SWNOVELXO Chapter 14: SEARCHING
The sniveling raccoon didn't come back that night.
Lucien didn't care.
He told himself that as he reheated some leftover stew and poured just enough into a bowl for a certain human who wasn't there to eat it. He left the bowl out on the table anyway. The next morning, there's still no sign of her. Nor the cats.
Still didn't care.
He walked around the cottage like usual. Checked the herb beds. Picked some apples, did not eat them. Polished his knives. Normal things. Nothing to do with the fact that the yard was too clean, the bench empty, the cot and blanket inside the cottage unused.
He even boiled two extra eggs. Just in case. Or whatever.
By midday, Lucien found himself standing on the porch, arms crossed, frowning at the forest as though it owed him an explanation.
Then, grumbling the entire way, he went into the passage. The floor was undisturbed, no candle drops on the rocks. He sniffed the air. Damp moss. Squirrel. Bird droppings.
No hint of chamomile soap. Or crushed leaves. Or spilled ink and old parchment. Or trouble.
"Tch." He clicked his tongue and turned back.
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Three days.
That's how long it had been since Lucien last heard her stomping through the yard. Since her cats claimed his back and his windowsill as though it was their royal throne.
Since she left a rock, a pathetic dagger, or an apple he didn't ask for. The one from his own yard.
Three days of silence.
Peaceful, right? Exactly what he wanted.
Except the silence wasn't peace. It was… annoying . Bothering. His mind kept on wondering what that she was up to now.
So on the fourth day, he found himself standing by the passage she once used as her camping site, one that he warded months ago to keep out nosy locals and mushroom thieves.
The enchanted vines hung heavy, twisted with quiet threat. He stared at them for a long moment. Then flicked his fingers.
They slithered aside.
Not for her. Gods no. That wasn't the reason.
He was just tired of casting the damn charm every time he walked past it. Obviously.
Then came Gladeport.
Lucien didn't plan on going. One moment he was patrolling the outer woods, the next, there he was, glaring at the cobblestone streets as if they had personally dragged him there.
He passed the herbalist's stall. No muttering raccoon.
Then the bakery. Paused. Took a breath. Vanilla and ink. Not her, but almost. Close enough that it irritated him.
By noon, he was standing in front of the guild hall. This one was intentional. Finally. He'd been dying to do this.
It wasn't much to look at, not even close. A crooked tower of stone and half-rotted wood, creaking against the breeze. One sigh and might collapse. Windows were cracked or flat-out missing, and the only indication that it was anything other than an abandoned building was a splintered bulletin board nailed haphazardly to the outer wall. A few sun-bleached posters flapped halfheartedly in the wind, their edges curled as though trying to escape.
There was no sign, no name, no polished emblem declaring this a place of heroic purpose. Just a few struggling plants in warped pots by the door, dehydrated beyond salvation, and a man asleep beside them, wrapped in threadbare blankets and snoring.
Lucien took it all in with a smirk tugging at his mouth. Charming. In a "please don't touch anything without gloves" kind of way.
Still, he didn't hesitate. He'd made up his mind, and no amount of structural sadness was going to stop him now.
He didn't waste his precious time knocking. He kicked the door, flew open with a satisfying bang .
The moustached man, a toad in a suit two sizes too small, looked up. His chair creaked, tilted, fell backward with a thud as he recognized the fae who stepped into the room, a storm in slow motion.
Lucien didn't bother with pleasantries. He flicked his wrist and the dagger— that squeaky, disgraceful excuse for a blade—landed point-first in the desk, vibrating menacingly.
He sat. Crossed one leg over the other like a bored aristocrat. Tilted his head. Smiled. It was not kind.
"I heard," he said smoothly, "you were looking for me."
The toad gurgled. "Y-You—she… the girl, she wasn't lying? She actually—?"
Lucien cut him off with a wave. "Fell off a tree. Kissed the ground. Multiple times. Very dramatic." He leaned forward and let the man take a good look at his mechanical eye. "But yes. She found me. And risked more than you realize just to give you those neat little papers you discarded like trash."
He tapped the desk beside the dagger.
"And you paid her… with this."
"I— I didn't know!" the man squeaked. "We thought she was bluffing. Some desperate nobody—"
"True. She is a desperate nobody."
The man blinked, confused, hopeful, even.
"But even a nobody deserves better than this." He gestured to the dagger, pulled it out then snapped it back into his hand with a flick of magic.
"She didn't sell me out," Lucien added as he tossed the bent dagger into the man's lap. "Could've made gold. Could've named my cottage, my background, my status. She didn't. Couldn't even spell my name or spy right."
He stood. Held out a hand. "Her pay. All of it."
"One gold," the man mumbled, fumbling for a coin pouch.
Lucien didn't even look at it. "Do I look like I'm here for one gold?"
The man paled. "B-but that's the standard rate—"
He raised one brow. Slowly.
The man scrambled beneath his desk and shoved a coin pouch toward him. Lucien took it, weighing it once before tucking it into his coat.
"Now you're learning." He smiled and stepped closer, voice dropping into something sharp and searing. "If she comes back," he said, voice like ice crackling over fire, "you will treat her with respect. You will not mock her again. And if I ever see her report desecrated by your filthy ink—"
"It needs corrections!" the man squeaked, throwing up his hands. "The spelling errors, the ugly, childish drawings—"
Lucien tilted his head. "You're saying something?"
The man shrank two inches on the spot. "No. None at all, Sire."
Lucien smiled then, full of teeth and absolutely no kindness. His mechanical eye gave a soft, deliberate whirr, as if reacting to the tension it helped create.
Then he turned and walked out, not bothering to close the door behind him.
And no, he didn't go to Mossy Mugs to look for her. He just needed a drink.
Definitely not checking if some wild-haired human was arguing over mushroom prices or trading wild thyme for citrus-scented parchment again.
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The marketplace buzzed with the usual chorus of shouting merchants, clinking coins, and someone loudly accusing another of selling fake garlic. Lucien wasn't trying to look for her. He was there for supplies—carrots, meat, bread, cheese. Essentials.
That's what he told himself as he moved through the crowd, hood low, scanning every face like a predator who just happened to be…shopping.
Then—
That voice. Sharp. Indignant. Slightly squeaky.
"Fifteen coppers for onions? What kind of robbery—how many coins I gave you already? Eight was it? Nine…ten…ten…what comes after ten again?"
Lucien stopped mid-step. His eyes found her instantly.
The raccoon. Emila.
Very much alive. Very much arguing with a man who looked like he was an onion.
She looked flustered. Her satchel clutched like a shield, cheeks flushed, fingers twitching like she was trying to summon some spirits.
"Okay, wait. I want half of those and if onions are—no, wait, I can't divide half of fifteen. Can I? Is that illegal?"
Lucien stepped beside her, smooth and silent like sin in the sunlight. His voice was low, crisp.
"That's seven coppers and five Bits."
Emila jumped like she'd been struck by lightning. Her eyes bulged. There was ink on her lip. Of course there was.
"Luc—You! What are you doing here? It's daylight. Are you allowed to stay outdoors when the light is out? Oh—wait, we met when the light was out."
He gave her a look. The kind that could melt lesser creatures. "You seriously think faes burn in sunlight? What other fairy tales do you believe? That we lay eggs?"
"You don't? No golden eggs with baby faes inside?"
Lucien's mechanical eye narrowed. This girl and her stupid beliefs.
"Give him seven coppers and five Bits," he said, changing the topic.
"Okay, okay. Let me start over." She started counting. Slowly. "Why are onions so expensive? Should I just start growing onions?"
Lucien raised a brow. "And where exactly do you plan to plant them? In your dreams?"
She smirked, and he could see the thought flicker across her face. His yard.
Perfect.
She opened her palm to show him the coins like a child seeking approval. He scooped them from her fingers, took the bundle of onions, and shoved it into her bag with careful annoyance.
"You're welcome," he muttered, then added without looking at her, "You disappeared."
Emila opened her mouth. Closed it. "Oh, I was here and there. Looking for jobs—"
"Don't care."
"You asked."
"I did not."
His tone was ice, but his hands moved gently as he adjusted the strap of her bag so it wouldn't cut into her skin.
"You didn't fall off a cliff?" he asked.
"No."
"Abducted by weird men with scented parchment?"
"No."
"Shame." He handed her the pouch of gold. "Your compensation. The guild would like to thank you for your contribution."
Her eyes widened. "Guild? You—You didn't."
He turned, already walking. "You coming or not? I have food."
She hesitated. "You told me not to follow any man."
Lucien didn't break stride. "I'm not any man. I'm a fae. I sacrifice babies to my gods, remember?"
Her lips twitched. Despite herself.
She called her cats loudly. Goldie immediately wound around his leg looking like an overzealous scarf. Beans trotted ahead, ignoring everyone as though he's royalty.
They walked in silence. A breeze drifted by. Somewhere, a hawk screamed. Emila counted her coins behind him. Loudly. And kept getting stuck at ten. He sighed. Of course she only knew how to count to ten. He'd teach her. Maybe. He had time. Why not waste it on a hopeless human?
He slowed so she could catch up. "'You find a new job?" he asked, voice casual, too casual. "Hopefully not another idiotic guild."
She didn't answer right away.
Lucien glanced sideways. Her shoulders were drawn too tight. Eyes low, fixed on the path like it might swallow her. He caught the way her fingers curled tighter around the strap of her bag. A quiver in her grip. A breath held too long.
"Yes. One."
A pause.
"I quit quickly."
That alone made something coil in his chest.
"They said I'd get paid well," she added, voice quieter now. "That it was... easy work."
Lucien slowed a little more. Let the silence breathe.
"They brought me to a man," she went on, not looking at him. "Odd-looking. Smelled of stale piss and sin and—and—"
He stopped walking. Turned toward her. His eyes raked over her, no not like that, but with deadly calculation—the terrifying, calculating way that made people confess sins they hadn't committed. A claw gripped his heart as he stared at this vulnerable human girl who only wanted a place to stay and some coins to feed herself and her cats.
His jaw clenched. Hard. "Did he—"
"No!" she snapped. Too fast. The word cracked in the air between them. But the fear… it clung to her like rot. Not just in her voice, but in the way she flinched at her own memory.
Lucien felt his stomach twist.
"No," she repeated, softer now. "Thank the gods, no. Beans clawed him. Goldie peed on his leg. We ran."
Lucien stared at her. Long and hard. His expression was carved from stone. His jaw was tight enough to crack a tooth.
"I can kill them," he said in a low voice.
She blinked, startled. "What?"
He looked away, tone flat. "Talking to myself."
They reached the passage. He told her she could now pass through it freely. She didn't question. Just touched the vines and watched them part like obedient guards.
At the cottage, he paused at the door. Didn't open it immediately. Just looked back at her.
And wondered again how someone this gullible hadn't died yet.
Then he glanced down.
Right. The cats.
"I'll keep the door unlocked," he said. "In case you need to run again somewhere."
She didn't say anything. But her fingers twitched again near the strap of her satchel, and her eyes softened.
Just for a second.