The first thing Lucien became aware of was warmth, cocooning him in a soft, floral fragrance—lavender. Then came the light. It pierced the darkness behind his eyelids, golden and rippling like water.
It urged him to open his eyes, to face a world no longer his own.
His eyelids fluttered open, and the light rushed in, dazzling and overwhelming. Shapes swam before him, blurring and shifting as he blinked rapidly. Slowly, his vision sharpened.
A high ceiling loomed above, its surface carved with intricate patterns that seemed to twist and writhe in the light of a chandelier. Polished stone walls gleamed faintly, their cold elegance softened by tapestries depicting scenes of battle and triumph.
A soft rustle drew his gaze downward, to a woman seated beside him. Her dark hair framed a face both elegant and weary, her eyes holding a quiet, resigned warmth.
"Lucien," she said, her voice a gentle murmur. "Welcome to the world."
The name settled uneasily in his mind, foreign yet oddly familiar. Lucien. He repeated it silently, as if tasting its weight.
The last thing he remembered was rain, the icy sting of it on his skin. The screech of tires, the crushing impact of metal against flesh. Pain, sharp and unrelenting.
And now… this.
I should be dead.
The realization hit him like a hammer, and panic surged through him. He tried to move, but his limbs felt weak and uncoordinated, as though they didn't belong to him.
What is this?
The woman's hum broke through his spiraling thoughts, steady and soothing. She smiled down at him, though her expression seemed tinged with something deeper—melancholy, perhaps.
Lucien watched her carefully, noting the way her fingers lingered on the cradle's edge, the slight downturn of her lips as she hummed. What burden does she carry? he wondered. Her sadness felt like a shadow cast by something greater, something entwined with the tension that lingered in the estate's halls.
"You're safe," she said, resting a delicate hand on the edge of the cradle. "For now."
---
Time blurred as Lucien drifted in and out of sleep. Days passed in a haze of muted sounds and fleeting moments, each one adding another fragment to the puzzle of his new reality.
The room he was confined to was richly appointed, filled with furniture that seemed more suited to a museum than a home. Opulence oozed from every corner, yet there was a coldness to it, a sense of distance that left Lucien uneasy.
The woman—his supposed mother—visited often, her interactions brief but laced with an odd tenderness. Her hands lingered a moment too long on his cradle, her hums carrying a sadness that seemed out of place in such a grand setting.
And then there was the man.
Tall and broad-shouldered, he exuded authority with every measured step. The scent of leather and faint cigar smoke clung to him, a silent declaration of his dominance.
The first time he entered the room, Lucien felt the air shift, growing heavier under the man's presence. His gaze was piercing, cold, and unyielding as he studied Lucien with an intensity that bordered on predatory.
"A Verelion is born with purpose," the man said, his voice a low, clipped baritone that cut through the silence like a blade. "But you… you're different."
The weight of his words pressed against Lucien's chest, a challenge wrapped in thinly veiled disdain.
Lucien met the man's gaze, his own eyes unflinching despite the tremor that ran through his infant frame. He could feel it—the expectation, the demand for something he could not yet name.
The man's parting words lingered long after he left: "Prove your worth, or be forgotten."
As the door closed, Lucien caught the faintest flicker in the man's expression—an almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes, as if he saw something in Lucien he couldn't yet understand.
---
Lucien absorbed everything around him with a sharp, calculating mind. From the hushed tones of the servants to the fleeting glances they exchanged, he pieced together the intricate dynamics of the Verelion estate.
The Verelions were one of four ducal houses, their power second only to the royal family. Their name carried weight, spoken with reverence and a trace of fear.
Yet beneath the grandeur and authority lay cracks—tensions that rippled through the household like an undercurrent, subtle but ever-present.
---
One quiet afternoon, as golden light filtered through the room's tall windows, Lucien became aware of a strange sensation.
A faint hum resonated through the air, soft yet insistent. It wasn't a sound, but a vibration that pulsed through his very being, stirring something deep within him.
His gaze drifted to the edge of the cradle, where an intricate symbol was etched into the wood. Its lines wove together in a pattern that felt both alien and intimately familiar.
The symbol's faint glow pulsed in rhythm with the hum, its light catching on the carved edges like molten silver. Lucien's fingers twitched instinctively, as though drawn toward it by an invisible thread.
As he stared, the hum grew stronger, resonating in his chest like the distant echo of a forgotten memory.
The light in the room seemed to shift, fracturing momentarily into countless shards before converging once more.
A vision seized him, vivid and haunting.
A vast battlefield stretched before him, its soil churned and blood-soaked. Lightning tore across a storm-darkened sky, illuminating shattered weapons and broken bodies. At the heart of the chaos stood a lone figure, their silhouette wreathed in flickering light.
Runes pulsed around them, their glow rhythmic and ominous, like the beat of a war drum.
The vision faded as quickly as it had come, leaving Lucien breathless and disoriented. A lingering ache settled in his chest, as though the symbol had imprinted itself deeper into his very being.
---
That night, as the estate lay cloaked in silence, Lucien lay awake, his thoughts racing.
The hum, the symbol, the vision—they were fragments of a truth buried deep within this fractured world. A world that felt like both a dream and a prison.
This isn't the story I knew, he thought, his fists clenched weakly. And I'm no mere spectator.
Resolve hardened within him, a quiet yet unyielding fire. Whatever secrets this world held, he would uncover them. Whatever role he was meant to play, he would define it on his own terms.
If this world was fractured, he would forge his path through its broken light.