Strut raised a brow. However, before he could respond, the door swung inward with a confidence that suggested the person on the other side had never once considered the possibility of being denied entry.
A handso, dark-skinned man appeared in the doorway, his presence filling the space with an almost palpable ease. His expression was calm, as though he were stepping into his personal bedroom rather than the office of a fortress commander—a man who, by all rights, should have commanded a degree of deference. He wore the distinctive deep crimson coat of the Blood Lotus division, its high collar embroidered with silver threading that caught what little light the dying afternoon offered. Beneath it, his armor was lighter than standard issue, designed for mobility rather than prolonged siege work, and it bore none of the scratches or dents that marked Gauss’s plate. His boots were clean, almost pristine, as if mud and blood knew better than to stain them.
Strut frowned, his expression darkening with the particular annoyance reserved for old acquaintances who refused to observe basic courtesy.
Gauss nearly fell from his chair, his exhaustion forgotten in an instant as recognition flooded his features. "Sir Lyon!" he exclaid, bowing sharply with the fervor of a man who had just found himself in the presence of legend. "It is an honor. Your transfer to the Blood Lotus is nothing short of a blessing for the—!"
Lyon waved a hand in dismissal, the gesture fluid and dismissive, as though swatting away an insect. "Captain. You appear worn from your travels..."
The words were polite enough on the surface, but there was a subtle weight to them—a suggestion that Gauss’s presence was no longer required now that more important matters had arrived. The captain, to his credit, understood imdiately.
"I—I should take my leave," Gauss stamred, already rising, his boots scraping against the floor as he moved toward the door with barely concealed haste. His helm remained on the table, montarily forgotten in his urgency to vacate the room.
Before Strut could speak, before he could even formulate a protest or offer Gauss so reassurance, the captain was already retreating down the hall, his footsteps echoing away into the depths of the fortress. The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving the room empty except for the two of them. The silence that followed was thick, pregnant with unspoken history.
Strut exhaled slowly through his nose and studied Lyon carefully, taking in the man’s too-casual posture, the faint amusent playing at the corners of his mouth, the way he stood as if the world existed solely for his entertainnt.
"You are a rude man," he said flatly.
Lyon snorted, a sound of genuine amusent, and lowered himself into the chair Gauss had vacated without waiting for invitation. The wood creaked under him, but he settled into it as if it were a throne, one leg crossing over the other with practiced ease. "Co on, Giel. We are too old for ceremony, are we not?"
Strut shook his head, a gesture that conveyed both resignation and disapproval in equal asure, then folded his arms across his chest.
"To what do I owe this unfortunate visit? Is this about the kid?"
Lyon’s eyes brightened imdiately, a spark of genuine interest igniting in their depths, and a grin spread across his face like sunrise breaking over dark water. "Indeed. The specin you found this ti is sothing remarkable. A natural talent, I must say."
"Do not pry further into him," Strut said firmly, his voice taking on the iron edge of command—the tone that had sent soldiers to their deaths and held lines against impossible odds. "All you know is sufficient."
Lyon raised his brows slightly, the gesture conveying curiosity and calculation in equal parts. "Judging from your reaction, I assu you must know as well."
Strut’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. The maps on the wall seed to lean in, listening, waiting for confirmation or denial.
He did not intend to confirm or deny. So secrets were better left unspoken, especially in the presence of a man who collected information the way a miser hoarded gold.
Lyon shrugged, the movent graceful and unbothered, as if the matter were of no real consequence to him—though Strut knew better than to believe such casual indifference. "Then I shall speak no more on the subject if you insist."
Strut nodded slowly, a subtle gesture of gratitude.
"Thank you."
He paused for a mont, weighing his next words carefully before asking, his tone shifting to sothing closer to genuine concern, "By the way, where is the kid?"
Lyon’s expression shifted, a flicker of mischief passing through his eyes like storm clouds racing across a sumr sky.
"He... is on a mission."
Strut raised an eyebrow, suspicion settling over him like frost. "A mission where?"
Lyon’s lips curved into a wry smile, "In the garden. I sent him to retrieve sothing. That is why I have co to you today."
Strut’s gaze darkened slightly, his hands tightening where they gripped the sides of the table. "Lyon. What have you done this ti?"
Lyon cleared his throat and leaned back,
"This mission is designed to test his ttle, to see how far his limits truly extend. I will not be revealing his location to you for now. Should he survive, I will require your assistance to obtain certain things to complete his conditioning."
Strut felt his brow twitch, a small betrayal of the storm brewing behind his carefully maintained composure. He allowed himself a mont to breathe, to reconcile the futility of resistance. Lyon always operated as he pleased, unbound by consequence or convention, dancing through the world as if rules were suggestions ant for lesser n. Trying to see reason in his ways was as useful as plucking all the hairs off his own arse; painful and pointless, and likely to leave one worse off than when one started.
He finally exhaled, long and controlled, and asked slowly, asuring each word, "What do you need?"
Lyon’s grin returned, widening like a crack in ice, triumphant and knowing. "The usual."
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