The smell of blood lingers as the blade cuts across Lucien’s face, warm and sharp.

  He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t flinch. Pain is nothing. The fight is everything.

  His opponent hesitates. Big mistake.

  Lucien moves—fast, precise, a predator closing in. He can already see it—the opening, the inevitable end—

  Then, he sees him.

  Adrien Valmont.

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  Perched above the hall, dark eyes locked onto him his obsidian hair reflecting the orange hue of the setting sun, one hand resting lazily against his chin. Not bored. Not amused. Just watching.

  Lucien’s breath hitches. His grip tightens—too tight.

  A blade comes for him.

  He barely twists away in time, steel kissing the fabric of his sleeve. His balance shifts—wrong. Off.

  "Eyes on me, Moreau."

  His opponent’s voice drags him back, smug and taunting.

  Lucien’s jaw clenches. His heart slams against his ribs, half from the fight, half from—no. Not now.

  He strikes. Hard. Fast. Final.

  The blade clatters to the ground. His opponent stumbles. The match is over.

  Lucien should feel triumphant. He doesn’t.

  He exhales, wipes the sweat from his brow. Forces himself not to look up.

  And fails.

  Adrien is still watching. Still unreadable but a slight grin playing on his lip.

  Lucien thought to himself how can a man's lip be as red as a rose and as gentle jam he scowls at the tought and turns away, but the damage is done.

  Adrien Valmont saw him falter.

  And Lucien hates him for it.