The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

The eatery smelled of fried meat and vinegar. The sound of cutlery and loud voices filled the small space.

Sagiel was already halfway through his plate before Lucian sat down. He spoke between mouthfuls. "Been watching her for days. Same routine. Morning rides, lessons, meetings. The duchess is duller than I expected."

Lucian watched him eat. "No changes in schedule? No strange visitors?"

"None," Sagiel said, chewing. "Everything's normal. Or at least what's normal for her. Quiet, predictable, the same people around her. Nothing that looks like trouble."

Lucian leaned back. So she's either careful or clean. Neither option helped him.

He said, "What about the man with the tattoo?"

Sagiel shook his head. "Vanished. Never visited again since that day."

Lucian went silent. The noise of the eatery faded under the weight of his thoughts.

If he's connected to that cult that destroyed Coriel — and I'm certain he is — then he's dangerous.

Lucian remembered the conversation he heard between the sashed man and the man named Jerenir. The deity did something to him and they're after him now.

He could run. Change his name. Live invisible. He'd done worse. But the thought curdled fast. Those people don't need faces to track you. They find what they want.

And he wasn't built to spend his life hiding.

Sagiel spoke again, mouth full of bread. "Oh, there's one more thing. Not sure if it matters."

Lucian glanced at him. "Go on."

"The duchess is looking for a new reader."

Lucian frowned. "Reader?"

"Yeah. Someone who reads books for her. She likes being read to, apparently. Fired the last one last week."

Lucian raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"No clue. Heard she's done that a few times. Some say she gets bored fast. Some say the voices were bad. Either way, she's taking interviews soon."

Lucian rested his elbows on the table, watching Sagiel mop the last of the sauce with a scrap of bread.

A reader, he thought. At first it sounded trivial. Then his mind began to build around it.

The position meant access. Of course a servant and employer relation but doesn't mean it won't give an opportunity for conversation. Quiet rooms. Long hours. A single servant present by choice, not command. Someone who could come and go with pages in hand and no one questioning it.

Sagiel's type thrived in noise, alleys, and rumors. He was good for collecting whispers, or confirming them. But information from him crawled in days late, half-broken by the time it arrived.

Lucian needed something cleaner. Direct.

If I'm the one turning the pages, I don't wait for reports. With my abilities I would have more chances to see who visits, what she does. He could study the staff, the visitors, her moods. Every detail a thread leading somewhere else.

The idea took hold. He didn't need to chase the target anymore; he could make the target invite him in.

If I can get inside...

He asked, "How does one apply for the position?"

Sagiel shrugged. "Her staff handles it. Head butler knows the details. Probably interviews at the estate."

Lucian nodded slowly. Perfect. Sagiel can stay in the mud. I'll handle the halls.

He reached into his coat, pulling a few coins, and set them beside Sagiel's plate. "Your job's done. You've done enough watching."

Sagiel paused mid-bite. "Done?"

"There's a new one." Lucian's voice stayed even. "That man with tattoo... I'm sure he's not alone. There are more like him who have those tattoos at the exact same location. I want you to find the people with the tattoo. The five-dot pattern. Learn where they gather or what they talk about. Forget everything else."

Sagiel looked uneasy but nodded. "What does it feel like I'm sinking more in a mud water the more I work for you?"

"Well, I do pay you handsomely, don't I?"

"The only reason I'll take this new job. Makes me wonder if you're some fallen lordling or some kind."

"I may as well be."

Sagiel grinned faintly. "Nah, for better or worse you look nicer than those leeches."

Lucian grinned though beneath he wondered if Sagiel meant something more by that.

He rose to leave, then stopped. "One more thing. Find out when and where she'll hold that interview. I want every detail," he asked uneasily.

Sagiel looked up half-surprised by this task. He wasn't dumb enough to not understand why Lucian would do that. Nonetheless he agreed. "Consider it done."

Lucian turned and stepped out into the street. The sun hung low above the roofs. He walked without looking back.

— — —

Lucian reached the training hall. The building stood at the city's edge, half-swallowed by ivy and shadow. He arrived late, the meeting with Sagiel took more time than he expected.

Abnet waited in the yard, arms folded, leaning against the doorframe. His eyes tracked Lucian's approach with the kind of attention that missed nothing.

"Sorry," Lucian said, adjusting his collar. "I hurried as fast as I could."

Abnet raised an eyebrow. "When someone hurries, they usually arrive breathless. You look like you walked."

Lucian opened his mouth, then closed it. There was nothing to say that would land better than silence.

Abnet pushed off the frame and gestured toward the training ground. "Let's begin."

The staff felt different in Lucian's hands now. Heavier than the reverse-grip blade he'd trained with before, longer, demanding a different rhythm. Abnet had insisted on the change two weeks ago, claiming it would force him to rethink his balance.

Abnet called out the first drill. Lucian moved through the sequence, feet shifting, staff spinning in controlled arcs. The motion should have been smooth. Instead, his strikes came too fast, too hard. The wood cracked against the practice dummy with a sound that echoed off the courtyard walls.

"Again," Abnet said.

Lucian reset, breathing through his nose. The staff spun. This time he overcompensated, pulling back too late. The tip whistled past Abnet's shoulder, close enough to graze fabric.

Abnet didn't flinch. He caught the staff mid-swing, fingers closing around the wood like a vice. His expression hadn't changed, but something in his gaze sharpened.

Lucian let go and stepped back, chest tight. The memory surged before he could stop it: the death of Larik, Talor, Caesor, Moses, the mirrors in the void, Reine's face dissolving into blood, the voices of every sacrifice layered over one another until they became a single scream. He'd thought distance would dull it. Two weeks should have been enough. It wasn't.

"You've been out of touch since the festival ended," Abnet said. He set the staff down and turned toward the weapons rack. "Today we're doing something different. Balance work."

Lucian frowned. "I can continue."

"I know." Abnet retrieved two shorter rods, each one carved smooth and weighted at the ends. He tossed one to Lucian. "Doesn't mean you should."

The rod was lighter than the staff, easier to grip. Abnet moved to the center of the yard and raised his own, holding it horizontally across his palms.

"Watch," he said.

He shifted his weight, sliding one foot forward while the rod remained perfectly level. His movements were slow, deliberate in a way that made every muscle visible beneath his sleeves. He turned, letting the rod glide from one hand to the other without tilting.

"Now you."

Lucian mimicked the stance, lifting the rod. His arms trembled. The wood dipped left, then right, refusing to settle.

"Slower," Abnet said. "You're fighting yourself. Let the weight do the work."

Lucian exhaled and tried again. This time the rod stayed level for three breaths before his left hand cramped and the balance broke.

Abnet circled him, correcting his posture with a tap to the shoulder, a nudge to the elbow. "The point isn't combat. It's control. If you can't hold this still, you can't hold yourself still."

Control. The word sat wrong in Lucian's mouth. Control had failed him in Coriel. He'd tried to manage the situation, to guide the investigation without drawing attention. Instead, he'd bled into a chalice and fallen into a nightmare that wouldn't let go.

"Again," Abnet said.

Lucian lifted the rod. His breathing slowed. The tremor in his hands faded, replaced by something steadier. The rod stayed level for five breaths this time, then ten. The courtyard narrowed to the space between his palms, the weight of the wood, the rhythm of air filling his lungs.

Abnet's attention snapped sideways.

Lucian followed his gaze. The window overlooking the training yard framed a figure in a wheelchair. Amadeus Navorian sat motionless, hands folded in his lap, his face half-shadowed by the light behind him. A servant stood at his shoulder, one hand resting on the chair's handles.

Amadeus wasn't looking at Abnet. His eyes were fixed on Lucian.