The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

The balcony had grown louder since Casalus's departure. Wine spilled freer, wagers barked across the tables, the pit roaring with another bout below. Lucian kept his gaze on the mud, mind circling around gaps in his plan, when movement at the entrance broke his focus.

A figure stumbled in, cheeks flushed, hair damp with sweat. His clothes looked pressed hours ago, but the collar sagged open, his tie crooked. Urias Daclan.

He caught Lucian at the railing, almost tripping into him. "You—" His voice cracked before he lowered it to a rushed whisper. "You won. You don't understand what that means, you saved me. You really saved me."

Lucian turned his head, a smile tugging faintly, though his eyes remained on the pit. "I fought. That's all."

Urias shook his head hard. He pressed closer, fingers catching Lucian's sleeve before he realized the impropriety and drew back. "No, you don't see. I owed them. Everything. And I… I bet it all on you. If you had lost—" His breath tangled, the words tripping over themselves. "But you didn't. You won. Gods, you won."

His voice carried enough that one of Casalus's men looked over. Lucian shifted in his chair, letting Urias lean toward him instead of drawing the scene out.

"Keep it down," Lucian said lightly.

Urias clamped his mouth shut, nodding too many times, relief spilling over into a nervous laugh. He ran a hand across his face, shoulders shaking, as though the victory had washed him clean of every mistake that brought him here.

Lucian studied him in the brief quiet.

He glanced toward Casalus's men at the far table. None were paying close attention. Good. The last thing he needed was Urias's noise tying him to the wrong ears.

He hadn't only won a fight in the pit tonight. He had gained something else.

Urias spoke again, softer now, almost pleading. "If there's anything I can do—anything—you have it. I owe you more than I can pay. My father would never believe a Daclan is saying that in a place like this."

Lucian's eyes narrowed faintly at the name. Daclan — a house from the northern reaches. He remembered the endless lectures of his youth, when he was forced to memorize the names of every noble family in the kingdom. A viscount's line, never powerful but old enough to matter.

His smile widened a fraction.

Urias's words sparked something in Lucian's mind. Gratitude was useful, but unshaped it was only noise. What his plan lacked was a willing face to put forward, someone blind enough to follow yet eager enough to stay. In Urias, he found it.

Just the kind of guy I needed.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice so that only Urias could hear.

"I'll tell you something," Lucian said. "These fights aren't all chaos. Some of us know how the dice are loaded."

Urias blinked, startled. "What do you mean?"

Lucian gestured toward the pit, where the next fighters circled each other. His voice was light, as if he spoke of the weather. "Watch closely. The bigger one will take the round, but not by knockdown. He'll push him to the ropes and the bell will save the fool."

Urias locked his eyes on the fighters. The larger man moved with heavy certainty, pressing his opponent back with swings that carried force but held back from finishing.

Lucian already knew why. Both of them were Casalus's men. When he had joined the balcony after his own fight, Casalus spoke within earshot, giving clear instructions on how the bout should unfold.

A round dragged to its bell kept wagers flowing without costing either fighter too much. A rigged match, dressed in mud and noise.

Urias gasped when it unfolded exactly as Lucian had said. The bell rang, saving the cornered fighter at the ropes.

His mouth parted in disbelief. "You knew. You already knew."

Lucian tilted his head, saying nothing.

The awe in Urias's face shifted into eagerness, trembling under the weight of it. "If you told me before… I could—"

"Win again?" Lucian cut in, a faint smile crossing his lips. "Then listen close, and don't get greedy. One bet at a time, exactly when I say. Do that, and you'll never taste debt again."

Urias swallowed hard, nodding too quickly. His words tangled, but the answer was clear. "Yes. I will. I'll do it."

Lucian let the silence linger a little longer before breaking it with a few low-spoken reassurances, thin strands of comfort tied close enough to hold together. Urias absorbed every word, nodding as though they were a lifeline.

Only then did he step away, still murmuring thanks, his shoulders tight yet lifted by a spark that hadn't been there before.

Lucian leaned back in his chair, watching him vanish into the haze of the balcony. A gambler's hope was the easiest leash to pull.

The night rolled on in a haze of coin and shouts. Fighters rose and fell, each round feeding the pit's hunger for spectacle. The crowd spoke still of the match before, their voices running from awe to laughter, repeating the name of the man who smiled through mud and fists.

Casalus let their noise wash over him. Every mention of that grin lined his purse and deepened his belief that he had uncovered something worth shaping. Lucian raised his cup when offered but kept his thoughts guarded, cataloguing more than he drank.

He traced the room with quiet eyes, taking note of who risked high, who cursed when losses bit deep, who lent silver to neighbors already drowning.

When the pit emptied, he slipped away as easily as he had entered. Back through the alleys, across the silent streets, and into the walls of the house that bore another name. He rested for what little time remained before dawn.

By the time light crept across the city, Lucian was gone. Vencian rose in his place, the dutiful heir once more, carrying on the life that others believed unbroken.