CHAPTER 25: THE BAKERY OF NO RETURN

[Lucien’s Goose Feather Warehouse — Midday]

Lucien stood before the smoldering ruins of his beloved warehouse.

The air was thick with soot and betrayal. Smoke curled like mourning veils into the sky. Charred beams leaned like drunkards, and what once held rows of imported, artisanally-dyed goose feathers now looked like a graveyard for overcooked pillows.

Lucien didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, eyes wide, mouth slightly open in abject horror, like a man watching his favorite opera get rewritten into a budget puppet show.

Marcel hovered at his side, eyes watering—not from grief, but from the ash clinging to the air.

"It’s... it’s burnt," Marcel said, almost reverently. "Completely."

Silence.

Lucien slowly—ever so slowly—lifted a trembling hand to his forehead like a maiden struck by scandal.

And then—

He swayed.

"MY LORD!" Marcel yelped, lurching forward just in time to catch him. "My lord—are you... are you alright?!"

Lucien’s face turned toward him, deathly pale, lips parted like he was about to whisper his last words to the wind.

"I am dying..." he whispered hoarsely. "I. AM. FUCKING. DYING!"

Marcel blinked, eyes wide.

Lucien grabbed his shoulders with the strength of a man possessed. "Do you understand what this means, Marcel?! My pastel dusk collection—GONE! My seasonal winter fluff series—ASHES! My limited-edition feather swan fans, curated by blind monks in the East—VAPORIZED!"

He collapsed forward again, thudding dramatically against Marcel’s chest like a tragic prince in the third act.

Marcel staggered. "Please don’t die on me, my lord. I already had to handle the swan incident. I don’t think I can emotionally recover from your death and the inventory loss in the same week!"

Lucien clutched his chest. "The lemon-mint-sorbet set... I was saving that for Wobblebean’s nursery. My child... my unborn child will now know only mediocrity!"

A nearby fire warden, who’d been respectfully trying not to breathe too loudly, finally dared to step forward. "We, um... we’ve completed the initial inspection, my lord."

Lucien turned slowly, eyes rimmed with soot and unhinged expectation. "And?"

The warden swallowed. "We... we still can’t determine the exact cause of the fire."

Lucien narrowed his eyes. "Speak plainly, good man. Was it arson? Was it sabotage? Was it a goose uprising?"

The warden winced. "Possibly... spontaneous combustion."

Lucien blinked. "Of what?"

The warden hesitated, then muttered, "Of... scented oils and... feather friction, sir."

Lucien slowly turned his head like a possessed doll in a horror story. "You’re telling me... my imperial-grade, aromatherapy-enhanced, hand-plucked goose feather archive... self-destructed because it smelled too good and got too cozy?"

The fire warden nodded miserably. "Feathers are... surprisingly volatile under the right conditions."

Then Lucien dropped to his knees in the soot, arms thrown wide to the heavens.

"WHY? WHY HAVE THE GODS TAKEN MY FEATHERS?! I OFFERED THEM SWAN-SHAPED SCONES! I DECORATED MY ALTAR!"

Marcel knelt beside him, gripping his hand tightly. "We’ll rebuild, my lord. I promise. We’ll order new fluff. We’ll—"

"IT’S NOT JUST FLUFF, MARCEL. IT’S LEGACY! IT’S TEXTURE!" Lucien wailed, sobbing into a scorched sequin that fluttered down like a sad snowflake.

Just then, a single, half-burnt lavender feather drifted down from the sky—like a fragile snowflake of grief.

Lucien caught it.

He stared at it as if it were a fallen angel, cradling it with reverence.

Then, hoarsely, he whispered, "This is how it ends, Marcel. Not with a sword. Not with betrayal. But with friction-induced arson."

But then—something shifted.

A prickling at the nape of the neck. That ancient instinct, the one that whispered you are being watched.

Marcel blinked and turned sharply.

Beyond the charred skeleton of the warehouse, past the hedge-lined fences, something flickered in the corner of his eye. A figure. A shadow.

Gone in a heartbeat.

He straightened, eyes narrowing. "I swear... someone’s watching us."

Lucien, still pale and vaguely vibrating with grief, deadpanned, "Maybe it’s the ghost of my feathers. Come to haunt me for mistreating the lavender oils."

Marcel ignored him and took a few cautious steps toward the edge of the debris. He scanned the horizon—left, right, even into the hedges.

Nothing.

No sign of life.

Just heat, smoke, and silence.

He frowned and muttered, "Did I imagine that...?"

"Let’s go, Marcel," Lucien called out, his voice hollow and brittle as burnt parchment.

Marcel turned. Lucien was already walking—no, drifting—out of the warehouse grounds like a finely dressed zombie.

"Where are we going, my lord?" Marcel asked, hurrying after him.

Lucien didn’t look back. "I need juice," he said, his voice heavy with existential despair. "A cold-pressed melon-lime medley. With a hint of suffering."

And with that, he vanished down the garden path like a grief-stricken aristocrat in search of citrus therapy—Marcel faithfully trailing behind.

Behind them, the last of the ash swirled in the breeze. And somewhere, in the distance, unseen eyes kept watching.

***

[Imperial Palace — Meeting Room, Just Moments After]

Silas stood up, the legs scraping against the marble with the sound of finality. He was ready to leave, coat billowing, jaw set, his aura screaming, "I have better things to do than entertain royal banter."

But then—

"By the way..." Adrien drawled, far too casually.

Silas paused mid-step, sharp crimson eyes flicking toward the emperor.

Adrien leaned back with the grace of a cat stretching before pouncing. "There’s a little rumor going around," he said lightly, swirling the untouched tea in his cup. "About you."

Silas frowned. "What kind of rumor?"

The emperor gave a long, theatrical pause, clearly enjoying himself. Then: "That Baron Lucien d’Armoire has been staying at your estate. For over a month."

Elize stiffened beside Silas like a guard caught sleeping at her post. Her eyes darted to Silas, silently wondering what he would say.

But Silas only narrowed his eyes.

Adrien tilted his head, his smirk growing wider. "Funny, isn’t it? The Grand Duke, sheltering a lowly baron... It makes one wonder."

He tapped his chin thoughtfully, his expression gleaming with royal mischief. "What is the Grand Duke hiding?"

Silas didn’t blink. "That’s none of your concern."

He said it like the final slash of a sword.

Then, ignoring Adrein entirely, Silas turned on his heel and strode toward the doors with the force of a departing storm cloud.

Adrein twitched—just slightly—as if physically insulted by the dismissal. His jaw twitched. "This bastard..." he muttered under his breath.

Elize dipped her head with strained diplomacy and quickly followed after Silas.

But they didn’t make it far.

Before they even reached the corridor, a loud, frantic voice rang down the hallway like a herald with bad news and worse cardio.

"MY LORD—!!"

Elize blinked. "Is that... Damon?"

Silas turned just as Damon, one of their knights, came sprinting toward them like the palace was under siege. His armor clanked. His boots skidded. His face was a portrait of panic.

"What’s the matter?" Silas’s voice turned sharp.

"LORD LUCIEN!" Damon cried. "He’s left the estate! No guards! No knights! Just—just his butler and drama!"

Elize’s stomach dropped.

Silas went still.

Then his entire face shifted—ice sharpening into a blade. His voice lowered to a single, vibrating curse:

"...Fuck."

Without another word, he turned and dashed down the hall. His coat snapped behind him like a battle flag.

Elize and Damon immediately followed, sprinting after him as though the world was on fire—which, given Lucien’s tendency to attract disaster, wasn’t entirely off-base.

Back in the meeting room, Adrein stood in the sudden silence, blinking.

"...He just ran?" the emperor muttered. "For a baron?"

Then, as a slow, knowing smirk curled his lips, he turned to his butler and said coolly,"Find out everything about Baron Lucien d’Armoire. Everything."

The butler bowed. "At once, Your Majesty."

Adrein hummed. "Let’s see what’s so special about this baron that he can make the Grand Duke Silas sprint like a man possessed."

***

[A Nearby Park—Late Afternoon]

Lucien sat under a lemon tree, clutching his now-empty melon juice like it was the last shred of hope left in the world.

The juice was gone.The trauma remained.

He stared into the distance with hollow eyes, the way war heroes did in tragic plays. Birds chirped. Somewhere, a squirrel dropped a nut. Lucien didn’t blink.

Marcel stood a few steps away, still fidgeting, still glancing over his shoulder every few seconds. That feeling hadn’t left him—that prickling itch of eyes on the back of his neck.

Someone was watching them.

"Marcel..." Lucien murmured suddenly, still gazing at absolutely nothing.

"I want to eat something. Something joyful. Comforting. Something that says ’life may have incinerated your dreams, but here—have a tart.’"

He gently patted his stomach. "For me. And for Wobblebean."

Marcel blinked. "Wobble...bean?"

Lucien rolled his eyes. "My child, Marcel."

"Oh. Right. Of course."

Lucien’s voice darkened, his eyes glinting with dangerous hunger.

"Bring me something sweet. Something decadent. Something that tastes like hope if it were baked at 180°C."

"Of course," Marcel said without missing a beat. "Let’s... go back to the estate and I’ll have Chef prepare—"

Lucien’s gaze snapped to him.

"I want it right now, Marcel."

Marcel stiffened. "Y-yes, my lord! Absolutely. Immediately. On the double!"

Lucien gave a regal nod, as if he’d just ordered the invasion of a small country. "Good. My emotional balance depends on it."

Marcel hesitated. He really didn’t want to leave him alone, not like this. The shadowy feeling from earlier still clung to his skin like static.

"My lord... please. Don’t wander. Just... stay here. Under this tree. I’ll be back before the juice in your veins has time to settle."

Lucien waved him off with the grace of a mourning widow. "Go. Save Wobblebean."

Marcel dashed away, muttering under his breath,

"Should’ve brought a knight. Should’ve brought ten. Should’ve brought a bloody platoon."

***

[Moments Later...]

Lucien sat slouched under the lemon tree, now looked like a tragic poet who had just realized his muse was actually a tax collector.

His head tilted lazily, cheeks pale.

"Ughh... Marcel is taking forever," he groaned, voice hoarse. "Did he go to buy a tart or open a bakery himself?"

He placed a hand dramatically on his stomach. "I am dying of hunger."

A slow sigh escaped his lips. He sat upright, squinting into the distance... and then spotted it.

A quaint little bakery at the end of the road.

Lucien blinked. "Wait... isn’t that the same bakery Silas and I went to investigate? The one where I... dozed off."

He looked left. Looked right.

The wind rustled. A butterfly passed by like it was judging his every life choice.

"Well," Lucien mumbled, standing up with aristocratic resolve. "If Marcel won’t bring pastries to me, I shall descend nobly and acquire them myself."

With the elegance of a starving swan, he marched toward the shop, muttering, "Cake shall be mine. I can’t wait. I shan’t wait. Waiting is peasant behaviour."

The brass bell above the bakery door chimed softly as Lucien entered.

He paused.

Something was... wrong.

The inside was dim. Silent. Cold.

No scent of sugar. No warm trays. No giddy customers elbowing each other over the last cinnamon bun.

"Hello?" Lucien called, frowning slightly. "Is this bakery closed?"

He peeked behind the counter.

No one.

The ovens sat cold.

Flour dust shimmered faintly in a sunbeam like ghost powder.

Lucien blinked and turned to leave—when a voice spoke from behind him. "I’ve been waiting for you... my lord."

Lucien froze and turned around, but before he could see the speaker—

THUD.

Pain exploded behind his eyes. The world spun. Light shattered.

Then... black.