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The candlelight flickered against the walls of Lucien Daevarionâs private study â a room too opulent to be comforting, too silent to be safe. Gold trim. Silk curtains. A desk carved from the bonewood of the Eastern Wastes.
And yet⦠he couldnât breathe in it.
The fire crackled softly, but it did nothing to chase the cold inside him. He sat alone, surrounded by documents he hadnât read, wine he hadnât touched, and a presence he couldnât name.
Because he had felt something, earlier in court. When she looked at him.
That woman. Amara Lysenia. That name.
No, not the name â the eyes
He knew them. But from where? No, not a memory. A dream. A face that haunted his sleep, a nameâMira? âthat echoed in his subconscious long before Lady Amara Lysenia ever entered his court. He had always dismissed it as stress. Now, he wondered.
Lucien Daevarion was not a fool. He could feel when fate turned. And tonight, it had. Subtle. Inevitable. Like a sword drawn just inches from flesh.
His hands curled on the armrest of the chair. Nails dug into velvet.
And the past returned â as it always did â in fragments.
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He had been twelve when he first saw a man die. Not in battle, not in sport â but in whispers.
A court advisor had tried to oppose his fatherâs land reforms. One day he was there. The next, his familyâs estate was confiscated, his name stricken from the records. A message sent through silence.
Lucien had asked his father why.
âBecause truth is dangerous,â the old king had said. âAnd only fools speak it aloud.â
Years later, when Lucien met Mira Langford â in another world, another life â she terrified him.
She was brilliant. Unafraid. So much like the woman he could never be. Mira wielded the truth like a weapon. She didnât whisper it.
She dared it.
And for a moment â a dangerous, fleeting moment â Lucien admired her.
Perhaps even⦠loved her. In the only way someone like him could.
But admiration was weakness.
And love, to someone who had never truly known it, was just another chain.
The memory seized him, unbidden and brutal.
Rain.
Her hand, shaking as she held the folder.
The silence after the gunshot.
The stillness of her body.
And the way she never begged.
She didnât even ask why.
Because she already knew.
Lucien stood abruptly from his chair. The room spun slightly.
He crossed to the mirror.
And he saw himself.
Perfect. Untouched. Immaculate.
He slammed his fist into it.
The glass cracked.
It didnât shatter â just splintered, like a spiderweb over his reflection.
Dozens of versions of him stared back.
Lucien whispered, to no one, âWho are you?â
Down the hall, guards paused. They had heard the sound.
But no one entered.
Because Lucien Daevarion was the Crown Prince. The golden puppet. The man who made kings kneel â and truth vanish.
But tonight⦠the strings trembled.
And somewhere deep in his chest, he wasnât sure if it was fear.
Or the beginning of regret.
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