[Third Person POV]

The next morning, Lucian stood hunched over his bathroom mirror, his palms gripping the porcelain sink so tightly that his black veins stuck out. The basin was stained in streaks of inky black blood, dripping sluggishly from his mouth and spreading across the surface. The metallic, tar-like scent lingered in the air, clinging to his lungs with every shallow breath he took.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze toward the mirror. What stared back at him was a face that looked like it belonged more to a corpse than to someone still alive. His sunken red eyes seemed almost hollow, framed by deepening shadows and bags that had only grown more prominent. A strand of blood clung stubbornly to his lip, smearing the corners of his mouth, staining them black.

His hair had grown wild and unkempt over the school year, nearly brushing his shoulders now, his bangs falling forward and obscuring part of his gaze. His pale, sickly skin gave him the look of a phantom, yet despite it all, his lips curved into a crooked, blood-smeared grin.

“Damn…” he muttered, his voice hoarse and mocking even toward himself. “How am I somehow better looking while dying?”

He shook his head, forcing away the intrusive humor. With a twist of the faucet, cold water gushed out, splattering against porcelain already marred by his corrupted blood.

Lucian dipped his hands in and brought it to his mouth, rinsing away the foul taste as he silently watched the blackened water swirl down the drain. The sight was hypnotic—his essence, his decay, vanishing into the pipes.

After a moment, he splashed the water over his face, the shock of it biting against his skin and jolting his weary senses. He slicked his hair back, though two rebellious strands fell neatly to each side of his face. Once he’d wiped away the remaining droplets with a towel, he exhaled sharply, summoned his armor back around himself in a ripple of shadow and steel, and stepped out of the bathroom to face the day.

Outside, the camp buzzed with noise—clanging hammers, shouted instructions, and the groan of wood and marble as cabins were being rebuilt. Lucian oversaw the reconstruction, his arms crossed as he observed the process from a nearby log. The morning air carried both the smell of sawdust and the faint tang of smoke still lingering from the destruction.

It wasn’t long before Percy appeared, his expression clouded with irritation as he trudged up.

“Well, well, well” Lucian said, leaning forward with his arms over his knees, voice dripping with mock amusement. “Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

Percy shot him a glare, clearly not in the mood for jokes, before sitting down heavily beside him. He let out a long, exasperated sigh. “I tried to get into contact with Grover last night. Nothing. Not even a dream.” His tongue clicked against his teeth as his frustration boiled over. “And on top of that, I got teased three times on my way here because of my bro— because of Tyson.” He ran a hand roughly through his hair, making it stick up even more.

Lucian tilted his head, studying him. “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

Percy blinked, caught off guard. “What does that have to do with anything I just said?”

“I don’t know,” Lucian replied casually, smirking faintly. “I just figured when someone needs to complain, they usually run straight to their girlfriends.”

Percy stared at him in deadpan silence for several long seconds, his face completely blank. Then he simply stood up, muttering, “Forget it—”

“Hey, hey, come on now,” Lucian said quickly, reaching out and grabbing Percy’s wrist before he could walk off. His tone softened, though the teasing lilt never completely vanished. “You’re clearly telling me this for a reason. So, what is it you want from me?”

Percy shifted uncomfortably, scratching the back of his head before sighing. “I don’t know, man… You’ve got magic, right? Isn’t there a spell to make this easier? I’m seriously worried about Grover, but without mastering this stupid empathy link, I’m a sitting duck”

Lucian stared at him in silence, lips twitching slightly as if he was suppressing a laugh.

“…What?” Percy finally asked, narrowing his eyes at Lucian’s expression.

“Nothing,” Lucian said, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “It’s just funny. You’re just right, Ha. There is actually a spell that makes this ridiculously easy. It’s one of the simplest spells compared to everything I know. It’s called a locator spell.”

Percy blinked in disbelief. “You’re being serious?”

“Dead serious,” Lucian replied with a dry tone. “All I need is a map and something tied to Grover’s essence. Lucky for us, I still have some of his hoof shavings lying around.”

‘Lucky for me,’ he thought privately, his gaze darkening for a brief instant. ‘Finding Grover means finding the Golden Fleece… my only real salvation at the moment. Though with that damn prophecy hanging over me, I’m not even sure if it’ll work anymore…’

“Wait—his hoof shavings?” Percy asked, giving him a baffled look. “Why the hell do you have Grover’s hoof shavings?”

Lucian’s expression hardened slightly, shadows flickering across his face. “Let’s just say I needed them for a potion. I compensated him with a decent meal. That’s all you need to know.”

“What?” Percy muttered, now even more confused than before.

“Just go get me a map, Percy,” Lucian said flatly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“I’m going, I’m going—geez,” Percy grumbled, jogging off toward the Big House in the distance.

Lucian let out a long sigh before pressing both hands to his knees, pushing himself up from the log he had been sitting on. The motion was too sudden. His vision swam, the edges blurring for a moment, and his body swayed unsteadily. A wave of dizziness crashed over him, leaving him light-headed, weak, as though he was experiencing Iron deficiency.

He staggered, clutching the side of his face, then lost his balance entirely and tripping backwards, however, he felt a soft but steady force catch against the small of his armored back.

Lucian blinked in surprise, twisting slightly to see Hestia standing behind him, her gentle hands bracing his weight. She looked small compared to his armored form, yet her presence alone held him steady.

“Sorry about that—” Lucian started, offering her a faint, sheepish smile. But the words caught in his throat as his eyes met hers.

Hestia’s gaze trembled. Her lips quivered as though the words she wanted to say were breaking her from the inside, and tears welled freely, spilling down her cheeks. She looked at him as if she were seeing not just his body, but the unraveling of his very soul.

“Hestia?” Lucian asked, his voice low, concerned. But before he could say more, she spoke first.

“The Hearth is what connects all families, Lucian,” she said softly, her voice fragile yet unwavering. “As my nephew and as your aunt, I can feel you through it. I can sense what and how you’re feeling—your agony, which grows worse every hour…. You’re dying, Lucian… you’re in so much pain.” Her words cracked, and her tears fell faster as she shook her head in anguish. “How? How can you act as if everything is normal?”

For a moment, Lucian only looked at her, his expression unreadable. Then he reached out gently, raising one hand. With the armored knuckle of his gauntlet, he brushed a tear from her cheek. His smile bloomed softly, his eyes shifting into warm crescents.

“If I don’t act normal,” he said quietly, “if I don’t pretend that everything’s fine and that it’s all going to be alright, then how else am I supposed to reassure you? How else do I stop everyone from worrying themselves sick over me?” His smile widened faintly, bittersweet but sincere. “And if you’re still wondering how I do it, then just look in a mirror. The how comes from all of you—those around me. As cheesy as it sounds… you’re all my reason to push forward. It is where I find the strength to keep smiling.”

A choked laugh slipped past Hestia’s lips. She wiped at her eyes with the heel of her palm, though they were still wet. “You seriously have a way with words, you brat.”

Lucian snorted, feigning indignation. “Who are you calling a brat, pint-sized?”

Her laughter grew lighter, though still touched by sadness. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his armored torso, pressing her cheek against the cold metal. She was quiet for a long moment, holding him as if she could shield him from the weight he carried. Then, her voice came, muffled but full of emotion.

“Please… be careful in your journey ahead. You are a very sweet child, Lucian. My heart would break if anything were to happen to you.” Her grip tightened, her warmth sinking into him despite the armor. “Promise me. Promise me that you’ll take care of yourself, that you’ll return from your quest safe and sound.”

Lucian froze for a heartbeat. The prophecy whispered at the edges of his mind, the promise of an end he could not avoid. But he didn’t let it show. Instead, he smiled with that same easy confidence he always wore, even if it was only a mask.

“I promise,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t want my favorite aunt to be sick with grief, after all.”

Hestia leaned back just enough to look up at him, her tears slowing but her gaze sharp and unwavering. “Remember this, Lucian,” she said, her tone firm, almost commanding. “You promised.”

Lucian turned away at last, stepping forward with a faint grin tugging at his lips. Over his shoulder, he called back with a flash of bravado, “Don’t worry. A knight’s word is his bond.”

As he walked on, the hem of his cape rippled, shifting shape. With a thought, the fabric coiled and folded, transforming into a crimson hood that draped over his head. He pulled it into place, the shadow of it falling over his eyes, and continued toward his cabin with steady strides.

Behind him, Hestia watched quietly, shaking her head at his dramatic flair. Her lips curved into a small, wistful smile, though her heart still trembled with unease.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep