Lucius had been mesmerized. Even in the sea of suitors who twirled her across the floor, no one could touch the aura she exuded.
She was radiant, ethereal, every inch a treasure he longed to claim.
But he couldn't.
He was a phantom, a forgotten remnant of a world she did not yet know.
Still, his obsession had grown.
As weeks turned into months, Jean began to sense his presence.
Her initial curiosity became a quiet longing as she pieced together the fragments of his existence—whispers in the corridors, a shadow in her periphery, the weight of his gaze when no one else was looking.
She wanted to find him. To her, he was no monster but a mystery to unravel, a treasure hidden just beyond reach.
Lucius had been elated. For the first time in centuries, someone saw him, wanted him. But their moments together were fleeting—half-spoken words in the dead of night, a brush of cold air against her skin as he lingered near.
He had thought he could make her his, that he could step from the shadows and claim her fully.
But then came the announcement of her engagement. Her family had arranged for her to marry a man she barely knew, a match that promised wealth and alliances but no happiness.
Desperation had seized him then, and in his panic, Lucius had sought help from the only one who could interfere: the third prince.
It had been a gamble, but one he'd had no choice but to take.
The prince had done as Lucius asked, ensuring the engagement crumbled before it could solidify.
But even as Jean had been freed from that future, Lucius knew he had stolen her choice.
He had manipulated events to bring her closer to him, and now, as she lay unconscious, he feared what she might think when she woke.
Would she understand? Would she forgive him? Or would she hate him for what he had done?
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on her peaceful face. "I had to, Jean," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I couldn't lose you—not then, not now."
Yet, even as he wrestled with his fears, another problem loomed over him: his fractured memories. Everything before the night of Alaric's birth was a blur.
The faces, places, and moments that had shaped him were lost in a haze, as though he had been reborn that fateful night, a hollow shell with only fragments of a past he couldn't piece together.
And now, as he sat beside Jean, he realized that gap in his memory was more troubling than ever.
What if there was something crucial he had forgotten?
What if it came between him and the one thing he had longed for all these years?
Lucius clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. He would face it—whatever it was—if it meant protecting her, keeping her by his side.
But for now, all he could do was wait, watching over Jean and hoping that when she opened her eyes, she would still want him as much as he wanted her.
Meanwhile,
Salviana walked gracefully back to her chambers, her mind preoccupied with the two princesses who had come looking for her earlier that morning.
She made a mental note to ask her maids about their identities again—Alaric had turned them away without much explanation, and the mystery tugged at her curiosity.
The cool breeze carried the scent of damp earth, and though the rain had yet to fall, the overcast sky painted the world in soothing shades of gray.
Salviana smiled to herself. She enjoyed the rain, finding its rhythm comforting, even joyful at times.
It wasn't often she allowed herself such simple pleasures, but today, the weather encouraged her to linger outdoors a little longer.
As she wandered the palace gardens, her path crossed with Warren of Velthorne, the king's brother's first son.
He was an imposing figure, his stocky and muscular build tempered by a quiet humility.
His light brown hair was neatly combed, and his blue eyes held a somber depth that seemed to weigh on him constantly.
They exchanged polite greetings, Salviana's warm smile contrasting with Warren's reserved demeanor. He appeared on the verge of saying something but decided against it, shifting his stance awkwardly. They both turned to continue on their separate ways when Salviana paused, a thought striking her.
"Excuse me, my lord," she called softly, stopping him in his tracks.
Warren turned back, raising a brow. "Yes, Lady Salviana?"
She gestured to a small bench tucked within the garden's blooming greenery. "Would you join me for a moment?"
He hesitated briefly but nodded, following her to the bench. As they sat, Salviana observed him more closely. His posture was rigid, as though carrying a weight he refused to set down. She decided to broach the topic gently.
"How is Rose, my lord?" she asked, her tone light but curious.
"She is well," Warren replied, his voice soft yet steady. "Her attendants care for her."
Salviana tilted her head, noting the slight shift in his expression. There was pride in his words but also an unmistakable sadness.
"I heard what you did for her the other day," Warren added after a pause, his blue eyes meeting hers. "I wanted to thank you for taking care of her."
Salviana waved her hand dismissively, a kind smile gracing her lips. "Oh, it was nothing. She's a sweetheart, your lordship. Anyone would have done the same."
Warren nodded but said nothing more, his gaze dropping momentarily to the ground. Sensing his reluctance, Salviana cleared her throat and ventured carefully into more delicate territory.
"If I may," she began, her voice softer, "could I ask about her mother?"
Warren's jaw tightened slightly, but he met her gaze with quiet dignity. "She passed a month after Rose was born," he said simply.
Salviana's heart ached at the pain etched in his voice. "I'm so sorry for your loss, my lord," she said, her tone sincere.