The cold air bit at Lucian’s pale skin, but he didn’t flinch. The snow, soft and delicate, swirled around him as though the world had been reduced to a monochrome painting—a stark contrast to the man who stood in the center of it. Lucian Devereux was an island of refined calm in the middle of the storm, his posture immaculate despite the freezing elements. The long, white coat draped over his shoulders like a regal cloak, its pristine fabric untouched by the harshness of the world around him. A pale green gaze, sharp as ever, flicked across the horizon, scanning the land with a patience that only years of practice could provide.
Beside him, one of his men, a hulking figure in a dark overcoat, held a large, black umbrella to shield him from the light flurries of snow that began to accumulate on the ground. The other, a leaner man, stepped closer, the flame of a match dancing in his hands as he leaned forward to light the cigarette Lucian had already raised to his lips.
The small cloud of smoke swirled into the chill air, dissipating like a fleeting thought.
Lucian took a long, slow drag, savoring the burn of the tobacco, his gloved fingers steady as they rested on the golden handle of his cane. The weapon concealed within it, as always, was a silent promise of power and control.
“The hunt is nearly upon us,” Lucian murmured, his voice smooth, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Do you remember what I told you about patience, about discipline?”
The man with the umbrella took a step back, his eyes flicking to the trees in the distance, aware that the hunt was never just about the prey—it was about the lessons that came with it, the tradition.
"Remember," Lucian continued, his voice low, purposeful, "every action must have purpose. Every step must be deliberate. The quarry will not be hunted by force alone. It is hunted with the mind." His gaze turned back to his child, his tone shifting into something quieter, more personal. "Your mind, their mind. Never forget that."
"Are you ready?"