Lucian listened while the street carried him forward, stone underfoot worn smooth by years of carts and shoes, voices drifting from open doors without ever settling on him.

Quenya kept pace at his side, head tilted, eyes fixed on him rather than the road.

"You still have not answered," she said. "You said it was leverage and timing. That does not explain why her."

Lucian let out a breath and adjusted his course to avoid a pair of porters arguing over a crate.

"It explains part of it," he said. "The rest is the stain."

"The stain," Quenya repeated.

"In noble circles," he said, "Adaorys Hadethon has a name no one uses aloud."

Quenya's brow furrowed. "Then why does it exist."

"Because people speak where they believe they are unseen," he said. "Servants. Visitors. Lesser houses who trade whispers the way others trade spices."

She waited, patient in a way that made him feel as though he owed her the truth rather than a summary.

"They call her the Cursed cripple," Lucian said.

Quenya stopped midair, drifting back a fraction before catching herself.

"That is cruel," she said.

"Because it lets people be cruel without taking responsibility," he replied.

She looked at him, clearly expecting more.

"The duke's wife died giving birth to her," Lucian said. "She bled out on the bed before dawn. Adaorys lived. The people who were present decided the cost was too high."

Quenya's mouth tightened.

"And that is enough," she said.

"It never is," he said. "They needed a shape for it. Some said the child was wrong. Others said the gods took payment in advance. The word monster was used often enough that it stuck."

Quenya glanced toward the street ahead, as if she might see the girl walking there, carrying the weight of it openly.

"And the second part," she said. "Why cripple."

Lucian hesitated, choosing his words with care.

"She has an ailment," he said. "No one outside the household knows its nature. They only know she does not appear in public often. When she does, she moves with assistance. That was enough."

"That is all rumor," Quenya said.

"Yes," Lucian said. "And rumor is cheaper than proof."

She folded her arms, floating backward now so she could look at his face.

"So the duke is ashamed," she said.

"No," Lucian said. "He is constrained."

He slowed slightly as the street narrowed, the buildings pressing closer together.

"Hadethon has two daughters," he continued. "The first secured the crown prince. That was a triumph no one could dispute. The second became a liability the moment she survived her mother."

Quenya considered this.

"So he hides Adaorys," she said.

"He protects her," Lucian said. "And in doing so confirms every whisper. A visible flaw invites pity. An unseen one invites invention."

Quenya frowned. "That still does not explain why he would give her to you."

"It explains why he must," Lucian said.

He turned onto a busier road, carts rumbling past, the smell of ale thickening the air.

"Hadethon cannot marry her upward," he said. "The crown will not touch her. Lesser houses fear the stigma. Foreign courts ask too many questions. Leaving her unmarried leaves her exposed, and leaves him accused of weakness."

Quenya followed alongside him again.

"So he marries her downward," she said.

Lucian nodded. "To a house with enough standing to shield her name, but enough damage that it cannot refuse without consequence."

She went still. "The Vicorras."

"Yes," Lucian said. "A marquis house with proper standing, intact then, respectable enough to shield her name without provoking scrutiny."

Quenya's voice softened. "That is unfair."

"Truth does not improve by being kinder," he said.

They passed beneath a faded banner advertising some forgotten festival.

"And the deal," Quenya said. "You said he had no choice."

"He does not," Lucian said. "The duke has enemies who would use Adaorys as a blade if she were left loose. Marrying her secures her legally and politically. It binds another house to her safety. If harm comes to her after, it becomes an attack on two banners, not one."

"And Mosses," Quenya said, her gaze sharpening. "Why did he agree."

Lucian's jaw tightened.

"Mosses agreed under pressure," he said. "With our father accused, the court circling, and the duke holding leverage no one else could match."

Quenya watched him closely. "So you inherited it."

"Yes," Lucian said. "Along with everything else."

She hovered a little lower. "Why not break it."

Lucian let out a quiet breath.

"Because breaking an official noble promise does not end with anger," he said. "It invites censure. It invites arbitration. It invites the kind of attention House Vicorra cannot endure."

Quenya pressed her lips together. "And Hadethon."

"He would not forgive it," Lucian said. "Nor would he be expected to. He would be within his rights to retaliate. Economically. Politically. Quietly."

"And you cannot afford another enemy," she said.

Lucian nodded.

"Not a ducal one," he said. "Not now."

The tavern came into view at the end of the street, its sign creaking on its chain, the sound of voices spilling out through the open door.

Quenya glanced at it. "So that is why."

"That is why," Lucian said.

He reached the door and paused, hand on the worn wood.

"You are not fond of this arrangement," Quenya said.

"I am realistic about it," he replied.

Realism was the only space left to move in. Delay bought room, and room bought sight.

Meeting Adaorys first was not courtesy, it was inspection. Faces revealed what rumors blurred, and presence stripped away invention. If the arrangement could not be refused, it could at least be understood. Vencian did not want to gamble blind. He will gather variables, weigh them, then decided how much damage he could survive.

Lucian stepped inside.

The tavern was dim and crowded, the air thick with smoke and the smell of spilled drink. Lucian's eyes adjusted quickly, scanning tables without appearing to.

He spotted Sagiel near the back, slouched in his chair, a cluster of empty glasses in front of him and one more in hand.

Lucian crossed the room without haste and pulled out the opposite chair.

Sagiel did not look up. He tipped the glass back and drained it, setting it down with a soft knock before reaching for another.

Lucian waited a moment.

"You drink like someone trying to offend his liver," Lucian said.

Sagiel snorted and took another swallow.

"It has offended me plenty in return," he said. "Fair is fair."

Lucian leaned back. "You picked the worst corner again."

"The worst corners hear the best lies," Sagiel said, still not looking at him.

Lucian's mouth curved slightly. "Then you must be drowning in truth tonight."

Sagiel finally glanced up, eyes bloodshot but focused.

"Depends what you came for," he said.

Lucian did not answer immediately.

Sagiel sighed and set the glass down.

"All right," he said. "Let us pretend you came for work."

Lucian inclined his head.

Sagiel rubbed a hand over his face.

"I will spare you the dance," he said. "I have no direction on the cult."

Lucian's eyes flicked to the table. "I have told you their name."

Sagiel waved a hand. "Names mean nothing if no one remembers them. Ask ten men on the street about Pentarch and you will get ten shrugs."

"Visuals," Lucian said.

Sagiel nodded. "That is what sticks. Marks. Habits. Where they drink. Who avoids them."

Lucian studied him. "So you found nothing."

Sagiel tilted his head. "I did not say that."

Lucian waited.

"There is a boy," Sagiel said. "Runs messages for my circles. Quiet. Watches more than he speaks. When I showed him the five dots, he flinched."

Lucian leaned forward. "He recognized it."

"Enough to fear it," Sagiel said. "Enough to refuse to talk."

Lucian's gaze sharpened. "Then make him."

Sagiel met his eyes. "No."

Lucian held the look.

"He is not one of them," Sagiel said. "And fear is not guilt. I do not break children for rumors."

Lucian leaned back again, the chair creaking softly.

"You are wasting time," he said.

Sagiel shrugged. "Or I am buying it. The boy will speak when he believes it will not kill him."

"And if he does not," Lucian said.

"Then I will find another path," Sagiel said. "I always do."

Lucian considered him for a long moment.

"Be careful," he said. "That group does not value restraint."

Sagiel's mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile.

"I value my life more than I value coin," he said. "That is why I still have both."

He pushed his chair back and stood, swaying slightly before catching himself.

"We are done for tonight," Sagiel said. "Come back when patience runs out."

Lucian rose as well.

"Try not to drink yourself blind," he said.

Sagiel scoffed. "If I do, I will still see danger before it sees me."

They parted without ceremony, the tavern swallowing Sagiel back into its noise as Lucian stepped out into the street, the night air cooler against his face.

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