Lucian Graves
Lucian Graves does not belong to The Last Home. He belongs to Seraphis Nightvale.
He is not the inn’s butler, nor its servant. He does not fetch drinks, cater to guests, or answer to anyone but Lady Nightvale herself. His presence within The Last Home is a consequence, not a position—he is here because she is, and that alone is reason enough for the inn to tolerate him.
Most assume him to be little more than a quiet, unassuming figure who stands at Seraphis’ side, vanishing into the background until needed. Some believe him to be nothing more than an attendant. Those who know better understand that Lucian Graves is never merely anything.
A Gentleman Dressed for the Kill
There is nothing out of place about Lucian Graves.
His black tailcoat is always immaculate, his white shirt crisp, and his bowtie precisely arranged. The silver cufflinks at his wrists gleam with the care of a man who values detail, though they carry no ornamentation beyond their perfect polish. His hair, neatly combed back, has only the barest traces of silver at the temples—just enough to suggest time, but not enough to suggest age.
His face is sharp, his features narrow, his build lean but taut with a tension that never fully unwinds. He is a weasel in a suit, but not the kind that scurries; the kind that waits, watches, and strikes the moment it becomes necessary. His movements are effortless, his presence felt rather than seen, his gaze cold and unreadable.
Around his neck, a simple silver locket rests against his collarbone, tucked beneath his coat, hidden yet never forgotten. Inside, one image is of a young girl, his daughter, taken long before war stole her from him. The other is Seraphis Nightvale, drawn with the same quiet care.
No one has ever asked him why. No one dares.
A Silence That Speaks Volumes
Lucian Graves does not waste words. Idle chatter holds no value to him, and small talk is met with nothing more than a polite nod, if that. When he speaks, it is because something must be said. When he moves, it is because something must be done.
His voice is quiet but absolute, a sound that never needs to be repeated. Each word is deliberate, chosen with the same precision as his movements. He does not argue; he does not explain himself. Conversations with him do not begin so much as they end, leaving no room for misinterpretation.
With Seraphis, speech is almost unnecessary. A glance is enough. A silence between them holds more meaning than words ever could.
With the staff of The Last Home, he is distant but unfailingly courteous, offering only what is necessary, no more and no less.
With guests, he rarely speaks at all.
Those who attempt conversation with him often find themselves trailing off mid-sentence, uncertain when exactly they stopped talking. Those who push too far often find their memories of the exchange unsettlingly unclear. And those who test his patience—however briefly—find that they do not try again.
A Father Without a Daughter
Lucian Graves did not always stand at Seraphis Nightvale’s side. She was not always in his care.
Once, on a world long since lost to war, he was something else. A soldier, a protector, a man who believed he could hold onto the one thing that mattered. But in the end, war takes what it wants, and it took his daughter, just as it had taken so many before her. She was swallowed by conflict, a casualty of a cause that meant nothing in the end.
When he met Seraphis, he saw something in her that he could not define—a presence that reminded him, in ways he did not wish to admit, of the child he would never see again. And for reasons she has never explained, Seraphis did not send him away.
A bargain was struck.
She offered him something he thought he had lost forever: a daughter to protect—one who would never die.
What exists between them is not quite a father-daughter bond, but it comes close. She does not seek his guidance, nor does he try to give it. Yet, beneath the layers of unspoken understanding, there is something stronger than duty—a tether of quiet inevitability. She does not order him. She does not need to.
She is in charge. That much is certain.
And should anyone forget that fact, Lucian is already standing behind them.
A Master of Violence Who Never Needs It
Lucian Graves does not carry a weapon. He does not need to.
Once, in another life, he was a bare-knuckle champion, undefeated in the kind of fights that were never recorded, only spoken of in hushed tones. He mastered techniques most fighters would never live long enough to learn, perfecting them not for sport, but for survival.
Now, he fights only when necessary.
No one has ever forced him to fight twice.
There is no spectacle to his technique, no flourish, no wasted movement. His strikes are deliberate, swift, and absolute. Each motion is stripped of excess, honed to perfect efficiency, a study in inevitability. His hands and feet land harder than steel, faster than thought, carrying the effortless grace of a man who has never needed a second attempt.
He does not seek violence.
But should it come to him, Lucian Graves finishes it before it ever truly begins.
The Legendary Maids’ Unlikely Grandfather
Lucian Graves does not invite affection, yet somehow, he has it.
The younger members of The Legendary Maids have taken to calling him Grandfather when they think he isn’t listening. He always is. They have never heard him acknowledge it, yet small wrapped sweets always find their way into their pockets. No one sees him place them. No one mentions them aloud.
It is rumored that he makes them himself, slipping into the kitchen in the dead of night to prepare them in secret.
Mama Jori, the kitchen head, has caught him at it. Once. No one else has.
If asked, Lucian will deny it.
But the sweets never stop appearing.
Things People Whisper About Him
- "I have never seen him eat. I have never seen him sleep."
- "He was not hired. He was not chosen. He was simply… there."
- "You do not challenge him. You do not fight him. If you push too hard, you simply find that he is already behind you."
- "The only time I have ever seen Seraphis Nightvale look surprised was when she first met him. That alone should concern you."
- "He moves like a gentleman. He fights like a devil."
Final Thoughts
Lucian Graves is a man of stillness, silence, and certainty. He does not seek power. He does not command attention. He does not raise his voice.
He simply is.
He serves Seraphis Nightvale, not because he must, but because he chooses to. He watches, he waits, and he moves only when required.
Because some things are worth protecting.
And Lucian Graves will not fail a second time.
At A Glance
Role in The Last Home:
Lucian Graves is Seraphis Nightvale’s butler. He serves no one else. The Library acknowledges him but does not command him. He is tolerated because she allows him to remain.
Personality:
Quiet, composed, and unshakable. He does not flinch, does not falter, and does not entertain pointless conversations. Those who push him for answers find themselves reconsidering before he has even spoken.
Voice & Mannerisms:
He speaks softly but never needs to repeat himself. His presence is the weight of an unspoken rule. He moves with absolute precision, every step measured, every action intentional. No one ever hears him approach—only notices when he is already there.
How Others See Him:
Seraphis trusts him. Lars acknowledges him. The staff respect him, though few dare approach him directly. Guests assume he is just a butler. The ones with sense correct themselves quickly.
The Legendary Maids:
They call him Grandfather when they think he isn’t listening. He always is. He leaves them sweets in their pockets, but never confirms that it was him.
His Fighting Style:
Lucian never carries a weapon. He was a bare-knuckle champion in his youth and has mastered every martial art worth knowing. He favors efficiency over spectacle. He fights only when necessary, and no one has ever forced him to fight twice.
The Silence He Keeps:
Lucian does not sleep, or if he does, no one has seen it. He never eats in public. He never hurries. He is exactly where he needs to be, exactly when he needs to be there.
The Lesson No One Learns Twice:
Lucian Graves has never raised his voice. No one wishes to know what it would sound like if he did.
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