NOVEL NEXT Chapter 65: Persuasion
The side passage opened into a room that didn't belong near the pits. The air was dry, carrying polish instead of mud. Pale oak panels lined the walls, and a table held neat stacks of ledgers. A hearth crackled in the corner.
Lucian's wounds were already tended. Water stung his lip, cloth scraped dirt from his skin, and linen bound his ribs. The servant worked without care for comfort. Lucian stayed quiet, unwilling to show strain under Amadeus's eyes.
Amadeus sat at the table, posture rigid though his legs stayed still. Close-cropped hair and a firm jaw gave him a strict look. Scars hadn't marked him, but the weight in his gaze spoke of years in command.
The servant stood behind, middle-aged and lean, gray running through his hair. His face showed nothing. Every motion was efficient, pared down to what was needed.
Amadeus let silence fill the room before speaking.
"You knew exactly what you were doing down there," he said. "Your fighting rhythm, your controlled restraint, the precise timing of your reversal. Those weren't instincts. Those were learned techniques."
Lucian met his gaze. "Yes."
"Vicorra techniques," Amadeus went on, the name landing heavy. "Footwork, guard shifts, baiting an opponent to overextend. Not the first time I've scene this way of fighting. So tell me—why does a pit brawler fight like a Vicorra soldier?"
As with many noble houses, the Vicorra preserved hereditary combat techniques and instructed their soldiers in them. Such practices were to be expected, and an experienced warrior like Amadeus Navorian was certain to recognize the style.
Lucian inclined his head. "I had a father who served in their ranks. Died with honor. He left behind a boy too weak to be remembered, so I picked up what fragments I could."
Circumstances had made him learn how a well crafted lie is spoken. A lie laced with fragments of truth, shaded with falsehood, and left open with gaps for the mind to complete.
Amadeus raised a brow. "Convenient. Every thief with stolen drills claims some dead soldier for a father. And every liar hopes the name of the fallen shields him."
"I don't lie about blood spilled for Airantis."
"You lie about why you are here." Amadeus leaned forward, voice calm but cutting.
Lucian remained still, his voice low. "You saw through everything tonight because you're the man I need. That's why I fought this way. Why I gambled on the attention it would bring. I want to learn Gravhen's Code from you."
The servant's eyes flicked toward him for the first time. It felt like being weighed, measured, and filed away.
Gravhen's Code was House Navorian's hereditary technique, passed down through bloodlines. Unlike moat houses, it was taught only to family.
Lucian's interest had nothing to do with its reputation. He didn't believe it greater than the rest. What drew him was the weapon it used—the closest thing he had seen to the one he summoned when he nearly died fighting Osrick.
Amadeus gave a short laugh, without warmth. "Bold. But if you've done your research, you already know the truth. I stopped taking disciples two years ago. I have no interest in starting again."
Lucian kept the smile on his face, though a heat pressed behind his chest. "Then why bring me here?"
"To hear you say it," Amadeus replied. "To see if the madness in your eyes matched the madness of your plan." He tapped one finger against the table. "You remind me of someone."
Lucian stilled at the name.
"My last disciple, Sarfir" Amadeus continued. "Sharp, ambitious, and blind to the wall he was running toward. You carry the same recklessness. And I buried him two winters ago."
The fire snapped in the corner. Lucian felt its warmth but not in his hands, which had curled into fists. He forced them loose before speaking.
Lucian tilted his head. "What a coincidence," he said quietly. "I met a man with the same name once."
That froze the air. The servant's grip on Amadeus's chair tightened, though his face stayed flat.
Lucian reached into his belt pouch and drew out a narrow iron clasp, dulled from years of wear. Its surface bore the design of a ring with a four-leaf clover at its center. The clasp gleamed faintly silver, and a shallow groove ran along its edge, worn smooth by a thumb pressed there many times before.
Amadeus's eyes locked onto it. His jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly.
Lucian let the clasp rest on his palm. "He gave this to me in the Highlands. Two years ago. Said he handed them out when a man proved he could stand his ground under real pressure. Told me it was useless by itself, but that the one who bore it carried his trust."
Depending on the perspective, this can be said true as well since Sarfir did give it to him. But not this him but to original Vencian.
The Southern Highland war, the same war in which the treachery against Vicorras came to light two months ago, was among the smallest war the kingdom had endured. But it was not a war without casualty or cause.
When Sedron forces had launched an assault near the Vicorra border, the scouts had spotted the enemy arkspren among their ranks. This made the Vicorra call for help from everywhere they could. Sarfir Navorian had answered the call then.
And laid his life which had essentially made the enemy push retreat. Three Arkspren died from the empire forces and one from the kingdom of Airantis.
It was before his last battle that Sarfir gave his brooch to Vencian. A token of respect for Vencian, who at the ripe age of sixteen commanded a small battalion for short while to defend an important bridge until the reinforcement arrived.
The token was given in privacy hence not many know about it.
Lucian paused, then slipped the clasp back into his pocket. He didn't offer more. To say too much would be to overreach.
The silence stretched. Lucian felt the weight of Amadeus's stare, as if the old soldier was peeling back layers, testing how much truth was buried beneath the lie.