Morning crept slowly into the world. Dew clung to the leaves like tiny jewels, and the castle stirred awake with muffled footsteps and the rustle of robes. But inside the quiet corner of the estate where fireflies had once danced, two figures remained.
Lucien awoke with a start, still wrapped in the haze of last night's peace. Beside him, Eiran slept lightly, one arm stretched behind his head, lips parted ever so slightly in sleep.
For a moment, Lucien simply watched him.
How strange, he thought. That the boy he had once read about—glorious, doomed Eiran—now lay beside him, not as a hero or a target, but as a person. A man. A soul.
Lucien's fingers itched to touch him, to trace the curve of his jaw, to memorize the soft lines and shadows cast by the early light. But he didn't move.
Instead, he whispered to himself, "Don't ruin this."
Eiran stirred then, eyes fluttering open. He blinked sleepily at the sky, then turned his gaze to Lucien.
"You stayed."
Lucien smiled. "You didn't ask me to leave."
Eiran pushed himself up, brushing grass from his sleeves. "I suppose I didn't."
They walked back to the castle in companionable silence, the kind that spoke louder than any conversation. But when they entered the inner halls, the atmosphere changed.
A servant rushed up to them, pale and breathless.
"My lords," he said, bowing. "A messenger arrived before dawn. Urgent dispatch from the capital."
Lucien exchanged a glance with Eiran. "What is it?"
The servant held out a sealed letter. "It was addressed to Duke Ravencroft. But the seal—it's the King's."
Lucien took the letter, his fingers tightening as he recognized the royal sigil. He broke the wax, scanned the contents—and his expression changed.
Eiran stepped forward. "What does it say?"
Lucien handed it to him wordlessly.
The letter was short. Precise. Ruthless.
"War is coming. Choose your side. Or we'll choose it for you."
---
The morning after the King's ultimatum felt sharper than usual—like the wind itself carried the tension of a thousand untold battles. Within the grand halls of Ravencroft, the air hung heavy, expectant. Something had changed. Something had shifted.
Lucien sat in his war chamber, the King's letter still spread across the table. The words burned into his mind.
War is coming.
He traced the edge of the parchment absently, lost in thought.
"You've read it a hundred times," came Eiran's voice from the doorway. "It won't change."
Lucien looked up. Eiran leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his golden hair slightly tousled from the wind. He looked every bit the soldier prince he had become—resolute, poised, watchful.
"I was hoping it might rewrite itself," Lucien replied dryly.
Eiran stepped forward, closing the door behind him. "Do you think the King truly intends to strike?"
Lucien hesitated. "I think he already has."
He pulled another scroll from beneath the letter—the report from the border. A village torched. Civilians displaced. No official insignia, but everyone knew who was behind it.
Eiran's jaw tightened as he read. "He's forcing your hand."
"Yes," Lucien said quietly. "He's testing if the villain is still in me."
Eiran looked up, gaze piercing. "And is he?"
Lucien met his eyes. "I don't know."
The admission was raw. Honest. And terrifying.
"I want to protect the people here," Lucien continued, rising from his chair. "But if I raise my sword, will it be called justice—or a return to tyranny?"
Eiran moved closer. "That depends on who fights beside you."
Their eyes locked, a thousand meanings flickering between them.
"I want you to be that person, Eiran," Lucien said. "But I won't ask you to choose between your kingdom and your heart."
Eiran's expression softened. "Who says I haven't already chosen?"
Lucien's breath caught.
But before the moment could deepen, a knock rattled the door.
"My Lord," came a voice from beyond. "The generals have arrived."
Lucien stepped back, composing himself. "I'll be there shortly."
Eiran lingered, gaze lingering on Lucien's hand, which still trembled faintly.
He touched it gently.
"Whatever happens next," he said, "you won't face it alone."
---
The war council was a blur of maps, strategy, and voices raised in urgency. But Lucien stood taller than he had in months. His voice was clear. His orders precise.
And Eiran stood at his side.
Later that night, after the council dispersed, they stood on the battlements, watching the torches flicker in the distance.
"We're standing at the edge of something," Eiran said.
Lucien nodded. "I just hope it's not the edge of us."
Eiran turned, reached out, and without words, drew him into a quiet embrace.
And in that stillness, with the threat of war hanging in the air, they held onto the only certainty they had—each other.
---
To be continued...