A COURT OF CLAWS AND CHAOS (Lucien x OC)

THE CURIOUS CAT

The golden leaves crunched under Lucien’s boots, and the moss was thick enough to trip over. Above him, the autumn sun tried and failed to push through the heavy canopy. He could feel the season shifting in his blood, making him restless. He didn’t have to command the forest to move; the trees simply recognized him, lifting branches and curling roots away from his path. The forest always listened to its own.

Lucien took his time walking, mostly because he didn't want to arrive anywhere. He had officially set aside his duties as an emissary for the week. Tamlin didn't need him at the High Lord’s table, and Elain clearly didn't want him near her. She was always so polite about it, which somehow made the hollow feeling in his chest even worse.

He chose Gladeport because it was a tiny, boring village at the edge of the map, offering nothing but distance from court politics and war plans. As the trees thinned into cobbled streets, the air turned salty with the sea breeze. The locals gave him the usual look: a quick glance, then immediate eye contact with the ground. They were used to pretending they didn't see anything supernatural, and the silence suited him.

He just wanted a drink to stop the Cauldron’s latest joke from playing on loop in his head: a mating bond he never asked for with a woman who couldn't stand the sight of him.

He found a tavern called The Mossy Mugs, a place half-sunken into ivy-covered stone. Inside, it was dim, smelling of sour ale and mildew. It was almost empty, just how he liked it. A woman with arms thick enough to strangle a bear slid a mug toward him with a grunt. Lucien didn't need to be a Daemati to feel the waves of annoyance and worry coming off her, though they weren't directed at him. He took a sip of the bitter ale, content to mope in peace.

Then the door opened.

The scent hit him first: a confusing swirl of crushed herbs, truffles, ink, and orange peels. A woman walked in looking like she’d just lost a fight with a beast. Her dark hair was a disaster, tied back with vines, and her dress was covered in cat fur and dried leaves. Lucien blinked, wondering if she had actually wrestled a beast in the woods.

Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, time slowed. He saw her pupils dilate with fear—the standard mortal reaction to his kind. She scrambled to the farthest table and began digging through a satchel for parchment, though she kept peeking at him like a nervous bird.

Lucien let out a soft exhale and turned back to his drink. A curious one, then. Probably her first time seeing a fae up close. He was content to let her look; he had enough mourning of his own to do.