A COURT OF CLAWS AND CHAOS (ENGLISH)

Lucien cooked stew—the only meal he could make on a whim. He tossed in boiled eggs and potatoes again, already sick of them. But it was simple. Familiar.

Emila had used his bathroom and emerged sheepish, mentioning she'd used his soap to wash her clothes. He barely looked up, just waved a hand and told her she could hang them on the lines out back.

Now she sat in front of the unlit fireplace, her legs folded under her, rummaging through her bag. Her miserable old rucksack was nowhere in sight. Maybe she'd traded it for pebbles. He wouldn't be surprised.

She pulled out a new quill, some wrinkled parchment, and her coin pouch. Lucien wiped down the table, glancing her way now and then, never too obvious, never too long. She was scribbling something, Beans perched behind her, occasionally swatting at her still-damp hair. He caught the scent of mint on her again. His shampoo. Of course it was.

He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, watching the stew bubble and questioning his life choices again.

Why was there a strange girl in his house?

Why was he feeding her? Why did he invite her back?

Why did the sight of her sitting there, focused and frowning, feel… normal?

He looked away. Then looked back.

She hunched over her parchment, lips pursed in concentration, and then, mid-sentence, switched hands.

Lucien's brow lifted. "You can write with both hands?"

Em looked up, a little startled. She blinked at him, as though she hadn't expected him to notice. Then she shrugged and held out her right hand, palm up.

"Oh, you know. I hurt this one," she said lightly.

A long, ugly scar slashed across her palm like a cruel smile. The skin was puckered and faintly pink. Old. Deep. Badly stitched. Not an accident. Not something gentle.

"Couldn't use it for months," she continued, breezy. "So I trained the other one. Or else, no food, no bed." She laughed a little, like it was a joke she'd told herself so many times it didn't sound cruel anymore.

Lucien didn't laugh.

Before he knew it, he was moving. He took her hand gently. She didn't pull away, just watched him. Her other hand twitched.

He turned her palm over. His thumb hovered near the scar but didn't touch it.

"This wasn't self-inflicted," he murmured.

Her smile slipped. She pulled her hand back slowly.

"It's fine," she said. "Just people who had no patience for a girl who couldn't spell, read and count properly. It bled a lot. Hurt like the pits of the gods. But I healed. That's what matters, right?" She wiggled her fingers, trying for humor. "Now I can use both hands. Amazing, right?"

No, he thought. Not amazing.

It was cruel. Unforgivable. And yet she sat there like it was nothing. 

He didn't say anything. Just leaned back slowly, eyes a little darker than before.

She was scarred.

So was I.

The stew gurgled. Lucien turned back to the table, silent, and added more meat to the bowls on the floor for the cats.

Emila crouched down, parchment in hand, blowing on the stew to cool it, fanning it with paper. Like this was something she'd done a hundred times. The cats waited, watching her, loyal and patient.

"Where'd you find them?" he asked.

"Goldie stole my bread. I was… maybe fifteen?" she said. "'Sitting on some broken wall. She ran off with it. I chased her into an alley and ended up on some tavern roof. She hissed. I cursed. She ran."

He snorted. "A classic love story."

She grinned. "I slept there. Next morning, Beans was beside me. Dropped the same bread near my face. Half-eaten. Probably slobbered on."

"You ate it?"

"Beggars can't be choosers, Lucien."

Lucien's lips twitched. There was something soft in his chest, blooming slowly and stupidly.

"They've been with me since," she said. "Even when I had nothing. Especially then."

She stood up—and smacked her head against the table.

Lucien jolted, and hot stew sloshed onto his lap. It burned.

"Fantastic," he grunted. "As if one scar is not enough."

"Sorry! So sorry!" She darted to a drawer, grabbed a cloth, and tried to dab at his shirt. Her fingers brushed his skin. Close. Too close.

He stood quickly. Tensed. "Eat now."

He took the cloth from her, stilling when he noticed both cats watching him like tiny guards.

"What?" he muttered. "I'm not doing anything."

The cats didn't move. Their ears were flat, alert.

Lucien threw up his hands. "Now I'm being threatened by cats in my own house."

He walked off, grumbling, but not too far.

 ------------

Emila couldn't sleep. Not with the soft bed beneath her, the sturdy walls of the cottage wrapped around her, the satisfying weight of food in her belly, and definitely not with Lucien's quiet presence only a few steps away.

The pillows under her sank as she rolled onto her side, facing the hearth. The fire crackled gently, casting shadows on the stone. Her satchel sat beside it, still smelling faintly of onions and now heavy with gold. Goldie had abandoned her, curled up on Lucien's chest, claiming him again. Beans was a warm, purring lump under her blanket. Unmovable. Far too heavy.

Lucien's bed creaked when he turned. Maybe he couldn't sleep either.

"Did you really go to the guild today?" she asked into the dark. The pouch had ten gold coins. Too much. Her report wasn't even worth one gold. "You met the moustached turnip?"

"Yes," he said. "We had a heartfelt conversation. He cried in the end."

He definitely threatened the poor scarecrow. Probably squeezed the gold out of him with that faelord menace. She shook her head. Sadistic.

"You're not going back there, right?"

"I won't return to a place where I'm not welcome."

Bitterness edged her voice before she caught it and smoothed it over. She cleared her throat. "I have a question."

A beat. Then, gruffly, "Don't you always?"

"Don't worry, I'm not selling this to anyone," she said. She cleared her throat. "You're immortal, right?"

"Yes."

"But also not killable."

"…Correct."

She hummed. "So what if no one kills you? No swords, no arrows, no freak incidents? What then?"

Silence.

"You just… live?" she continued. "Forever? Watching trees grow and rot? Birds die? The world change?"

"That's usually what forever means," he muttered.

"Won't you get bored?"

A pause.

"Maybe," he said. "But boredom is safer than extinction."

That didn't sound like someone who wanted forever. Em tucked that thought away.

She yawned. "That's why faes are wealthy. You don't die. You have unlimited time to dig gold and stuff. Honestly, if I'm alive for a hundred years and I'm still an alley rat, I'll find a poisonous mushroom and bite it myself."

He chuckled at that.

"Do you get old, Lucien?"

"No."

She squinted at him in the dark. He was lying on his back, one arm under his head, probably staring at the ceiling. "So you'll stay like that? Pretty face and all?"

Lucien snorted.

"Must be nice. No wrinkles, no grey hair, no saggy skin. Okay. One more question."

"I'll regret this, won't I?"

"How many wives do you have?"

A beat of silence. Then: "What? "

"Wives. Lovers. Hidden illegitimate heirs?"

He made a strangled noise. Goldie chirped, disturbed by the drama.

"Wives?" Lucien repeated, scandalized.

Em grinned. "You're old . I wouldn't be surprised if you have grandkids running around somewhere."

"Oh gods." A low groan escaped as his fingers scraped through his hair. "Now I'm a grandfather?"

"Could be worse," she offered. "You could be a boring one. At least you have scars and a fancy eye."

He sighed, long, deep, dramatic. Goldie smacked her tail against his ribs in annoyance.

"I have no wives. No heirs. And definitely no little fae grandspawn terrorizing the realms."

Then, softer: "I wouldn't mind a family. One day. If it was… the right person."

That made her pause. She tried to imagine Lucien with a family—elegant, fae, probably glowing. Should she doodle it?

"So that means faes like you do fall in love."

"…What makes you think we don't?"

She shrugged, inspecting her nails like this wasn't suddenly the most interesting conversation she's ever started.

"I thought falling in love was a human thing. For the ones with the weaker heart."

Lucien snorted. "You're saying love is a weakness? That's… tragic."

"It's called observation." She huffed, then added in an airier tone, "So… do you make babies under the moonlight?"

"Emila—"

She flinched. Goldie hissed. Beans stirred. The fire popped softly. Somewhere outside, an owl hooted.

Emila.

It was the first time he'd said her name. Not "sniveling raccoon." Not "human."

Emila.

She smiled, helplessly.

"I'm just curious!" she said quickly. "Your ways and culture are hidden from ours. All we hear are rumors, fairy tales, whispers. You can't blame me for asking things. For all we know, you bathe in human blood or eat human flesh with salt and pepper."

From the bed, Lucien groaned, sat up, and buried his face in his palm. He muttered something about his sanity. Then he tossed off his blanket and padded to the kitchen. With a flick of his hand, he lit the hearth and one small candle. He brewed tea.

"I don't like tea," she said.

"Who says it's for you?" he grumbled, already pulling down two mugs. "And for the love of Cauldrons, stop listening to those ridiculous whispers."

"Hm. So no moonlight making, then."

"No moonlight making. We make babies like humans. In bed. Properly." He poured the tea with solemn dignity. 

"Are you sure you don't have… wrinkles somewhere?"

Lucien blinked. Stared at her like he was mentally setting fire to the entire known universe.

"…Do I—?" he echoed.

"Wrinkles. Age lines. You could have at least one. Or two. I mean you have scars. Which means your skin is not untouchable."

He narrowed his eyes. "Want me to strip so you can check for yourself?"

Her mouth opened. Then clamped shut again. "No. I politely decline."

"Good. Any more questions, my curious human?"

Her tongue itched with at least ten. Like: his scar—how did he get it? His mechanical eye—what does it see? Can he control it? Why is he tucked away in this simple cottage instead of wherever faes are supposed to reside?

But instead, she said, "No. No more." For now.

"Now please, for the love of Mother, shut those eyes and sleep."

She smirked and turned onto her side, stroking Beans' fur. Her nightly prayer tumbled out before she could stop it: Please stay. Don't leave me.

Then, softly, to him: "'Night, Lucien. See your face tomorrow."

From the dimly lit kitchen, his frown deepened. The soft glow from the candle and hearth softened his features, his scar, making his hair shimmer gold. His gaze lingered on her, the mechanical eye steady. He sighed, and the frown slipped away.

"'Night," he grumbled, then looked away.

 --------------

Later, when she had drifted into sleep with Beans curled at her neck and Goldie sprawled across her feet like a golden sentinel, Lucien stood by the hearth, feeding it a few fresh logs. The fire crackled low, steady, as if it, too, was careful not to wake her.

He draped the blanket over her again, slow and careful, his movements softened by something unspoken. For a moment, he simply stood there, watching the way her face relaxed in slumber, how her chest rose and fell in a rhythm not yet burdened by waking.

Lucien huffed a breath, soft through his nose.

"So… do you make babies under the moonlight? "

Gods, she was ridiculous.

He should be used to her questions by now, the strange ones, the curious ones, the ones that made no sense until they cut a little too close. But they always lingered. And that other question. The one she asked so casually it nearly made him forget how much it revealed.

"I thought falling in love was a human thing. For the ones with the weaker heart."

Lucien's smile faded, replaced by something quieter. If she truly believed that… then someone had taught her wrong. Or worse, no one ever bothered to teach her at all.

Before he went back to bed, he left a new bar of soap on the bathroom shelf, a new towel beside his. He slipped beneath his own sheets but his eyes were on hers. One last glance.

She shifted in her sleep, murmuring something incoherent. One hand flopped over her stomach, the other curled loosely near her head, palm open, the scar stretched across her wrist. Old. But still there.

He wondered when the crying stopped.

When the hurting began to dull.

Because his own scars hadn't. Not the one across his face—that was easy, almost forgettable now—but the one buried deep inside. The kind that didn't bleed, didn't fade, and didn't heal.

Not with tea. 

Not with time.