Cruel Blessing

"Come at me one by one, and do please be careful not to stain my clothes…" Lucien chuckled with disdain, his voice low, almost lazy—yet beneath it, a blade of scorn. His crimson eyes pulsed once more, glowing faintly like dying embers ready to flare.

Another bandit lunged forward, sword leveled in a thrusting stance, aimed squarely at Lucien's chest.

Reckless.

Predictable.

And easily counterable.

"Idiot." the bandit leader muttered under his breath, just as his subordinate's charge ended in futility—a single, seamless movement from Lucien driving the blood-forged blade straight through the bandit's heart.

The poor fool didn't even have time to scream.

His corpse collapsed to the ground with a dull thud, limbs limp, like a puppet whose strings had been severed mid-performance.

Lucien exhaled softly, almost disappointed. "Next," he said, his voice lilting with amusement, as if he were merely calling out the next contestant in a game rather than orchestrating death.

Another bandit came screaming forward, desperation sharpening his steps.

"What…?" the leader muttered in growing confusion, eyes narrowing as he raised his blade with both hands, gripping it tightly now as fear began to pierce his earlier bravado.

Once again, the charge was met with cold precision. A quick jab—this time directly through the skull. Clean. Efficient. The blade slid in with a sickening crunch and withdrew with barely a splatter.

Lucien's expression didn't change. He moved like a shadow guided by calculation, not emotion. A strategist in motion, every step measured, every kill tailored to minimize collateral damage.

Blood management.

Even in death, his enemies were tools to be kept neat.

"You truly are a devil… What did you do to my guys?" the leader demanded, his voice rising in pitch as he stared at the pile of fallen men. Sweat gathered visibly on his dirt-smeared brow, trailing down the scar on his left eye. His pupils dilated wide like a man staring down a nightmare made flesh.

"They were idiots," He continued, "but not dumb enough to just rush one by one like that."

"You did something to them!"

Lucien laughed then—sharp, cold, and cruel. The kind of laugh that sent chills crawling down the spine.

"Took you long enough." He grinned, exposing a flash of teeth. "I just gave them a bit of… motivation."

His eyes pulsed again, a flash of red lightning flickering in his irises like stormlight caught in glass.

And like a moth to a flame, the bandit leader screamed and charged, his pupils blown wide open, his movements frantic, unnatural—like a man no longer fully in control of his body.

"Truly pathetic." Lucien sighed, his tone devoid of malice—just tired judgment, like a teacher grading an especially poor essay.

With one fluid step, he twisted his hips and swung low. His blade cleaved through both of the bandit's knees with surgical precision.

A sharp scream tore through the forest as the man collapsed on one knee, body trembling.

Lucien didn't give him the dignity of another breath.

With a flick of the wrist, he stepped to the side and slit the man's throat in a clean arc—sidestepping just in time to avoid the inevitable spray of blood.

Not a single drop touched his clothes.

"Now then…" Lucien murmured, flicking his blade once before the crimson weapon dissolved into liquid once more, snaking up his arms and disappearing beneath his sleeves. The blood returned to the wound from which it came—almost reverently, like a servant obeying its master.

"…to find the coachman."

The forest was still again. The silence was unnerving.

Then—

"What… what was that…?" Vivienne's voice broke through the quiet, trembling and uncertain. She stood just outside the carriage now, staring wide-eyed at the scene before her—at Lucien, and the red-streaked battlefield he'd carved with such elegance and horror.

Lucien turned toward her, his expression softening by the barest degree.

"I apologize for hiding it from you, Vivy," he said bluntly, approaching her with steady steps, as if the carnage behind him was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

Vivienne flinched—only slightly—but enough to be noticed. She had always known Lucien as a ruthless tactician, a hardened knight of war…

But this was something else.

Something darker.

This version of Lucien wasn't simply shaped by war—he had been tempered in it. Bent and reforged in the fire of rebellion, stripped of the mercy most nobles wore like masks.

"Is that really you… Luce…?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. Her pupils trembled, shimmering silver now shaded with uncertainty.

She wasn't just shaken by the bloodshed.

No, it was something deeper—an instinctive dread from standing too close to something other. Even Vivienne, with all her composure and noble bearing, wasn't immune to the corrupting allure of Lucien's blessing. The subtle compulsion. The gnawing chill that toyed with her will.

Lucien knew.

He always knew.

And yet, he stepped forward and pulled her gently into an embrace.

A calming gesture.

A human one.

"It's okay," he murmured, voice low and warm against her hair. "The blessing's effect will dwindle in time. For now, rest in the carriage while I find our coachman so we can continue on to your parents' estate."

His words were soft, but his eyes remained vigilant.

Even with my mastery of my blessing…

It still affects those around me.

Albeit slightly.

But it's enough to unnerve anyone.