The relentless, rhythmic, gentle tapping of rain striking the glass had a soothing effect on him. As did the near-total darkness that enveloped him. The bedroom on the upper floor of the Golden Ear Inn lay steeped in deep shadows, faintly lit only by the soft amber glow of a single candle resting on a small, bare bedside table near the window. Outside, beyond the glass, night had already swallowed the village whole, and the storm only deepened the darkness—rendering it all but impenetrable.

But for Lucien, that was fine. If he could not see what surrounded him, then nothing surrounded him. And if nothing surrounded him, he could focus on what truly mattered. Without limits or distractions. In absolute stillness. For nothing else made sense.

“Just a few days,” he thought as he stood before the window, staring emptily into the darkness beyond it. “Just a few days and I’ll be in Sethern. Once there, I’ll have the chance to gather information on the Three Rings. At last, I’ll be able to take real steps toward finding them. Everything hinges on Pavlic. Gwen and Liris assured us of their client’s seriousness and reliability. Of his connections. I’m certain that working for him will lead me to traces of those damned bastards… those murderers…”

A sudden stab of pain in his right hand broke his train of thought, and only then did he realize he had clenched his fist too tightly—as he so often did. Instinctively, he relaxed his hand, though the relief was minimal.

“I just need a little patience. Just a bit more,” he continued, resuming his thoughts without paying heed to the warm drops of blood he felt running over his skin. “The Children’s Feast, the nuptials, and then a short journey. That’s all that stands between me and my goal. If we leave the morning after the wedding, we’ll arrive on the agreed day—just as the sisters arranged with Pavlic. And then, a few minor tasks for that wealthy merchant will earn me what I seek…”

For a moment, the sudden, erratic dance of the candle’s flame beside him—disturbed by a cold draft from some unseen source—distracted him again. But as it quietly steadied, rising once more along the wick and casting its glow upon the nearby glass beaded with silvery drops, Lucien returned his gaze to the darkness beyond the window.

That was when he saw the faint glimmer of a lantern flicker briefly along the village’s main road, visible from his room. Someone—impossible to tell who—was venturing out into the storm. Something he himself would soon have to do. The sight sent his thoughts drifting elsewhere, back to the encounter the group had had earlier that evening, before the storm had broken, with Anastasia Onvald—right there on that very road.

The bride-to-be, beautiful even in simple clothes, had crossed their path by chance as they wandered through Ravast. More gracious and kind than even the night before, she had once again expressed her happiness at having them as guests at her wedding. At the same time, she had introduced them to her fifteen-year-old younger sister. Ember.

Though she clearly bore a resemblance to Anastasia, she lacked the same charm and refinement. Her aquamarine eyes and hair—lighter than her sister’s, slightly wavy yet noticeably shorter—did little to compensate for features that were less delicate, less pleasing to the eye. The difference that stood out most, however, was her evident absence of bearing and grace when compared to Anastasia. A quality that could not be instilled through education alone. Nor, judging by the way she presented herself to the group, did Ember appear particularly inclined to follow the example of the woman soon to become Lord Ravast’s wife.

“My curiosity keeps dragging me toward matters that are none of my concern,” Lucien thought irritably, pulling his mind back to what truly mattered. “Lucas’s sincerity—or lack thereof. The tragic fate of his family. The village’s future. The noble house. Anastasia. Ember. Captain Iuliu. The mausoleum… None of it matters. I must focus on one thing. One thing alone…”

Accompanied by the candle’s faint, uncertain flicker, the half-elf raised his left hand and pressed his palm against the window. Through the cold glass he could hear the rain’s tapping, could watch the droplets slide downward, endlessly shaping and erasing tangled paths of darkness and silver. But he could feel nothing. The chill and damp could not reach his skin.

Suddenly, the clear echo of footsteps—several pairs—distracted him once more. This time, however, he felt almost relieved as he recognized the movements of his five companions in the corridor just outside the room. The time had come. Behind him, they were preparing—and likely wondering where he was. The Children’s Feast at Lord Ravast’s estate was drawing near.

One last time, he fixed his gaze upon the glass before him.

Yes, he could not feel the rain upon his skin. But that was fine. Feeling—sensing—those were distant memories now. Memories from another life. Memories that had become the force driving him forward, giving him the strength to do what had to be done. To leave suffering behind. To no longer feel the tears running down his face.

Tears which, like the countless droplets on the windowpane, continued to carve their paths along his cheeks. Tears that would otherwise torment him further—destroying him, distracting him from his purpose.

“…vengeance…” he whispered into the darkness as his hand slid down the glass and fell back to his side.

Then he turned, blew out the candle, and left the room.