The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

Lucian waited in the corner booth of the eatery, back to the wall. The lamps were dull, their smoke mixing with the smell of broth and pan-fried dough. It was busy enough that no one paid him attention, but quiet enough that talk could pass between them unheard.

Sagiel slid into the seat across from him. His servant's livery looked wrinkled, collar too tight for his neck. He dropped onto the bench with a groan like a man who had carried buckets all day.

"Never thought I'd curse ironed cuffs," Sagiel muttered, tugging at the sleeve. "Half their rules are for the sake of crushing dignity. Shoes polished till I could see my own miserable face in them. Do you know how hard it is to keep a straight back while some hawk-eyed steward looks for dust on your buttons?"

Lucian watched him closely. It had been two weeks since they last spoke. Two weeks of waiting, while the Festival of Solace loomed nearer. Even the duchess had lightened her hold on the staff in preparation. For Sagiel to arrive now meant he had walked straight from the mansion doors to this table.

"You got in then," Lucian said.

Sagiel smirked. "I'm sitting here, aren't I? Though my feet might mutiny before the night's out."

He reached for the clay cup before him and drank. His eyes glimmered with amusement, but his tone cut sharper when he went on. "That place runs tighter than a jail. Uniform every day, hair tied back, mouths zipped unless spoken to. And the duchess—oh, the duchess. If you breathe too loud, she'll hear it two halls away."

Lucian kept his expression plain, though he pictured Seris walking those halls under that same rule. He asked, "And her?"

Sagiel leaned back, scratching his jaw. "She's routine dressed as flesh. Wake, prayers, lessons, meals, more lessons, and gods help you if you're late by a blink. She doesn't bend, doesn't break. You'd think discipline itself grew legs and wore silk."

His voice had a lazy drawl, but his humor was darker than his grin.

"And yet," he added, "maids chat when they think the walls don't listen. That's how I heard the strangest thing. Mention of one name is off-limits in there. Vencian Vicorra. Especially for the maids. Speak it, and you'll find yourself on the street before you know what happened."

Lucian's hand tapped once against the table. He kept his gaze on Sagiel, though his thoughts darted elsewhere. Why ban the name? Not insult, not grief. A deliberate silence. It marked him as something more dangerous to them alive than dead.

He shifted slightly, letting the thought roll in his mind. No sting of rejection touched him. It was only a problem to solve, a pattern to note. What was Seris told about him? What were the servants forbidden to know?

Sagiel gave a low chuckle. "Funny, isn't it? You don't ban a ghost unless you're afraid it might walk back in through the door. Heard the boy was engaged to her just a few months ago."

Lucian said nothing.

Sagiel scratched the rim of his cup, tilting it as if the watered ale inside had answers he had missed. "Other than that, nothing out of place. The household breathes by her command, and everything looks clean from where I stand."

He paused, eyes narrowing like he had remembered something worth selling. "Though—there was one thing. A meeting. Seris spoke with a man in private. Short visit. Seemed… unusual."

Lucian's fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the table. His thoughts slipped faster than his expression. A man, in her chambers? In her schedule, which allowed no time for chance encounters? His mind searched for possibilities. An advisor? A suitor? He asked anyway.

"You think she has some kind of relationship with him?"

Sagiel laughed low in his throat. "Relationship? No. Didn't feel like that. If it was, then the fellow's stamina is worse than mine after climbing mansion stairs. The whole meeting lasted minutes."

Lucian's mouth curved faintly. The smile showed, but it was hollow. The air around it made clear he didn't take the joke well.

Sagiel's grin faltered. He shifted, muttering, "Fine, no more jokes like that. You're no fun when you look at me like that."

Lucian didn't answer.

Sagiel leaned forward again, dropping his voice. "What made it strange was the man himself. He had the manners of a noble, carried himself like he belonged among polished floors, but he wasn't one. His carriage had no crest, not even a hint of one. Either he wanted to stay hidden, or he was pretending."

Lucian gave a small nod.

Sagiel went on, his tone half mocking, half thoughtful. "Handsome sort. Angular face, dark hair. Smile as fake as yours, maybe worse. Looked like he wore it because someone told him that's what humans do."

Lucian kept his expression calm, though his mind picked at each detail. Nobility without name, a smile without warmth, arriving without a crest. The puzzle sat in front of him, pieces scattered.

Sagiel stretched his arms out with a tired sigh. "That's all I got. One ghost name they don't want heard, and one man who shows up without a crest. Everything else is polished boots and stiff collars."

The noise of the room swelled around them, but their corner still felt closed off, as if their words could not reach beyond the booth.

"What else about the meeting?" Lucian asked at last. "Who was he speaking with, what was the purpose?"

Sagiel spread his hands. "That's the neat part. I don't know."

Lucian's eyes stayed fixed on him, the hint of a smile never moving from his face. "I'm paying for every piece you bring me, Sagiel. Guesswork is cheap."

Sagiel clicked his tongue. "And walking into a snake's nest is expensive. If I hand you scraps, it's because the meal isn't on the table yet. Keep pressing and you'll pay for my funeral instead."

Lucian's expression did not shift. The air between them pressed tight, his silence more loaded than words.

Sagiel rubbed his temple, as if worn down, then leaned closer. "There is one thing. During that man's visit, a maid spilled tea over his sleeve. He didn't scold her. Stayed quiet, then waited in another room while the laundry was fetched."

Lucian tilted his head. "And?"

"I carried the shirt back myself," Sagiel said, lowering his voice. "When he reached for it, the sleeve pulled up. I saw a tattoo on his arm."

Lucian's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Five black dots," Sagiel said, drawing with a finger on the table. "Shaped like a pentagram. Clear as day. No embellishments, only the pattern."

Lucian ran the description through his mind, mapping it against the fragments of knowledge he carried. The pattern carried weight. He could not yet see how, but it would matter.

He spoke evenly. "You'll find out more about him. Crest or no crest, he came there with purpose. I want the purpose."

Sagiel leaned back, lips twitching in half a grin. "Always so eager. You'll have it when I can pry it free, not sooner. I like breathing more than coin."

Lucian's smile stayed on his lips, though it carried no humor. "Then keep breathing and keep looking."

Sagiel muttered something under his breath and rose from his seat. "Fine. But next time, you're buying the drinks. Risk deserves a toast."

Lucian remained seated, watching the man walk off through the haze of food smoke and low chatter. His thoughts circled the tattoo, the smile, and the silence in that mansion where his name was banned.

A puzzle waiting for its next piece.

Quenya slipped into sight, perched on the bench as if she had been there the whole time.

"You look like a man who swallowed a riddle and wants to spit it out," she said, legs crossed, voice carrying an amused edge.

Lucian didn't turn to her. "And you sound like someone who thinks answers walk in with a bow tied on top."

Her grin widened. "A tattoo of dots? Very ominous. Maybe he's part of a secret society that spends their days arranging furniture in pentagons. Terrifying, really."

Lucian allowed a thin smile. "You treat it like a joke. Strange choice."

"Strange men, strange tattoos, strange silences. If I can't laugh, then I'll yawn." She tilted her head toward the door where Sagiel had left. "Though your friend there has a way of giving crumbs while charging for loaves."

"He'll keep earning his coin," Lucian said. His voice carried no shift, but the intent underneath was firm.

Quenya drummed her fingers against the table. "And tomorrow? Still playing spy, or moving to the next stage?"

Lucian's eyes narrowed slightly. "Roselys confirmed it. We leave for Coriel in the morning."

Quenya raised her brows. "A village at the edge of nowhere. Either a wellspring of hidden truths or another pit to fall into."

Lucian leaned back, gaze fixed on the fading lamplight above the counter. "That's what I intend to find out."

Quenya smirked. "Or, to put it better—you'll find out whether you're chasing shadows again."

He gave no answer, only the silence of thought pressed against uncertainty.

The tattoo, the smile, the silence of his own banned name—all threads waiting for tension to pull them tight. Whether Coriel would offer a path forward or waste another piece of time remained unseen.