paused, glancing down at her. The carriage's interior lamp threw warm light across her worried features, the tension in her shoulders unmistakable.

A small smile tugged at his lips.

"Unless," he said quietly, his tone almost playful, "that person is an Arcanist."

He gently slid his arm free from her grip. His crimson eyes shimmered—deeper now, glowing faintly like embers in the dark. A dangerous secret flickered behind them. A truth he hadn't shown her. Or rather… not in this life.

Outside, the situation escalated fast.

Banging sounds pounded against the carriage doors—the bandits had surrounded them, trying to break through, their shouts muffled but filled with crude confidence. It was obvious they intended to hold the nobles inside for ransom.

Vivienne's brows furrowed, her expression shifting from anxious to baffled. "You didn't say you were—"

She never got to finish the sentence.

Lucien's boot struck the door with brutal force.

CRACK!

The wooden frame exploded outward, slamming into the nearest bandit and sending him flying several feet, his body crashing into the underbrush with a sickening crunch.

Lucien stepped into the dusky twilight like a wolf among sheep.

"I'll give you all a chance to back down," he called out, cracking his knuckles. His voice was calm. Measured. But something underneath it—something primal—made the remaining bandits flinch.

"I'm quite sure you already know what happens if you don't."

He sighed inwardly, eyeing his neat clothing.

I need to make sure my clothes don't get too ruined from this fight.

There were five bandits in total—well, four now, assuming the first wasn't getting back up. Each one held a looted straight sword, likely stolen from passing adventurers headed toward Snowkeep. Their weapons gleamed dully in the fading light, stained with old blood and rust.

The tallest of the bunch, probably the leader, stood out. A long scar ran down his left eye, and unlike the others, he wore padded gambeson beneath battered chainmail—protection most common folk couldn't afford.

"Well, well…" The bandit sneered, resting his sword across his shoulders with a cocky grin. "If it ain't the Bloody Duke himself."

"You'll make a fine ransom, don't you think?"

He jerked his chin toward Lucien. The remaining goons began creeping forward, surrounding him with slow, almost casual menace.

Lucien's lips thinned in annoyance. "I don't know why I even bother negotiating."

One of the bandits—too eager, too confident—lunged ahead, sword raised overhead.

"You talk too much!"

Lucien didn't move.

"Good thing I'm already fairly wounded," he murmured, almost absently.

Then his eyes flared crimson.

From one of his still-healing wounds—the deep gash he earned during the recent duel in Trent—his blood stirred. It pulsed unnaturally, creeping from his chest to his arms in crimson streams, winding over his skin like veins of molten glass.

The blood shimmered, twisted—and solidified.

A sword formed in his grip. Forged from blood and will. Beautiful. Terrifying.

The true reason why they called him the Bloody Duke.

Across the realm, Arcanists were rare. Their frequency differed from race to race—common among elves, near unheard of among dwarves. All of them were said to be blessed by Mirianne, the Divine of magic and the arcane. And Lucien… was no ordinary Arcanist.

"Huh…?" the bandit stammered, halting mid-charge—too late.

SHLICK.

Lucien moved in a blur.

One clean strike.

The bandit's head separated from his shoulders. Blood sprayed across the earth like a fountain as the body slumped to the ground with a dull thud.

Lucien grimaced.

"Crap…" he muttered, more annoyed than disturbed.

Not fear—just irritation. His coat was ruined—the same one he was going to wear to meet Vivienne's parents.

He leapt backward, creating distance from the mess, his blood-forged blade still humming in his grip. His posture was calm, composed—even elegant—but his gaze had grown cold.

"So… still willing to fight?" he asked, voice now dipped in something darker. The kind of tone that made men remember their prayers.

A shiver passed through the remaining bandits.

He didn't mind hearing their pleas for mercy. He wasn't above that kind of satisfaction.

But at this point, honestly?

The neatness of his clothes mattered more.