The candlelight flickered gently across Lucien's desk, casting long shadows on the map sprawled before him. He hadn't moved in hours. His gloved fingers hovered over the parchment, tracing the borders between the Eastern Kingdoms and the Ravencroft territory, but his mind was nowhere near tactics or battle lines.
It was with Eiran.
Ever since their conversation in the gardens, something had shifted between them. Not dramatically. Not obviously. But subtly—like the quiet change of seasons, or the first petal of spring blooming through snow. Lucien had felt it in the way Eiran's eyes softened, in the way his voice carried less venom and more curiosity.
But that was the part that terrified Lucien most. Curiosity could become suspicion. And if Eiran ever discovered the truth—that the soul within Ravencroft's body didn't belong here, that he had once read of Eiran's pain like a page in a book—everything could crumble.
Lucien exhaled slowly, setting down the quill. He leaned back in the chair, letting his eyes drift upward to the carved ceiling above. "If you gave me this second chance," he whispered to no one, "then why does it feel like I'm walking a blade's edge?"
He hadn't expected Eiran to respond so quickly to kindness. In the novel, Eiran had been a hard shell, cracked open only by loss and betrayal. But perhaps—just perhaps—the Eiran standing before him now was someone even the story had failed to understand fully.
---
Eiran sat alone in the east wing's training hall, a rare place of silence in the palace. His sword rested on the stone bench beside him, still warm from his last set of drills. Sweat clung to his skin, but he barely felt it.
His mind was on Ravencroft. No—Lucien, he corrected himself, and the realization made his chest tighten.
He didn't know when he had begun to separate the man from the name.
The Lucien Ravencroft he'd grown up fearing—the monster his father had told bedtime stories of—was cold, cunning, ruthless. But this Lucien… he was different. He spoke with restraint. He avoided bloodshed. He looked at Eiran not with superiority or disdain, but with something gentler.
Not love. No. Eiran wasn't naive.
But not hatred either.
Eiran tilted his head back, letting the cold stone wall press against his spine. His mind flicked back to the moment Lucien had touched his arm in the garden. The touch had been brief, polite even—but something in it had lingered. A quiet comfort. A warmth that stayed long after contact.
He didn't understand it. He didn't understand him.
But for the first time in years, Eiran didn't feel the gnawing sense of loneliness wrapping around his ribs like iron chains.
---
Lucien stood by the window of his chambers, watching the clouds roll in from the mountains. Dusk bathed the city in hues of violet and copper. Somewhere below, a bell tolled—marking the hour.
There was a knock.
He turned. "Enter."
The door creaked open, revealing not a servant, but Eiran.
Lucien's heart stuttered.
Eiran looked as if he had come straight from training, tunic damp, golden hair tousled by wind and effort. His eyes were bright but guarded. "I hope I'm not disturbing."
Lucien shook his head slowly. "You're not."
For a moment, neither spoke. Eiran stepped inside, and the door shut behind him with a soft thud.
"I've been thinking," Eiran began, his voice low. "About what you said. About peace."
Lucien gestured to the chair near the hearth. "Then let's talk."
Eiran didn't sit. He walked toward the window instead, standing beside Lucien. They both looked out at the same horizon, the silence between them heavy with unspoken thoughts.
"My father would say you're playing a long game," Eiran murmured. "That you want to lull us into trust before you strike."
"And what do you believe?"
Eiran turned his head slightly. "I don't know. But I think... you're different. Changed."
Lucien swallowed. The risk was enormous. But he took a breath and said, "What if I told you I don't want this war at all?"
"Then I'd say you were a fool for showing weakness in a world that respects only strength."
Lucien gave a sad smile. "Perhaps. Or perhaps strength is choosing not to hurt someone when you have every reason to."
That silenced Eiran. His eyes returned to the horizon.
"You once tried to kill me," he said after a long pause. "Or... Ravencroft did. I remember the ambush in the Northern glades. I still have the scar."
Lucien looked down, guilt clawing through him. "I remember that chapter. It haunted me."
Eiran's brow furrowed. "What do you mean... chapter?"
Lucien stiffened. He'd said too much.
"I mean... it haunts me," he corrected quickly. "Even if I don't remember doing it. It doesn't feel like something I could ever do."
Eiran studied him quietly, the silence thick between them.
"Do you believe in fate?" Eiran asked suddenly.
Lucien turned to him. "No. I believe in choice."
"Then why do I feel like I'm being pulled toward you by something I can't explain?" Eiran's voice was almost a whisper.
Lucien's breath caught.
Their eyes locked.
It was there—that charged moment. That fragile thread stretched taut between them. The past, the present, and some uncertain future tangled in one look.
Lucien stepped closer, slowly. Carefully. "Maybe... it's because you're not alone in feeling that."
Eiran didn't move away.
Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance.
---
Later that night, Lucien sat alone again, staring into the flames of his hearth.
He knew he was dancing on the edge of something dangerous—something deeper than political alliances or shifting loyalties. The more he cared for Eiran, the more fragile his own position became.
And yet…
Wasn't this what he wanted? A chance to rewrite the ending? To change a story of betrayal into one of redemption?
He didn't know if Eiran could ever forgive Ravencroft fully. Or love the man he now was. But he'd fight for that chance.
Even if it meant exposing truths he was still too afraid to face himself.
---
Unbeknownst to either of them, a pair of cold, violet eyes watched from a distant mirror.
Aeloria smiled.
"So... the villain dares to fall in love with the hero. How quaint. Let's see how long your fragile little bond lasts, Lucien Vale."
She turned from the mirror, her fingers weaving strands of silver light into a new tapestry of illusions.
"The game has only just begun."
---
To be continued...
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