Gunmage-Chapter 223: Sweat, blood, and grime

"You’re looking at the future head of the Cross family,"

Said Lugh.

Silence fell over the room like a dropped curtain.

Then came a soft, unexpected chuckle—light, amused, and ever-so-slightly mocking.

Selaphiel, the elf, had removed both her cap and veil at some point, and Jahira had followed her example.

Their expressions were easier to read now—Selaphiel’s particularly, as she fixed her golden eyes on Lugh.

She spoke directly to him, her voice steeped in cool curiosity.

"Future head? You’re quite confident."

Lugh didn’t respond. Not right away, at least. He merely sat there, composed and unmoved.

Lyra stared at him as though he’d grown a second head. Coming from her, a comment like that would’ve been met with shrugs or exasperation.

But from Lugh? It felt off—wrong even. Since when had he ever said something so... so...

She searched for the right word, but as always when it came to the strange boy, her mind tripped over itself. The language she knew didn’t quite cover what he was.

Selaphiel folded her arms in front of her chest, amusement flickering across her face like candlelight.

"And how exactly do you plan on accomplishing that? By giving her that sword?"

Her eyes shifted meaningfully to the bundle—long, wrapped, unmistakably a blade.

Lugh finally answered, voice level.

"It was originally hers to begin with. I’m just returning it."

And that was the truth. A fine weapon, undoubtedly, with a wicked edge and runes etched so deep they hummed faintly to the touch.

He had more experience—albeit stolen—in using such weapons. But this sword wasn’t for him. It was attuned to Lyra, bound by enchantments he couldn’t unlock while she yet lived.

Without those, it was just a good blade. With them, it was something else entirely.

Sylvera and Edrin, who had been largely sidelined most of the day, continued sampling pastries from the long table, watching the exchange unfold like a private play.

Their nieces, nephews—and in Sylvera’s case, daughter—loomed on in stunned silence.

"Lyra?"

Selaphiel finally spoke again, her voice almost uncertain. She’d suspected something earlier, ever since the girl had called her a crybaby—a voice from the past. But she hadn’t let herself believe.

Still... the pieces had begun to fall into place.

"Ehhhh?!"

The room erupted with voices.

Who didn’t know Lyra? She was, quite literally, the reason they had come. The disgraced noble who’d escaped an arranged marriage and joined the army—scandal incarnate.

But now, standing before her again, none of those descriptions held any weight.

Sela stood the most shocked.

"You—you... what happened to you?"

"What do you mean?"

Lyra asked, blinking.

"How did—" Sela caught herself.

She wanted to say: How did you become so pretty?

But pride is a tricky thing. Instead, she pivoted.

"How did your hair get like that? Didn’t you cut it short?"

"Oh, this?"

Lyra lifted a dark strand between two fingers, letting it fall back down in a graceful ripple.

"It’s a mutation. From Drakensmar."

The lie which she had repeated over and over came naturally.

The room quieted.

Murmurs followed. The name of the old capital, Drakensmar, was a soft topic—delicate, tragic. A subject everyone stepped lightly around, especially in the company of survivors.

It was also why no one had seriously interrogated Lugh after his arrival in Pyrellis. In this, Isolde had shown a surprising amount of tact.

The topic shifted.

It was Marcus who broke the silence next.

"So you already knew Lugh. All that ’Who gifts a lady a sword’ talk—was that just a setup to lead us on?"

His tone carried a pinch of resentment. Lyra felt the need to clarify.

"No, I actually didn’t recognize him."

"How?"

She paused, her eyes drifting toward Lugh. Her expression grew thoughtful.

"Well, the Lugh I’m familiar with is always covered in sweat—"

"Sweat?!"

Someone gasped.

"—blood,"

She continued, ignoring the interruption and flashing them a strange look,

"and grime."

"Ah... I understand now."

Marcus nodded slowly. For some reason, imagining Lugh covered in dirt was difficult. But blood? That was easy. He didn’t even need to imagine it. The memory alone sufficed.

Lyra added,

"Plus, his eye..."

She didn’t need to say more. The mawglass—the singularly unsettling eye—was now hidden behind a curtain of hair. It had once made him unmistakable.

Combined with the noble clothes, the expensive oils in his skin, and the faint scent of incense, he barely resembled the feral boy she remembered.

Lugh supposed the same would’ve applied if Lyra had cut her hair and put on a ballroom gown. Recognition relied on context—and they were far removed from the battlefield now.

Then came the clacking sound—wood tapping marble floor—as Enji approached.

He stopped in front of Lyra. His voice cut through the room like a thrown blade.

"What is your hip size?"

A breathless silence followed. Time seemed to slow. Every head turned in synchronized disbelief.

Lirienne could only gape.

’This man doesn’t give up.’ fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

Lyra blinked.

"My what?"

Enji pressed forward.

"Oh, don’t misunderstand. I don’t need vague words like ’small,’ ’medium,’ or ’large.’ I need specific numbers. Measurements."

Then he went quiet, awaiting an answer like this was a formal trade negotiation.

Lyra stared at him. He stared back—or at least simulated the effect with his blank eyes.

"...Why?"

She asked cautiously.

"Huh? Why?"

He echoed, scandalized.

He said it again, slower this time, like he was contemplating the depths of her ignorance.

"Why..."

Lyra’s brow twitched.

"Of course it’s because... because..."

His voice trailed off into a frantic whisper.

"Because I want to send you a gift. A dress. Custom-made. One that can compliments your beauty."

Lugh had to admit—he was good on his feet. Not fast, but imaginative. The damage was already done though. Everyone understood his true intentions now.

Lyra had every right to lash out. But she didn’t. She wasn’t that sort of person.

"Uhh... no thanks."

She declined politely, albeit firmly.

"Are you sure?"

Enji persisted.

"Yes. I’m sure."

Her tone remained patient, but her expression had stiffened—a detail lost on Enji.

"...Fine then."

He nodded, visibly dejected. But not before muttering,

"I hope you lose."

"Wha—?"

Lyra stared at his retreating back.

Enji returned to the gathering—not to the embarrassment of the girls, but to admiration from the boys, who looked at him with reverence.

A true man, some whispered, one bold enough to ask the real questions.

Selaphiel, ignoring her grandchildren’s antics, turned her gaze back to Lugh and Lyra.

"You can’t use that sword during the duel."

Lyra, briefly caught off guard by the softness of the elf’s appearance, quickly snapped to attention.

"Why not?"

She challenged.

"Because a lot of people will be watching,"

Selaphiel answered, voice smooth but carrying undeniable weight and meaning.

Lyra nodded slowly. She understood.

Selaphiel smiled faintly.

"One more thing—"

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