Chill ran down his spine, rooting Lucien to the ground. Without a second thought, he turned at once and marched out of the library.
"Let's go," he ordered the guards.
Walking down the corridor, the hushed words he'd overheard replayed in his mind.
If his deduction was right, the cult planned to pit the Solairé and Zerounix fleets against each other once the peace negotiations in Estrine ended. To do so, one side would have to strike first, giving the other a reason to retaliate.
Considering the cult had already infiltrated his knights, there was no doubt they could have planted spies aboard the imperial ship as well.
Lucien halted in his tracks.
But what if this was all a setup?
What if the cult had a different goal entirely?
"What now?" one of the beasts growled in irritation.
Lucien resumed walking. "Nothing."
Whether the plan was real or not, he couldn't afford to stay here any longer. Tristan and Cyrus had to be warned before the war unfolded.
When Lucien reached the kitchen, the werewolves were busy. Some stirred bubbling pots while others chopped vegetables with a rapid, staccato beat. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and spices.
Before he could step inside, a bulky half-werewolf blocked his path, its slitted eyes pinning him in place.
"Do you need something?" it asked, voice gravelly.
Lucien's gaze flickered past the beast into the room before meeting its eyes again. "The food is bland. I've come to complain."
A tense silence rippled through the kitchen. Knives stopped mid-chop, spoons stilled in steaming pots.
His stomach churned. I've provoked them.
But there was no turning back.
One of the cooks—a scarred werewolf with a ladle in hand—bared its teeth. "You dare insult us?"
"No," Lucien said evenly. "But if you intend to keep me alive, you could at least feed me something worth eating."
The bulky figure shifted closer, towering over him. "Sharp tongue for someone without teeth to bite back."
Lucien tilted his head, sneering. "Then perhaps you should worry less about my tongue and more about whether I starve."
He slipped inside, stopping by the table near an oil jar. "Where's the salt?"
A clawed hand clamped onto his shoulder, spinning him to meet a bestial glare. "You think you can waltz in here and order us around?"
Though he wrapped his body with Aura, pain flared through his shoulder. Lucien's jaw tightened as he tried to pry the hand off, but the grip only sank deeper.
"I'm trying to make your food edible," he hissed through his teeth. "Doesn't your master want me to attend the sermon?"
The tension thickened. For a moment, he thought the beast might rip his arm clean out of its socket.
"Enough!" one of the guards barked, cutting through the standoff. "Orders are clear—he is not to be harmed."
The werewolf's grip tightened once more before shoving him backward. Lucien crashed into the oil jar, spilling the liquid across the floor. He stayed still, letting the oil seep into his cloak, eyes following the beast as it grabbed a heavy jar of salt and slammed it onto the counter.
The guard hauled him to his feet by the wrist—but before the cook could reach for a bowl, Lucien spoke.
"I want all of it."
The werewolf froze, leveling him with murderous eyes. Lucien held its gaze without blinking.
To purify the saltpeter in his room, he needed every last grain. The guards had to believe he was boiling nothing more than salt.
The pot was shoved into his chest hard enough to bruise. "Fine."
"What else?!" it snarled.
"I need water. And small jars. Plenty of them."
The beast answered with a guttural growl, snapping orders at its underling. Moments later, heavy pots of water and four clay jars thudded onto the counter.
"If you've got what you came for, then get out!" It struck a palm against the wood, rattling the table.
The corner of Lucien's lips tugged upward. "Fear not. I'll never set foot in this kitchen again."
He would escape this place soon enough anyway.
The beast's eyes narrowed. "See that you don't."
Lucien turned to the guards and jerked his chin toward the goods. With visible reluctance, they hefted them onto their shoulders. Upon crossing the threshold, the door slammed shut behind them, a trickle of stone dust whispering down from the frame.
"Disgusting lot…" one guard muttered.
"Them, or us?" Lucien remarked.
It stiffened, but said nothing.
As they walked down the corridor, Lucien's gaze fell to the hem of his cloak, now heavy with oil.
A makeshift fuse—secured.
He had water to purify the saltpeter, a jar to hold the powder.
All that remained was the saltpeter.
If Roschella delivered it tomorrow, he could begin refining once the sermon ended.
"Is there a latrine nearby?" Lucien broke the silence.
The guard grunted and led the way.
Inside the shallow room, Lucien crouched by the pit and ran his fingers along the wall, testing for saltpeter. Once certain it was there, he poured the salt into the pit, then scraped the damp powder clinging to the stone and tucked it into the jar.
A heavy thud rattled the door, freezing him mid-motion.
"Hey, be quick!" the guard barked.
"Can't I relieve myself in peace?!" Lucien shot back, scraping faster.
"Be quick, or I'll barge in!"
Clicking his tongue, Lucien hastened, quickly sweeping the powder before adding the saltpeter from his handkerchief. Capping it tightly, he brushed his hands clean and rose.
When he stepped out, the guards immediately pinched their noses.
"Again?!" it protested.
Lucien smirked, brushing past him. "Why? Wasn't it you who told me to hurry?"
The beast growled. "Get back inside!"
"I refuse."
Lucien resumed his stride, but a faint breeze brushed his cheek. He glanced over and realized it came from the same stretch of wall as before. Whatever lay beyond, he was certain it connected to the surface.
A way out.
Back in his chamber, the coals were still scattered around the brazier. The moment the guards set the jars on the table and retreated behind the bars, Lucien went straight to check the sulfur. Fortunately, no one had tampered with it.
Slumping onto the stool, he cast a nonchalant glance at the beasts. "Hey, can I ask something?"
"What?" one growled without looking.
Lucien tapped the table rhythmically. "Were you human before?"
During his captivity, he had noticed that the beasts not only spoke the imperial tongue fluently, but also carried themselves like men. They used human medicine, cooked with human utensils, and lived by human habits—no tribal quirks at all.
Nothing about them marked a separate kind.
The question was: if they had never mingled with humans before, how could they imitate them so perfectly?
Silence. Only the brazier crackled in reply.
"How did you end up joining the cult?" he pressed on, but received no response.
"Aren't you going to answer my question?"
Still nothing.
Lucien let out a slow sigh, mocking disappointment. "I thought you might at least try to entertain me." Rising from the chair, he crossed to the brazier and crouched before it. "I suppose I'll just grind some charcoal to pass the time."
He picked up a few coals and placed them in the pestle, the scraping of stone against stone echoing through the room. His thoughts drifted to a passage written in the Apocrypha of Solairé.
OrbisDei—an orb believed to contain a god's essence, granting unimaginable power and miracles. Since manipulating genetics—such as creating a chimera—was beyond this era's technology, the cult had likely used the orb to turn men into werewolves.
But why did the banned book say nothing about such transformations?
What was the point of revealing such power, yet deliberately withholding the rest for themselves?
Lucien shook his head. I'm thinking something pointless again.
Once he finished, Lucien poured the powder into the jar. Before standing, he discreetly tore a strip from the oil-soaked hem and pressed it beneath his foot. As he rose, the fabric gave way with a sharp rip.
"Damn it," Lucien muttered, feigning frustration.
Glancing at the guards, he held out the torn edge of his cloak. "Do you have a spare cloak?"
The first guard gave him a brief look before returning to his post. "No."
Lucien sighed and ripped the dangling strip free, shredding it into thin pieces for a makeshift fuse.
…
By the morning, on his way to the sermon, Lucien spotted Roschella at the hall entrance, hugging her trembling frame. Two massive black-robed figures flanked her. As their gazes met, her horrified expression softened into relief; tears glistened as she rushed to him.
Standing face-to-face, Lucien asked, "Are you hurt?"
Roschella shook her head, though her trembling fingers clinging to his sleeve betrayed her fear. He took her hand and guided her into the hall; with each step beside him, her frame gradually relaxed.
They settled on the bench, her grip loosening. Peering down, he saw her slip a bundle wrapped in embroidered cloth against his side—saltpeter.
The final piece of his escape plan was complete.