Chapter 11: Warmth in the Rain

A sharp knock echoed against the blacksmith’s door, just as the last of the tea cooled in their cups.

Lucien blinked out of his thoughts, the haze of quiet awe dissolving as the door creaked open and a familiar, gruff voice called in from outside.

“Master Lucien?”

Came Richardson’s voice, just above the rainfall. 

“Are you inside?”

Lucien stood and stepped to the door, cracking it open just enough to see the outline of the old butler and Terrin, the gardener, both cloaked and dripping under a shared oilskin tarp. 

Behind them, the carriage waited with its lanterns swinging slightly, horses pawing uneasily at the wet ground.

“We thought we’d fetch you before the storm tried to sweep the whole district away,” 

Richardson said dryly, water streaming down the brim of his hat.

Terrin gave a nod, then straightened at the sight of Lady Vaelira behind Lucien. 

“Ah. Lady Aetherveil,” he said respectfully, giving a small bow. 

“Forgive my manners. Didn’t realize Master Lucien had company.”

“I wouldn’t call it company,” Vaelira said, voice calm and cool as ever. 

“Merely an unexpected meeting.”

Richardson, ever the diplomat, glanced at the sky. 

“Regardless, the rain’s only getting worse, my lady. If it pleases you, the carriage has room, and we can offer you dry passage. I would not recommend riding out in this alone.”

Vaelira regarded the storm for a moment through the door’s narrow slit, then gave a simple nod. 

“Very well.”

With that, Richardson and Terrin climbed up onto the front bench beside the driver, huddled beneath the cover. 

Lucien opened the door for Vaelira, who stepped up into the carriage with practiced grace, only the faintest clink of her boots hitting the step. 

Lucien followed, shutting the door behind them as the driver snapped the reins.

The wheels churned through puddles and mud, and the familiar rocking motion of the carriage settled around them like a wet cloak.

For a moment, there was only silence—the rhythmic clatter of hooves against cobblestone, the pitter-patter of rain above, the occasional creak of the carriage’s suspension.

Then Vaelira, glancing at him from across the plush seat, said, “You don’t seem like a noble.”

Lucien chuckled. 

“Is it that obvious?”

She raised a brow.

“Well,” he said, smirking softly, “I guess I don’t really look the part. But you definitely do.”

There was a brief pause. 

Her violet eyes flickered—something unreadable beneath them—as she turned her head and looked out the fogged window.

“…Thank you,” she said, but there was something in her tone—detached, restrained.

Lucien opened his mouth to say something, but held back.

The ride grew increasingly bumpy as they left the cobbled main road and began the winding climb up the hill toward the D’Claire estate. 

The rainfall had doubled, sheets of water coming down in thick waves, the storm now a full-blown tempest.

By the time the carriage finally rolled past the wrought-iron gates and crunched onto the gravel drive of the estate, it looked as though the world was drowning. 

The trees leaned under the force of the wind, and the torches along the drive flickered wildly.

“Get inside quickly!” 

Richardson called down as he leapt from the bench and pulled open the carriage door, his umbrella nearly folding in the wind.

Lucien helped Vaelira down carefully, shielding her with his cloak as best he could. 

The four of them dashed into the manor’s grand foyer, water pooling on the tile floor beneath their boots.

“I suggest, my lady,” Richardson said as he pulled off his soaked coat and hung it by the door, “that you stay the night. At least until the worst of it passes. I will have a message sent to House Aetherveil to assure them of your safety.”

Vaelira wrung some water from her long coat and turned to him. 

“It would be reckless to send a messenger out in this. The roads are already starting to flood.”

Richardson bowed. 

“As you say. Then we shall not.”

He glanced at Lucien briefly—an unreadable flicker of something in the butler’s eyes—then excused himself to see that rooms were prepared.

Terrin gave Lucien a wide-eyed look behind Richardson’s back as he followed after him, mouthing ‘what the hell is happening?’ before vanishing around the corner.

And just like that, they were alone.

Lucien turned to Vaelira.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth behind them. 

Outside, the storm screamed against the windows.

She removed her gloves slowly, calmly, without looking at him.

“So…” 

Lucien said, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Welcome to House D’Claire.”

***

The firelight danced across the ornate sitting room, casting warm gold hues over the old wooden walls and worn tapestries. 

The sound of the rain muffled slightly against the thick stone and stained-glass windows, but the storm’s presence still loomed outside, like a great beast pacing restlessly.

Lucien leaned forward, elbows on knees, as Vaelira took the armchair across from him. 

She had shed her outer cloak, letting her long violet hair fall in silky waves over her shoulder. 

Her posture remained straight, but not stiff—elegant, as always, but not unfriendly.

She glanced around the room, eyes briefly trailing over the oil portraits hung above the fireplace—former D’Claire lords and ladies staring out from gilded frames.

“So this is House D’Claire,” she said at last, her voice low but certain. 

“That would make you Lucien Crowley. The last of the bloodline.”

Lucien nodded. 

“I suppose so.”

He then tilted his head slightly. 

“But I never did catch your name.”

She gave a faint, almost amused exhale. 

“Vaelira Nyx Aetherveil. Heir to House Aetherveil… and perhaps the first of my bloodline to set foot here since my grandfather’s time.”

Lucien blinked. “Your grandfather? What do you mean?”

Vaelira’s gaze drifted toward the rain-pattered window. 

“My grandfather was… eccentric,” she said, choosing the word carefully. 

“A recluse by the end. Obsessed with hybridization. He spent the latter part of his life trying to create what he believed would be the perfect fruit.”

Lucien blinked. 

“You’re talking about the Aetherveil Red?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. 

“I see you’ve heard the name.”

“I thought it was just a brand—didn’t realize it was that personal.”

“Very personal,” Vaelira said, folding one leg over the other. 

“My grandfather used the lands of this estate to create it. You see, the Aetherveil orchards refused him. They called him mad, said he was wasting our name on fruit when he should be focused on nobility and legacy.” 

She paused, then added with something like reverence, “Your mother was the only one who ever showed him kindness.”

Lucien straightened a little. 

“…My mother?”

“She saw him for what he was. Brilliant. A little broken, yes, but visionary.” 

Vaelira’s voice was distant now, thoughtful.

“She gave him permission to work on the edge of the D’Claire orchards. Trusted him when no one else did. And it was that trust that made the Aetherveil Red possible. A hybrid line that resisted rot, blight, and frost—a fruit that could survive nearly anything.”

Lucien’s brows furrowed. 

“If anyone deserves the credit, it’s the man who created it.”

Vaelira looked at him now, her violet eyes glimmering in the firelight. 

“No,” she said softly. 

“It belongs to both. The inventor and the one who believed in him. The seed of an idea needs fertile ground. Without your mother, there wouldn’t have been a legacy for him to build on.”

Lucien looked away, that familiar ache stirring in his chest—one part guilt, one part longing. 

“I… didn’t know she was involved in something like that.”

“Few do,” Vaelira said, her tone gentle now. 

“But it left an impression. At least on my family. Even if they’d never admit it.”

The two sat in quiet for a moment, the storm howling faintly behind the walls, their shared silence somehow comfortable.

Lucien chuckled under his breath. 

“Can’t believe all that came from apples.”

Vaelira’s smile returned, just faintly. 

“Apples can be more political than you think.”

“Noted.”

He met her gaze again. 

The way she looked at him now—it wasn’t as cold or calculating as the stories (or his sister’s dramatic commentary) had made her out to be. 

It was clear-eyed, quiet, and full of something hard to name.

But it wasn’t disdain.

If anything… it might have been understanding.

The fireplace crackled as the storm beat its furious rhythm against the windows. 

In the warm amber glow, Lucien leaned back slightly in his chair, arms folded, his expression thoughtful.

“I’m planning to revive the orchards,” he said at last, glancing out toward the darkened estate grounds. 

“They’ve been left to rot all these years, but some of the Aetherveil Reds survived. Enough to make a fresh start.”

Vaelira’s eyes flicked toward him, a faint glint of curiosity blooming. 

“You’re focusing on the Reds?”

Lucien nodded. 

“They’re resilient. Unique. And they already have a name people remember. It makes sense to build around them.”

She tapped a finger gently against her chin, considering. 

“They’re not particularly sweet, though. Too sharp for standard juice. But…” 

She tilted her head.

“They excel in fermentation. Aetherveil Reds were once the base of some of the finest hard ciders produced in the southern provinces.”

Lucien smiled slightly. 

“Hard cider was one of my ideas too.” 

He paused. 

“And pies.”

“Pies?” 

She echoed, raising a brow.

“The tanginess balances out the sweetness in the filling,” he explained. 

“And the texture’s firm enough to hold its shape when baked.”

For a moment, Vaelira was quiet. 

Then her lips tugged into a small, genuine smile. 

“That’s… not a bad idea.”

“Coming from you, I’ll take that as high praise.”

They shared a look, something light flickering between them—like embers refusing to go out.

Vaelira broke the moment first. 

“So, what’s with the sword then?”

Lucien blinked. 

“The sword?”

“You bought one. And judging from your grip earlier, you’re not exactly seasoned.”

Lucien chuckled sheepishly. 

“I’ll be enrolling in the Academy soon. Didn’t want to go in as a total bum.”

She lifted an elegant brow. 

“You could always take up magic,” she said, offhanded, then immediately backtracked. 

“Not that I’m saying you’re… not fit for a sword. I just meant… your talents might lie elsewhere.”

Lucien stared at her in mock awe. 

“Did… did Lady Vaelira Nyx Aetherveil just stumble on her words?”

Her expression didn’t crack, but her ears betrayed her—just a slight pink at the tips. 

“I was being considerate,” she said coolly.

“You were being awkward.”

“I was not.”

Lucien laughed, an actual laugh, light and real. 

“You totally were.”

Vaelira narrowed her eyes in mock disapproval. 

“Careful, Lord Crowley. You’ve only just started your training. And given your current performance, I’d say you’ll need a miracle to be half-decent before the term begins.”

He leaned back, one hand behind his head. 

“Well, if only I knew someone who was both terrifyingly skilled and knowledgeable with swords.”

She tilted her head. 

“If only,” she echoed.

Lucien grinned. 

“You know, you could teach me.”

And just like that—Vaelira fell silent.

Her expression didn’t change, but something in her gaze shifted. 

Not resistance… but contemplation. 

She didn’t scoff. 

Didn’t laugh it off. 

She just looked at him.

“…Well,” she began, but whatever thought was forming was interrupted by a sharp, polite knock at the door.

“My lord,” came the voice of a maid, muffled but clear. 

“I’ve brought breakfast. Shall I set it inside?”

Lucien blinked, the moment dispersing like mist. 

“Y-yeah. Please do.”

Vaelira rose with composed grace, smoothing the skirt of her travel-worn dress. 

“Looks like the storm wants us to stay a bit longer.”

Lucien chuckled as he stood. 

“Guess I’ll have to test how Aetherveil Reds hold up in jam, too.”

Vaelira gave him a side glance, the faintest quirk of amusement at her lips. 

“If you do, try not to burn down the kitchen.”

They stood there, side by side, waiting for the maid to enter—neither of them saying it aloud, but both aware that something between them had quietly shifted.

Something… beginning.

Author’s Note:

Hello Hello ( ^_^)／

Uh… so this chapter ended up being a little softer than I expected.

I guess Lucien and Vaelira kind of surprised me? They’re both guarded in their own ways, but something about the rain and the quiet just let them be for a bit.

Also, who knew apples would get so much lore? (〃´∀｀)

Thanks for reading—hope you liked the slow-burn vibes.

More soon. ( •̀ᴗ•́ )و ̑̑