The Offer

The gardens of Lancaster estate were alive with golden afternoon light, the air thick with the scent of roses and crushed grass. They found the stranger not in some shadowed corner, as Lyria had expected, but kneeling in a sunlit clearing, surrounded by a cluster of servant children.

His usual razor-edged poise had melted away. The blue-haired man sat cross-legged in the dirt, his coat discarded over a nearby bench, sleeves rolled up to reveal pale, scarred forearms. His hands—hands that had snapped necks and unraveled Covenant spells with equal ease—now moved with delicate precision as he wove stems together, crafting flower crowns with the focus of a master artisan.

A little girl with freckles smeared across her nose giggled as he tucked a buttercup behind her ear. "Like a princess," he told her solemnly, and her laughter rang like bells.

When he noticed the trio watching, he didn't rise, didn't reassemble his mask of cool amusement. He simply tilted his head, sunlight catching the blue strands of his hair.

"You could join us, you know." He held up a half-finished crown, daisies threaded through with sprigs of lavender. "I've made seven. There's always room for more."

Therion's lip curled. "Hard pass."

The stranger sighed but didn't press. Instead, he turned back to the children, his voice softening as he helped a tiny boy—no older than five, his cheeks still round with baby fat—balance a lopsided crown atop his dark curls. The child beamed, and for a fleeting moment, something unguarded flickered across the stranger's face. Not amusement. Not calculation.

Pain.

"The offer stands," he said, so quietly Lyria almost didn't catch it. "For all of you." His fingers lingered on the boy's shoulder, gentle in a way that seemed impossible for a man who had walked through fire and blood without flinching. "Power. Knowledge. Protection, if you need it."

Lyria's hand twitched toward her dagger. "Why?"

The stranger didn't answer immediately. He plucked a fallen petal from the boy's hair before finally meeting her gaze.

"Because the world is unkind to those without shields." His thumb brushed the child's cheek, wiping away a smudge of dirt. "And children"—his voice cracked, just barely—"deserve better."

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then the moment shattered as the children erupted into cheers, tugging at his sleeves for more flowers, more crowns, more of his undivided attention. And the stranger—the monster, the enigma, the thing that shouldn't exist—let them.

Lyria exhaled. Therion's scowl deepened. Ardyn's fingers tightened around his staff.

None of them spoke.

What could they possibly say?

The Stranger's Gift

The moment the children scattered, the stranger reached into his coat—not for a weapon, but for a small velvet pouch. With a magician's flourish, he tipped it over, and a cascade of jewel-toned candies tumbled into his palm: sugared violets glazed to translucency, honey-dipped citrus peels dusted in gold, chocolate truffles so dark they shimmered like polished onyx. The kind of confections even noble children only saw on feast days.

A collective gasp went up from the little ones.

"For my loyal subjects," he declared, dropping a handful into each tiny, outstretched palm. One wide-eyed girl cupped hers like she'd been given dragon's treasure. A boy with grass-stained knees immediately shoved three in his mouth at once.

"Slowly, your highness," the stranger chided, tweaking the child's ear. "Or you'll miss the—"

The boy's eyes blew wide as the flavors hit—rosewater and blackberry, burnt caramel and spiced orange. He vibrated in place, making a noise like a teakettle at full boil.

The stranger laughed—not his usual knife's-edge chuckle, but something warm and unguarded. "Told you."

Ardyn stepped forward, his staff tapping lightly against the garden path. "You know about the diary."

A flicker of amusement crossed the stranger's face. "I do." He tilted his head toward the book tucked under Lyria's arm. "Hello, Elias."

The diary remained stubbornly silent.

The stranger chuckled, plucking a stray petal from his sleeve. "Pity. I'd hoped for a proper reunion. Maybe some screaming. A dramatic flash of light." He sighed dramatically. "Ghosts these days have no sense of theater."

Standing, he brushed grass from his knees with exaggerated care. "Still, the offer is genuine. No tricks. No debts. Just help, if you want it."

Lyria's grip tightened on her dagger. "And if we refuse?"

He shrugged, as if the question barely mattered. "Then I'll be disappointed, but I won't stop you." His smile turned wry. "I've learned the hard way that forcing help on people rarely works. Unless you're into that sort of thing—no judgment."

One of the children—a tiny girl with dirt-smudged cheeks—tugged on his sleeve, whispering urgently. The stranger crouched back down with the gravity of a statesman receiving vital intelligence. "Ah. A purple flower for the queen's crown. Excellent choice." He plucked a violet from the grass and presented it with a flourish. "Only the finest for Her Majesty."

Lord Lancaster chose that moment to arrive, his polished boots crunching on the gravel. "Your Grace, the council is waiting—"

The stranger didn't look up from his floral diplomacy. "They can wait a little longer, Alistair." His voice was mild, but something in it made the lord stiffen like a startled cat. "These matters are important too."

Therion muttered, "Since when do duke's Knight play flower fairy?"

The stranger heard him—of course he did. "Since always," he said simply, adjusting a lopsided crown on a giggling boy's head. Then, to the children: "Run along now. And remember—anyone who's unkind to you answers to me."

As the children scattered, he finally turned to Lord Lancaster. "Now, what's this about the council?"

The lord hesitated, glancing at the trio. "They've... requested your input on the border situation."

"Ah." The stranger's expression cooled, all traces of warmth leaching away. "How tedious." He started toward the manor, then paused, looking back at Lyria. "The offer stands. Even if you only need someone to talk to. Or complain about Therion's terrible life choices."

Then he was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of crushed grass and flowers—and a silence that felt heavier than it should.

Therion exhaled. "Okay, what the hell was that?"

From the diary, Elias's handwriting appeared—unusually measured:

"That... was sincerity. Rare, in our line of work."

Lyria watched the stranger's retreating back, conflicted. "Do we trust him?"

The diary's response was quiet:

"No. But we might not have to."

Outside, laughter echoed from the gardens where the children still played, their flower crowns bright against the green. Somewhere beyond the hedges, a familiar voice hummed an off-key tune—as if the most dangerous man in the kingdom hadn't just proven he could be kind.

And that was the most unsettling thing of all.

The Aftermath

Outside, the gardens hummed with leftover magic. Flower crowns lay abandoned on sun-warmed stone benches, their petals barely wilted despite the afternoon heat. A half-finished daisy chain dangled from a low-hanging branch, swaying in the breeze like a forgotten invitation.

Near the rose bushes, two girls sat cross-legged, comparing their loot. "He gave me two chocolates," the freckled one bragged, holding one up to the light. It gleamed, its surface etched with tiny constellations.

Her friend pouted. "Mine's got actual gold on it!"

A few paces away, the tiniest boy—the one whose shoulder the stranger had touched—clutched his candy to his chest like a talisman. When the head housekeeper called for them, he didn't move until his sister tugged his hand.

"Come on," she huffed.

He looked back just once at the empty clearing where the blue-haired man had knelt in the dirt like any common gardener, his eyes suspiciously bright.