So very few people paid visits to the head of the Eris clan that it would have been considered pitiable by the standards of most of Roland’s noble class.
Pitiable, yes—but for whom?
When not shadowing Roland’s king as an ever-present phantasm of a bodyguard, Lucile haunted this place. It was reminiscent of a crypt, this site of his parents’ death; a place where none but the souls of the formerly living roamed eternal. It was only fitting, after all, that a man—if he could even be deemed such any more—like himself reside in the shadows.
Even then, he rarely made himself visible to the imagined dead souls that wandered here, choosing to wrap himself up in the darkness within the dark, observing all but seen by none.
No matter how far Lucile could see, he had not expected this particular event: the return of his beloved sister.
As the door slammed open he chose to remain hidden from human eyes—or would have, had Ferris not approached that, of all subjects. Like a horrific apparition in the guise of a human, he appeared in the center of the cavernous dojo, a frosted smile permanently painted across his face in mocking affability.
“Ah, my dear sister has returned home unexpectedly, mm? If I had known I would have perhaps been more prepared to greet you.”
“You come asking of such grave matters that don’t concern you and aren’t worth your time in worrying.”
—and, with the same even, eerily calm tone—
“If you knew, you would rather you hadn’t, and I wouldn’t wish that on my sweet sister.”