Lucavion's smirk widened, his fingers adjusting around the hilt of his black estoc. The blade, sleek and deadly, glinted under the soft light of the rising sun, its dark surface drinking in the dawn's glow like ink against gold.
"Well, now," he mused, tilting his head, his voice smooth, laced with easy amusement. "There's nothing I like better than talking with my sword."
The Duke exhaled through his nose, a subtle acknowledgment. Then—
"Good," he said simply. "Neither do I."
Lucavion's smirk curled further, but his eyes sharpened slightly.
The Duke's weapon was different from his own—where Lucavion wielded the slender precision of his estoc, the Duke held a standard longsword, well-forged and balanced. Practical. Efficient. But the true weapon was the one on his hip.
Lucavion's gaze flicked to it briefly.
