Lucian didn't touch the drink.

He stared at the mug's rim as if it were a fault line. His hands wouldn't stay still.

Every tiny sound in the tavern pressed against him—the scrape of chairs, the muted thud of boots, someone laughing too loudly by the hearth.

It felt wrong, sitting still like this. Stillness let thoughts creep in.

Stillness meant hearing them again—the screams that weren't his, the faint scrape of something dragging its way toward him through the dark. Coriel had left him with sounds that didn't fade when silence fell.

Abnet folded his arms. "Why can't you concentrate when I'm close? Don't answer yet—listen. It's impossible for anyone to forget sword habits and shift to a staff as quickly as you have. Impossible. Yet you're doing it. And still you block yourself."

Lucian looked away.

"So tell me," Abnet said. "What's troubling you? Or what are you afraid of? Because you're chasing strength like a man trying to outrun fire."

Lucian stared at the untouched drink. His reflection split across the surface, distorted by the faint tremble in his thumb.

"I just… I can't slow down. Not now." Lucian said at last, voice low, eyes fixed on the table's grain. "But maybe…"

His fingers tapped once, restless.

"Maybe I'm not even sure what it is I'm supposed to be chasing. Or if I should want it at all."

Lucian exhaled slowly, annoyed at himself.

He hadn't meant to say any of that—hadn't meant to give the man even a sliver of his mind.

He almost reached for the drink just to have something to do with his hands.

But he didn't.

He waited, tense as a bowstring, already wishing he could take the words back.

Abnet leaned back, studying him in a long thoughtful silence. Lucian felt the weight of that gaze more than any strike from the training hall.

Abnet's fingers drummed once against the table—slow, reluctant. He looked away, jaw working as if deciding whether to say anything at all.

When he finally spoke, it wasn't with the ease of a man sharing wisdom, but with the quiet strain of someone opening an old wound.

"Well, I can relate a bit to that." Abnet exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that carried years in it. "Amadeus once asked me the question you're asking yourself now. Whether I really wanted the thing I'd spent my whole life fighting for."

Lucian glanced up.

Abnet tapped a knuckle on the table, gaze distant. "I was raised with one purpose. Sarfir too. Both of us were pushed toward the same end — inherit the Amadeus' Archean. Everyone said destiny had room for only one of us."

Lucian watched the slight shift in Abnet's posture. Shoulders squared less like a mentor, more like a man remembering a road he'd never wanted. His next words came slower, like he was choosing which parts to bury.

"The night before the decision," Abnet said, "Amadeus asked me one question. A simple one." He lifted his eyes. "Do you actually want it?"

Lucian felt something tighten. A small thing. A thread pulling at him.

"I stood there," Abnet said, "realizing the question wasn't about strength. It was about what winning would turn me into. I'd beaten Sarfir in every trial that mattered, and Amadeus knew it. But wanting the bond and being able to carry it weren't the same thing. So I stepped aside."

He called it a smart choice. I still wonder if he meant it." Abnet leaned forward, elbows on the table again. "So trust me when I tell you—wanting something and chasing something are not the same."

Lucian felt the line land somewhere close to his ribs.

Abnet's voice dropped. "My mistake was pretending I wanted something I didn't. Yours is pretending you don't want something you desperately do."

Lucian swallowed. "And what's that?"

Abnet didn't hesitate. "Control. Not power. Control over yourself."

The words hit a place Lucian didn't know he'd left undefended.

Control.

If he had possessed even a sliver of it at Coriel, Reine might still be alive. Talor. Larik.

If he'd had control, maybe he wouldn't wake with nails in his palms from gripping the sheets too hard, or with Quenya shaking him from dreams filled with blood and teeth and a god whispering his name.

Lucian looked at his palms. Fingers curled slightly, faint tremor beneath the surface. "I can't afford to lose control."

"Then stop pretending you're fine." Abnet's tone was firm, almost brotherly. "Stop pretending you don't need to slow down."

Lucian's breath caught. Coriel flickered across his mind—the broken houses, the screaming under the dirt, the crushed bones folding like wet wood. He blinked until the room steadied.

Abnet watched him with quiet understanding. "If you keep running like this, you're going to become the thing you fear in yourself. That same madness I watched destroy someone I once called my brother."

Lucian didn't ask who. He wasn't sure he wanted the name.

Abnet pushed the empty mug aside and stood. He tossed a few coins onto the table. "You want my advice?"

Lucian rubbed a thumb over the rim of his untouched drink. "I'm listening."

"Slow your damn pace," Abnet said. "Stop fighting like a borrowed body. And for once in your life—learn what you actually want."

His eyes softened—not kind, but tired, as if he'd once told someone else the same thing and watched them ignore it.

For a heartbeat, it looked like he regretted saying even this much.

Lucian sat still for a moment, absorbing it. The tavern's murmur drifted around them—clattering plates, muted talk, the scrape of chairs on old floorboards. It grounded him more than the drink ever would.

This wasn't the lecture he'd braced for. It wasn't even a warning. It felt like being handed a compass with the cover torn off.

He looked toward the window. Light slanted through the glass, softer now, stretching across the table. Something about the angle punched a hole in his chest.

Lucian blinked again.

No.

No, no, no.

The sun was far lower than it should've been.

His breath jolted. "I'm late."

Abnet lifted an eyebrow as Lucian lurched up, nearly knocking his chair sideways. Lucian snatched his cloak and staff with the frantic energy of a man who'd remembered a burning stove.

Abnet didn't move to stop him. If anything, he looked faintly amused. "Late for what?"

"Work," Lucian said, already halfway around the table.

Abnet smirked. "Then run. But this time, know what you're running toward."

Lucian shot him a look—half gratitude, half exasperation—and bolted for the door.

The tavern threshold slammed behind him as he sprinted into the city's narrow street. His boots hammered through the cobbled slope, weaving past carts and startled pedestrians. The air cut sharp against his lungs as the Valemont district loomed ahead, larger with every turn.

He darted between a merchant's stall and a passing carriage, ignoring the curses thrown after him. His cloak snapped behind him like a trailing shadow. Every step carried the weight of Abnet's words, threading themselves into his pulse.

Control.

Freedom.

Know what you're running toward.

He pushed harder and cut across the next street, breath sharp in his throat. Quenya drifted at his shoulder in a thin shimmer of blue, keeping pace with his frantic sprint.

He glanced at her. "You know what you have to do there, right?"

Quenya folded her arms mid-air, giving a short scoff. "Hmph. Of course. I don't want to be reminded again and again of what you make me do." Her eyes narrowed. "Though do you know what you'll do there?"

Lucian dodged a wagon and muttered, "Of course. Try my best to not get fired."

He pushed harder up the slope, cloak snapping behind him. "It's my first job in both life, after all."

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