Chapter 3

Lucien.

Lucien of Carlot.

Who in all Izeland had not heard that illustrious name? From his western fiefdom of Carlot to the bustling capital of Osterbrache and across the vast provinces beyond, his reputation preceded him wherever he went.

The King of Izeland had sired so many children that few could keep an accurate count of his descendants. Since tracing the royal lineage put no food on a commoner’s table, most ordinary citizens paid the matter little attention. Only the eldest daughter, Arabella, and the eldest son, Bastian, enjoyed any real measure of public recognition.

Lucien, the king’s fifth child and third son, was another matter entirely.

He was a hero who seemed to have descended from the heavens in a blaze of starlight. Rising to prominence with astonishing speed, he resolved one national crisis after another. He subdued the barbarians of the northwestern Ermus Mountains, crushed the rebellion in Islawin, and ultimately secured his place in history by reclaiming the eastern territory Izeland had lost to the enemy nation of Grafen more than a decade earlier.

No one could verify every heroic tale traded across tavern tables, but one fact remained beyond dispute: the army under Lucien’s command had never suffered a single defeat. He was, quite simply, the undisputed hero of Izeland.

Had his military exploits been the full extent of his renown, however, his name might never have echoed quite so widely. History had never lacked exceptional knights. Lucien’s true genius lay in his rare, magnetic ability to draw every eye toward him.

His extraordinary appearance certainly helped. He possessed such striking beauty that he almost seemed to shine from within. Though his estate stood upon the unforgiving western frontier and he spent much of his life crossing the harshest battlefields, his skin remained flawless, without a single scar marring his cheeks. His brilliant blond hair, inherited from his mother’s lineage, was a rare sight in Izeland’s central heartlands and effortlessly captured the attention of anyone who passed him.

More admired still was the quality of his character. Lucien treated everyone with remarkable gentleness and kindness, disarming those he met with his genuine humility. Regardless of a person’s status or birth, he addressed them with the same courteous respect, seldom without a warm smile upon his face.

Such evenhanded courtesy ran counter to everything people had come to expect of an ordinary knight, and that was precisely why all Izeland adored him.

For generations, knights had been regarded as brutish, violent, and terrifying men. Because of Lucien, that deep-rooted prejudice had gradually begun to fade. If knights could now walk the city streets and find themselves greeted with warmth and unsolicited kindness, the credit belonged almost entirely to this one extraordinary prince.

Kosha, too, would eventually fall under the subtle influence of Lucien’s character. At first, however, he cared little for the prince’s martial exploits. Unless one lived in a region ravaged by war, military victories had little bearing on the daily struggle to survive. Lucien’s celebrated beauty meant just as little to him. The prince was hardly going to visit Kosha merely to display his handsome face, and Kosha had no interest in such superficial matters anyway.

He had certainly heard the name. Prince Lucien was far too famous for anyone to avoid entirely. Yet Kosha, exhausted beneath the crushing weight of his impoverished life, had no energy to spare on some glorified knight. There was simply no room left in him for idle curiosity.

That was how matters stood until a single encounter changed everything.

It happened at the height of autumn, when the sweet osmanthus had burst into full, fragrant bloom. By the standards of central Izeland, it was the finest season of the year. Such seasonal pleasures belonged to another world as far as Kosha was concerned. He barely possessed enough peace of mind to notice the changing weather, much less enjoy it.

Business had brought him inside the city walls that day.

The geese had finished molting, and he needed to sell the feathers he had painstakingly gathered.

Goose down fetched a respectable price and provided one of his most reliable sources of income. Balancing his cargo upon one frail shoulder, Kosha had set out before dawn. After trudging over the hill and enduring what felt like an eternity in the queue outside the city gate, he finally passed through the walls around midday.

The city overflowed with people, every street and alley so densely packed that breathing room itself seemed scarce. When Kosha finally asked a passerby what had drawn such an enormous crowd, he learned that Prince Lucien was returning that very day. People had flocked from every corner of the province to witness the grand spectacle.

Even then, Kosha thought little of it. He merely harbored a small, private resentment that the prince had chosen the exact day Kosha needed to conduct his business to make his triumphant return.

After the usual exhausting haggle with a merchant determined to drive the price down to almost nothing, Kosha successfully sold his goose eggs and feathers. With the meager coins he received, he purchased a little dried meat, oil for his lamp, and several crisp apples, a rare indulgence he had craved throughout the long summer.

Half the day had slipped away by the time he finished. The crowded streets battered him from every direction, rapidly draining what little strength remained in his body. He had eaten nothing but a single bowl of watery stew all day, and the bag he carried now felt painfully heavy. Kosha had always possessed a frail constitution, but if he hoped to reach home before sunset, he could not afford to sit down and rest for even a moment.

He was carefully descending a sloping path beside the city wall, hoping the quieter route might offer some relief, when his luck once again proved spectacularly poor. A vague unease had dogged him since morning, and it finally proved justified when the old burlap sack surrendered beneath the weight of its contents and split wide open.

Of all the damned things that could happen.

The day’s many indignities flashed vividly through his mind: the needlessly pedantic guard, the shopkeeper who had disparaged the quality of the goose down merely to slash its price, and the deceitful fruit seller who had slipped small, bruised apples into his purchase while charging him a premium.

Refusing to wallow in self-pity, Kosha immediately scrambled to retrieve his scattered goods. Thankfully, the fragile bottle of lamp oil had survived the fall intact.

Several apples, however, were already bouncing merrily down the steep slope.

Kosha lunged desperately after them, practically crawling as he squeezed between the bodies crowding the narrow alley. He snatched up one apple, then another, until only the last remained. The final fruit rolled onward as though deliberately taunting him before coming to rest against the polished toe of a sleek leather boot.

The owner of the boot bent down and picked it up with effortless grace.

Kosha had been forcing his way blindly through the crowd, repeating the same plea like a trained parrot. “Excuse me, please. Just a moment. Excuse me.”

Then he stopped dead in his tracks.

The stranger’s hands were remarkably smooth, with elegant, slender fingers. Their clean, unblemished skin stood in stark contrast to the bruised, reddened apple cradled between them. The man tossed the fruit lightly into the air and caught it again with casual ease.

“Ah, is this yours?”

His voice was low and melodic, each word shaped with crisp, impeccable precision. Too stunned to answer, Kosha merely raised his head and stared at the owner of those beautiful hands. The stranger stood with the afternoon sun directly behind him, and for one fleeting instant, the brilliant halo of light blurred Kosha’s vision completely.

The stranger glanced from the goods Kosha was struggling to gather to the torn remains of the burlap sack, then clicked his tongue softly in sympathy. He looked like a figure who had stepped straight out of a masterfully painted portrait. Without another word, he tossed the apple back. Kosha caught it in a daze, his gaze fixed upon the gentle smile that crinkled the corners of the stranger’s eyes.

“You must have been exhausted,” the man murmured. “Still, I am certain you would rather eat a clean one than this.”

Overwhelmed into silence, Kosha could not even stammer out a word of thanks. By the time he finally recovered his shattered composure, the radiant stranger had already departed alongside a group of imposing knights. Only the sweet, almost cloying scent of osmanthus lingered in the breeze where he had stood.

Blinking rapidly, Kosha finally became aware of the remnants of the crowd around him. Most people had eagerly followed the knights, but a few curious onlookers remained nearby.

A middle-aged woman stepped forward and pointed bluntly at the bruised fruit in his hand. “Hey, that apple. Would you trade it for a clean one?”

Out of nowhere?

Kosha stared at her, immediately suspicious of such inexplicable generosity.

Before he could formulate a polite refusal, a man beside the woman let out an amused chuckle. “She only wants it because His Highness picked it up himself. His hand touched it, so now she thinks it is some precious keepsake. She is completely obsessed with him.”

Kosha stared blankly, struggling to comprehend the absurdity of the situation.

The man gestured toward the bruised apple. “Honestly, if you hold on to it a little longer, you might find someone willing to give you two clean ones in exchange.”

The woman rounded on him with a fierce glare. “Stop talking nonsense!”

Still unable to make sense of the bizarre encounter, Kosha saw no reason to refuse such a favorable bargain. He happily traded the bruised apple for a fresh, unblemished one. After enduring the woman’s breathless, starry-eyed account of Lucien’s flawless character, military accomplishments, and endless charitable deeds, he even managed to acquire a sturdy new burlap sack in the process.

Despite his earlier insistence that he could not spare even a moment to rest, Kosha found her glowing stories unexpectedly worth hearing.

The long journey home passed with unusual swiftness, somehow devoid of the bone-deep exhaustion that had plagued him earlier. Perhaps the crisp, sturdy texture of the new sack against his shoulder had lifted his spirits, though in truth, he spent most of the walk in a pleasant daze. He did not even notice the dark, painful bruise blooming across the skin beneath his burden.

“You must have been exhausted.”

The prince’s gentle words clung to him, circling his ears like a warm, persistent hum. Even after reaching the safety of his small home, Kosha could not drive them from his mind. He mechanically tended to his evening chores, filled the feed troughs for the geese flapping their wings in noisy greeting, and finally sat down to appease his gnawing hunger with one of his own damaged apples. Still, the memory refused to fade.

It replayed itself in exquisite detail: that low, profoundly resonant voice; the crisp elegance of the man’s diction; the mesmerizing movement of those perfectly shaped lips; and the faint, amused curve of his eyes as he gazed down at a filthy peasant like Kosha.

The recollection repeated in an endless loop until a quiet realization struck him with startling force.

Ah. I truly am exhausted, aren’t I?

It had been ages since anyone had bothered to look at Kosha so directly, let alone offer him a genuine smile while speaking to him. The words themselves carried an almost impossible kindness. To tell Kosha that he deserved to eat something clean and good was a tenderness so rare that, even if it had been nothing more than hollow aristocratic courtesy, it felt like some precious, alien treasure buried amid the grinding poverty of his life.

Unable to let go of that brief exchange, Kosha spent a long while turning the fresh apple over and over in his hands, silently admiring its smooth, vibrant crimson skin. The woman who had traded with him clearly possessed some wealth, for the fruit she had given him was flawless and beautiful. All summer long, Kosha had desperately craved the taste of an apple bursting with cool, sweet juice. The exchange had been nothing short of a miraculous windfall.

And yet, as his teeth broke through the skin of the bruised, mealy apple he had already begun eating, a strange pang of regret flickered through his chest.

Should I have kept the apple Lucien handed back to me instead?