Chapter 12: Chapter 11: The Invitation To The Capital

The scent of chamomile and orange peel drifted through the workshop, mingling with the lingering aromas of valerian, dried lavender, and iron-brewed herbs.

The cauldron had been set aside, her potions covered and cooling, and now Mira stood by the small hearth in the corner, pouring hot water into three earthen cups.

The steam curled upward, slow and lazy in the morning light.

No one spoke yet.

Garron leaned against the wooden wall near the doorway, arms crossed, saying nothing but watching everything.

Cassian remained by the window, his back straight, gaze politely elsewhere.

Lucien sat at the edge of the workbench stool, one hand resting on his knee, the other relaxed against the scarred surface of the table.

He hadn’t removed his cloak yet, though the warmth inside was steadily climbing.

Mira moved calmly, deliberately—her presence composed, but not cold.

Her braid was starting to loosen from the damp, strands clinging to the curve of her neck as she carried the tray toward them.

“I hope you don’t mind tea,” she said at last, setting it down. “I wasn’t exactly prepared for royalty.”

Lucien looked up. The corners of his mouth curved slightly. “I’m not here as royalty,” he said. “And tea sounds perfect.”

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Their eyes met briefly as she handed him the cup.

There was a silence that followed—not heavy, but delicate. Balanced.

Like the moment between an inhale and an exhale.

Mira sat across from him, cradling her own cup, fingers wrapped around the ceramic as if anchoring herself in the now.

The tension wasn’t tension—not exactly.

It was awareness. Unspoken, undeniable. As if the space between them remembered something their minds had not yet caught up with.

Lucien took a sip. “It’s good,” he said quietly. “So is the quiet.”

“That’s why I come here,” Mira replied. “The village sleeps lighter. But here—things have room to breathe.”

Her voice was softer than earlier.

Not out of caution, but clarity.

Lucien nodded once, and for a moment, it was just tea, wood, and the sound of the wind threading through the ivy outside.

Then he set the cup down gently and looked at her.

Not just a glance.

Not curiosity.

But that deep, quiet kind of looking that asked for nothing—and yet revealed everything.

The unspeakable feeling stirred again, stronger now. Not dramatic, not sudden. Just there.

Like warmth spreading from the center of his chest outward, brushing the edges of a part of him he hadn’t known was cold until now.

Lucien didn't understand it—how a person he’d met only once could feel like this.

Familiar.

Important.

Like something long-awaited.

He searched her face quietly, hoping—no, needing—to know if she felt it too.

Mira didn’t look away. Her fingers still curled gently around the tea, her expression unreadable at first. Calm. Composed.

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But then he saw it.

That soft flicker in her eyes—just for a breath. A shift, like the air between them had changed.

Recognition.

As if something in her had felt it. Was feeling it still.

She blinked once, slowly, and lowered her gaze to her cup—more to collect herself than to retreat.

The silence that followed was different.

No longer delicate, no longer waiting.

It was full now. Intimate. Unshaken.

And Mira, voice quiet but steady, finally said, “What can I do for you, Your Highness?"

Lucien held her gaze a moment longer, then glanced down, exhaling softly through his nose.

“I’m not sure yet,” he admitted, his voice low—not evasive, but honest. “That’s the truth.”

He looked back up.

“But I knew I had to see you. It wasn’t just gratitude that brought me here.”

Garron shifted slightly at the door, but didn’t interrupt.

Cassian remained still, unreadable, but alert.

Mira didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her silence was permission—an invitation for him to go on.

Lucien shifted slightly on the stool, cloak whispering against the bench as he leaned forward, forearms on his knees.

The light caught the edge of his profile—sharp lines softened by the quiet, and the rare, bare openness in his expression.

He studied the rim of his cup for a moment, then lifted his gaze to Mira once more—slowly, steadily. His voice, when it came, was softer than before. Almost tentative.

“Do you believe in fate?”

Mira blinked—not because she didn’t understand the question, but because she did.

More than she wanted to.

After all, she had been reincarnated into this world—and had even stood before the goddess, Aris. If that wasn’t fate, what else could it be?

She held his gaze, eyes narrowing slightly—not with suspicion, but with thought. Her fingers flexed lightly around the warmth of her cup.

“I don’t know,” she said after a beat. “It’s easy to say yes when something good happens. Easy to curse it when it doesn’t.”

Lucien gave a small nod. “Fair enough.”

The pause stretched, quiet but not empty.

He studied her again—not with scrutiny, but with curiosity laced with something deeper.

“What’s your plan, then?” he asked. “For the future.”

Mira raised an eyebrow slightly at the question—not because it surprised her, but because few ever asked without already having an expectation behind it.

She took her time answering, eyes drifting briefly to the window where sunlight danced through the ivy.

“I haven’t decided,” she said. “There’s always something that needs doing—someone to help, a potion to make, a roof that leaks.”

Lucien tilted his head. “That’s not really a plan.”

Mira gave a faint smile, a flicker of dry amusement in her eyes. “No. It’s not.”

She took another sip of tea before setting the cup down with a soft clink.

“I was born and raised here. The town knows me. Needs me. That’s enough, most days.”

Lucien watched her, thoughtful.

“But you do know how powerful you are… don’t you?”

His voice wasn’t accusing. It was quiet—gentle. Not asking for pride, but for honesty.

Mira didn’t answer right away. She glanced toward Garron, still leaning against the doorway, arms folded, silent as ever. Then back to Lucien.

“My father is a guildmaster,” she said at last, calm and even. “He taught me well.”

Lucien’s lips curved faintly. “I don’t doubt that.”

“I’ve always known,” she added, gaze steady. “But knowing and chasing aren’t the same thing. I’m not aiming to be great.”

“You already are,” Lucien said.

It wasn’t flattery. There was no flourish in his voice—just quiet certainty.

Mira didn’t look away, but her hands tightened slightly around her cup, anchoring herself in the warmth between them.

“And what,” she asked softly, “does someone like you want from someone like me?”

Lucien hesitated, rolling the last of his tea between his palms. Then he looked up again, something heavier behind his eyes.

“There’s something I’ve been thinking since last night,” he said. “And more so now.”

Mira arched a brow, curious. “What is it?”

He met her gaze. “You shouldn’t be hidden away in a place like this.”

His words weren’t harsh. They came with care—measured, almost uncertain. As if he wasn’t sure he had the right to say them.

Mira tilted her head. “Is that what you think this town is? A place to hide?”

Lucien shook his head gently. “No… not hiding. But still—” He paused, searching for the right shape of his thought. “You’re not just strong. There’s something about you that draws things in. Like gravity. Or a flame. It’s too much to be kept here.”

Mira didn’t respond right away. Her gaze dropped to the rippling surface of her tea.

Lucien continued, his voice softening. “You could come to the capital. Learn more. Be surrounded by people who understand what you’re capable of. Work with the best. You could be… more.”

A quiet settled between them.

Not tension. Not yet.

But something like a fragile line, stretched and waiting.

Mira’s mouth lifted faintly. A smile—but not a cheerful one. “I don’t need to be more.”

Lucien blinked, unsure.

She raised her eyes again, calm and composed—but something deeper stirred beneath the surface.

“I already know what I can do. I know where I belong. Here. With my family. In this town.”

Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t defend. It simply stated the truth.

Lucien opened his mouth, then stopped. Because he heard it. Felt it. The certainty in her tone.

Then, after a breath, she added—quieter, more vulnerable, “I’ve known I was different since I was a child. That’s exactly why I should never go to the capital.”

Lucien’s brows knit slightly. “Why?”

She glanced toward the open door. The ivy shifted gently in the wind. Sunlight poured through in golden streaks.

“Because I don’t want to be somebody else’s bargaining chip,” she said. “Or a weapon for the crown.”

She turned back to him. Her voice didn’t waver, but there was something raw beneath the surface now.

“I’ve read enough history books to know what happens when someone powerful gets pulled into politics. It never ends well.”

Lucien’s expression softened—something like understanding blooming behind his eyes.

And then… something more.

Admiration. Regret. Maybe even guilt.

He didn’t speak.

Not yet.

Because, for the first time in a long while… he couldn’t find the words...