The dining room was bathed in the warm, golden glow of the chandelier.

Ariana stood nervously by the table as the maids lifted the silver cloche covers.

Steam billowed out, carrying a rich, savory aroma that instantly filled the room. It wasn't the standard, heavy stew served in noble houses. It was a modern-style Beef Bourguignon—meat seared to perfection, simmered in red wine until it was tender enough to eat with a spoon, accompanied by glazed carrots and buttery mashed potatoes.

Lyriana leaned forward, sniffing the air delicately.

"This smells… dangerously good," she murmured.

She picked up her silver spoon, scooped up a piece of beef and some of the dark, glossy sauce, and placed it in her mouth.

The room went silent.

Ariana gripped her skirt, holding her breath. I watched my mother, knowing exactly what was coming.

Lyriana chewed once. Twice.

Her eyes widened.

She swallowed, then slowly lowered the spoon. She didn't speak for a full ten seconds.

Then, she turned her head sharply toward the corner of the room where the Estate's Head Chef—a rotund man named Pierre—was standing.

"Pierre."

The chef jumped. "Yes, My Lady?"

"Come here."

Pierre shuffled forward, sweating profusely. "Is… is the food not to your liking, My Lady?"

Lyriana pointed at her bowl with her spoon.

"Pierre, you have served the Ashborne family for twenty years. You are a graduate of the Royal Culinary Institute."

"Y-Yes, My Lady."

"Then tell me," she said, her voice deadly serious. "Why does this stew, made by a seventeen-year-old girl in same kitchen, taste ten times better than the roast you served me last week?"

Pierre looked like he wanted to cry.

"I… I have no excuse, My Lady!"

"It's the depth," Lyriana marveled, taking another bite. "The meat melts. The sauce isn't heavy, it's… velvet. How is this possible?"

She turned her beaming gaze to Ariana.

"Ariana, darling, this is exquisite. Truly. I haven't had a meal this satisfying since I visited the Imperial Palace. No—this is better."

Ariana's face turned the color of a ripe tomato. She waved her hands frantically.

"N-No! You praise me too much, Countess! It's… it wasn't me!"

"Not you? Did a cooking fairy help you?"

"It was Lucien!" Ariana pointed an accusing finger at me across the table. "He taught me everything! The searing technique, the 'roux' to thicken the sauce, the timing… I just followed his recipe!"

Lyriana froze. The spoon stopped halfway to her mouth.

Slowly, mechanically, she turned her head to look at me.

She looked at me as if she were seeing a stranger wearing her son's skin.

"Lucien?"

"Yes, Mother?" I focused intently on my mashed potatoes.

"You?"

"Yes."

"My son? The boy who used to think 'cooking' meant ringing a bell for a servant?"

"People change, Mother."

"Change? This isn't change, this is a metamorphosis!"

She laughed, a sound of genuine disbelief and delight.

"Marksmanship. Business management. Magic. And now… Master Chef? What else have you been hiding, son? Are you secretly a grandmaster painter too? Do you knit in your spare time?"

"I just like good food," I shrugged, taking a bite. "And if I want good food, I have to know how to make it."

Lyriana shook her head, looking between me and Ariana with a satisfied grin.

"Pierre," she addressed the trembling chef again. "Take notes. Literally. Get a notebook."

"Already doing it, My Lady!" Pierre was scribbling furiously on a notepad he had pulled from his apron.

Lyriana turned back to me.

"Lucien, you are not escaping this. When you have your next academy break, you are coming to the main Duchy."

"Mother, I have businesses to run—"

"Hush. Your father eats like a barbarian. He thinks quantity equals quality. You need to come and teach our kitchen staff these… 'modern techniques.' That is an order from your Countess."

"...Fine."

"And Ariana," Lyriana added, winking at the girl. "You'll come too, won't you? To supervise him?"

Ariana giggled, covering her mouth. "If… if Lucien allows it."

"He allows it," Lyriana declared.

Laughter filled the dining room, chasing away the lingering shadows of the day's horror. For an hour, we weren't survivors or warriors. We were just a family having dinner.

****

The meal ended, and the adrenaline that had sustained us finally evaporated, leaving behind a leaden weight in our bones.

We climbed the grand staircase to the East Wing. The hallway was quiet, lit only by the pale, ghostly moonlight streaming through the high arched windows.

After bidding Ariana goodnight, I entered my room and collapsed. I didn't even bother to check the windows or set a magical alarm. The moment my head hit the plush pillow, consciousness was severed.

I fell into a deep, dark void.

Knock. Knock.

The sound was soft. Hesitant. Barely a whisper against the wood.

But to my heightened senses, it sounded like a gunshot.

My eyes snapped open. I lay there for a second, staring at the ceiling, hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.

Knock.

I sat up, rubbing my face, groggy and confused.

"Who…?"

I swung my legs out of bed, trudged across the thick carpet, and pulled the heavy door open.

"What is i—"

The words died in my throat. My heart actually stopped for a beat.

Standing in the doorway was Ariana.

She wasn't wearing the cream dress anymore. She was wearing a nightgown borrowed from the guest wardrobe—a slip of white silk so thin it looked like it was woven from mist.

Backlit by the dim hallway sconce, the fabric became dangerously translucent. It clung to her damp skin, outlining the soft swell of her breasts and the devastating curve of her waist. The neckline was low, exposing the smooth, alabaster slope of her collarbones and the delicate hollow of her throat.

Her silver hair cascaded down her shoulders in loose, messy waves, framing a face that was burning crimson.

She was trembling. Whether from the cold or embarrassment, I couldn't tell.

I stood there, entranced, my gaze involuntarily tracing the line of her legs through the sheer fabric.

'Close your mouth, Lucien.'

I snapped back to reality, realizing I was staring.

"A-Ariana?"

I noticed her shoulders shaking violently now. Her bare feet were curled against the cold floorboards.

"C-Come inside," I stepped back quickly, opening the door wider. "You'll catch a cold standing there."

She nodded, clutching her arms around herself, and slipped past me into the room.

I closed the door, shutting out the draft.

The room was silent, save for the crackling of the dying fire in the hearth. The air suddenly felt thick, charged with a scent of lavender soap and nervous tension.

Ariana stood near the foot of the bed, not looking at me. She was wringing her hands.

I cleared my throat, trying to keep my voice steady.

"D-Did something happen?"

"I-I…"

She stuttered, her voice barely audible. She took a breath, tried to speak, and stopped again, biting her lip so hard it turned white.

I didn't urge her. I just leaned against the dresser and waited.

Finally, seeming to gather her courage, she looked up. Her violet eyes were swimming with unshed tears.

"I… I was unable to sleep."

Her voice cracked.

"Every time I close my eyes… I see them. The blood. The way that man's arm… and the biting…"

She shuddered, wrapping her arms tighter around her frame.

"I'm afraid, Lucien. I'm scared to close my eyes."

I softened.

Of course.

She had held it together all day. She had played the brave alchemist, the dutiful guest, the charming daughter-in-law. But she was seventeen. She had just walked through a slaughterhouse where demons ate people alive.

It was a miracle she hadn't broken down sooner.

I walked over to her. Slowly.

"It's ok," I whispered.

I reached out and took her cold, trembling hands in mine. Her skin was freezing.

"It's normal to be afraid. What you saw today… no one should have to see that."

She looked at me, her eyes desperate for an anchor.

"Can… can I stay?" she whispered, her face burning so hot I could feel the heat radiating from her. "Just for a little while?"

I looked at the massive four-poster bed behind me.

"The bed is too huge for one person anyway," I said, trying to sound casual, though my own pulse was hammering in my neck. "You can sleep here."

Her eyes widened slightly, but she nodded.

We walked to the bed.

It was awkward. Agonizingly awkward.

I climbed in on the left side. She climbed in on the right.

We lay on our backs, stiff as boards, staring up at the dark canopy. There was a solid foot of space between us, yet I could feel her presence like a gravitational pull.

The room was silent. I could hear her breathing—shallow and fast.

I turned my head slightly. Ariana was staring at the ceiling, her eyes wide open, fighting the sleep that would bring the nightmares.

'Man up, Lucien.'

I took a deep breath.

I moved my hand across the expanse of the mattress until my fingers brushed hers.

She flinched, startled.

But she didn't pull away.

Slowly, gently, I wrapped my hand around hers.

Her hand was small and soft, engulfed by mine. I gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"I'm right here," I murmured into the darkness. "Nothing can get you. I've got the shotgun in my inventory."

A small, watery giggle escaped her lips.

"You and your guns…"

She shifted. The rustle of silk against sheets was deafening.

She moved closer, closing the gap, until her shoulder pressed against my arm. She turned on her side, gripping my hand with both of hers, holding on like it was a lifeline.

"Goodnight, Lucien," she whispered, her voice finally steady.

"Goodnight, Ariana."

The trembling stopped. Her breathing slowed, deepening into a rhythm of peace.

I lay there, holding the hand of the girl who smelled like lavender and starlight, and stared into the dark.

I didn't sleep for a long time. But for once, it wasn't because of the nightmares.

It was because I didn't want to let go.

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