The night had fallen gently over the Ravencroft estate, casting everything in hues of silver and sapphire. The gardens outside Lucien's chamber were still, and moonlight filtered through the high arched windows like whispers of a forgotten past. It was the kind of silence that held weight—the kind that came just before something important was about to unfold.
Lucien stood by the window, one hand resting against the cold glass. His eyes followed the silhouette of a lone bird gliding across the sky. There was an ache in his chest, a strange longing that hadn't quite left him since his talk with Eiran days ago.
The prince's words had been sharp but honest. "I don't know if I can trust you," Eiran had said. But there had been something else in his eyes, something buried beneath the wariness—a flicker of recognition, or perhaps curiosity.
Lucien exhaled softly. He hadn't come here to become a hero. He hadn't even come to make friends. And yet, here he was, his thoughts constantly circling back to the golden-haired prince who had once been destined to die by his hands.
He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the glass. "I don't want to lose this chance," he whispered to no one.
---
In the southern training hall, Eiran swung his sword in slow, deliberate arcs. The lanterns flickered, their flames dancing in rhythm with each precise movement. He trained alone tonight—not because he needed to, but because he couldn't sleep.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Lucien's face. Not the ruthless duke the world feared, but the man who had stood before him, vulnerable in silence, saying things that didn't match the stories.
"So I can stop being your enemy."
What had that meant, really?
Eiran gritted his teeth and brought the blade down hard against a training dummy, slicing through it cleanly. The sound echoed through the chamber like a challenge.
Was it possible for someone like Lucien Ravencroft to change? And if he had truly changed, then why did Eiran's heart race every time he was near?
It was foolish. Dangerous. And yet, in the quiet moments between sword strikes and diplomatic councils, Eiran found himself wondering what Lucien might have been before fate had cast him as the villain.
---
Later that night, their paths crossed again.
Lucien was headed to the library, his mind clouded with restless thoughts. Eiran was returning from the sparring hall, sweat still clinging to his collarbone, a towel draped around his neck. The corridor was long and empty, the silence between them louder than any shout.
Their eyes met.
Neither looked away.
Lucien was the first to speak, voice soft and steady. "You couldn't sleep either?"
Eiran tilted his head. "No. And you?"
Lucien smiled faintly. "I was hoping to find a book boring enough to put me to sleep."
Eiran stepped closer, just enough to close some of the space between them. "You never used to joke."
Lucien shrugged. "Maybe I never had a reason to."
They stood in that moment—two shadows from different sides of a story, caught in the uncertainty of what came next. And for the first time, the silence wasn't heavy. It was tender.
Eiran reached out and brushed his fingers against Lucien's arm. Just a touch. Just enough.
"You're not who I expected," he murmured.
Lucien met his gaze. "Neither are you."
The moonlight poured through the stained glass behind them, painting their silhouettes in soft color.
For a second, they forgot who they were supposed to be.
For a second, they simply existed—Lucien and Eiran, not villain and hero.
And in that second, something fragile and beautiful began to grow.
---
To be continued...