THE YEARNING OF BROKEN HEARTS

CHAPTER 4: Strange

CHAPTER 4: Strange

Lucian had learned that silence was easier to manage when his hands were busy.

He adjusted his grip on the tool in his hand and pressed it back into the soil, forcing the troubled thoughts away as he had done many times since arriving. Work had always been the simplest method of control. It kept the body occupied enough that the mind could not wander too far into memory.

Still, memory was not so easily silenced.

It returned in fragments when he allowed it.

A different estate. A different expectation. Rooms that were too full of voices that did not belong to him. Conversations that did not pause when he entered. Decisions made around him rather than with him. The suffocating certainty that presence did not equal consideration.

He exhaled slowly and continued working, pressing the tool into the soil with steady force as the earth gave way beneath it. The motion was familiar, repetitive enough to quiet the thoughts that threatened to rise if left unattended. Time passed without measure, marked only by the gradual shift of light across the open lot and the dull weight settling into his arms.

The kingdom had already celebrated the rise of its new empress.

The news had reached even this distant estate, carried through passing merchants and conversations among servants who believed such matters held interest for everyone. Lucian had not asked for the details, yet he had heard enough to understand the shape of it. A coronation. A new reign. A future that no longer held space for what had once been.

Or for him.

He had once stood where she now stood.

And now he did not.

There had been a time when he might have questioned the outcome, when he might have justified his actions as necessity rather than failure, but that time had long passed. What remained was not anger, nor resentment, but a quiet and persistent recognition of what had been done and what could not be undone.

He had loved her once. The empress.

That truth did not change, no matter how much time had passed or how much distance had been placed between then and now. It remained much like the consequences that had followed it.

And so he stayed here.

Removed from the life he had once known, yet not stripped of it entirely. This estate became his. This land became his. Even this quiet existence, reduced though it was, could still be called a form of privilege.

Too much of one.

Tending the fields did not lessen what had already been done. It did not balance anything. It did not restore what had been lost. It was a small act, almost meaningless in comparison to the weight of his past, and yet he continued it all the same.

“Here.”

A voice suddenly came without warning, cutting through his thoughts.

Lucian straightened slightly and turned.

A servant stood a few steps behind him, holding out a glass of water.

For a moment, Lucian did not move.

It was not the interruption itself that held him still, but the sight of the person before him. Most servants carried the marks of labor openly, with broad shoulders shaped by work and features weathered by sun and strain. Their presence was grounded, practical, and easily understood.

This one did not resemble any of that.

The servant before him had pale skin that caught the light too cleanly, as though it did not belong to the same world as the soil beneath Lucian’s hands. His features were fine, almost delicate, shaped with a softness that was uncommon among men accustomed to physical labor. There was a quiet refinement in the curve of his face and in the smoothness of his skin, as though even time had passed over him with restraint.

For a brief moment, Lucian found it difficult to place him.

There was something almost… feminine in his appearance.

Not in a way that diminished him, nor in a way that invited dismissal, but in the quiet elegance of his features, in the absence of the harshness that defined most men Lucian had known.

Lucian’s gaze lingered longer than intended.

Then he realized it.

His brows drew together, the moment of stillness breaking as irritation surfaced in its place.

“I do not know you,” he said, his voice firm. “Leave me be.”

Elior faltered slightly at the words, his composure shifting just enough to be noticed, as though the response had not aligned with what he had expected.

“I-I only wish to be of help to you, my lord,” he replied. “You have been working under the sun for some time, and I thought...”

But Lucian cut him off with a quiet scoff, his gaze sharpening.

“Help?” he repeated. “What is a noble young man such as you doing in my estate, dressing as a servant and pretending to be one?”

Elior blinked, confusion crossing his expression in a way that seemed unfeigned. For a brief moment, he appeared uncertain, as though trying to understand what had been said before responding, his brows drawing together slightly as the meaning settled.

Then realization came.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “I am not a noble, my lord. I am merely a servant at your service.”

Lucian’s expression did not soften.

“Do not insult me,” he replied, his tone lowering with irritation. “I have seen enough men in my life to know the difference between one born into labor and one who has never had to endure it. You do not carry yourself like a servant, nor do you look like one. If this is some form of entertainment, then you have chosen poorly.”

Elior’s lips parted slightly, as if to respond, but no immediate answer came. For a brief moment, he had realized that he had not been spoken to in such a manner before by any men he had seduced. And though he had no intention to seduce this man he had fallen in love with, somehow, it hurt.

“I meant no offense, my lord,” he said after a pause, his voice gentler now. “I only wished to offer you water.”

Lucian’s gaze remained fixed on him.

“You have offered it,” he said. “Now leave.”

Elior hesitated.

It was subtle, no more than a fraction of a moment, but it was there. His fingers tightened slightly around the glass he still held, as though he had intended to say more, though he no longer seemed certain that he should.

“I can assist you further,” he said quietly. “If there is anything you require, I...”

“I require nothing from you,” Lucian interrupted, more sharply this time.

The words landed firmly and Elior fell silent.

For a brief moment, something in his expression changed, subtle and fleeting, as though the dismissal had reached him more deeply than he had intended to show. It was not anger, nor was it humiliation, and yet lingered all the same.

Then it was gone.

Replaced by a small, composed smile.

“Very well, my lord,” Elior said lightly. “You may call for me anytime, and I will come.”

Lucian frowned slightly at the ease of it.

Elior stepped forward then, lowering the glass carefully to the ground beside Lucian before stepping back.

“I will not disturb you further,” he added softly.

There was no trace of resentment in his tone.

That, more than anything, unsettled Lucian.

Without waiting for dismissal, Elior turned and began to walk away.

Lucian watched him go.

His gaze remained on him longer than necessary before he looked away, his grip tightening slightly around the tool in his hand.

There was something about him that did not settle easily.

“…such a strange man,” he muttered under his breath.