Age 17 — Temple of First Light, Inner Empire
The pounding from his temple transformed into a succession of sounds—measured, sharp, too close to heels stepping on marble.
He frowned.
Another new maid. Probably one of those wide-eyed types who hadn't yet figured out who he was. Curious now, until someone whispered Kilmer in her ear and she scurried off like they all did.
He didn't bother lifting his head; he didn't have the power in the first place.
The air smelled of incense and dusted stone. His knees ached against the polished floor. The silk robe clung to his skin, damp from nerves or sweat or the weight of whatever this was.
He didn't remember kneeling; when was the last time he had legs sturdy enough to even kneel?
He didn't die. The thought had settled in his head with pain, filling every other corner of it.
He let out a low, unsteady sigh, as if disappointed to be awake.
Like someone hoping the gods would just hurry up and finish what they started.
His fingers dug slightly into the silk at his thighs, half-expecting bone to press through skin like before. But his legs were solid. Smooth. Not broken. Not wasted away.
He opened his eyes with a force that long left him.
Lucas blinked.
His hands were smaller. His nails unbitten. His wrists unscarred.
That wasn't right.
He looked up—slowly, cautiously.
A woman stood a few steps away, posture flawless, one brow arched like a challenge wrapped in lace. Her gown was dark green with gold accents, expensive but not loud. Her hair was the color of firelight, coiled into an effortless twist. She looked exactly like the portraits whispered about in court corridors.
Lady Serathine D'Argent. Not a maid. Not a servant. Not a hallucination, unless hallucinations started dressing better.
She looked exactly as he remembered. No. Sharper. Younger. Less guarded around the eyes.
That unsettled him more than anything else.
He wet his lips, tried to speak, and failed.
She stepped closer, folding her fan with a single, precise motion.
"You're not going to faint, are you? I despise when men faint before introductions. Makes everything unnecessarily dramatic."
He exhaled a short breath through his nose, intending to laugh but coming out choked.
Her gaze didn't soften, but it did sharpen. Focused. For once, someone was genuinely concerned about his well-being.
"How old are you?" she asked.
He didn't answer; he didn't know what to answer and if this was a dream, then there was no point in saying anything.
"You're clearly not awakened yet," she continued. "Which narrows things down. Seventeen?"
A small nod. Lucas's body had made the move without his mind thinking it.
'Seventeen? Am I dreaming?'
"Mm," she said, tilting her head. "Your mother paraded you like a prized mare at the last embassy ball. Now I remember." She said, snapping her golden fan closed to her wrist. "Your coming-of-age party is in a few days."
Lucas's mouth opened, finally. "I know you."
"Good," Serathine said, "because I certainly know you."
That made him blink. "Why?"
"Because," she said, crouching—barely, gracefully—so she could meet his eye level. "You've looked like you were about to shatter since you were twelve. I pay attention to things that look expensive and fragile. They tend to break interestingly."
That earned a sound from him—a breath, a laugh, a noise caught between offense and gratitude.
He remembered her voice now.
Sharp at court, elegant at galas, never cruel—but always dangerous.
His mother, Misty, hated that.
Hated that she never reached Lady Serathine's type of influence. That she never had her power, her reputation, or the luck to marry a duke who died in a war two years later and left her with titles, land, and absolutely no strings.
Serathine never had to beg.
Never had to scheme.
She walked into rooms and people moved.
Misty fawned over foreign princes and second sons, always clinging to someone else's name. Serathine was the name.
And now, she stood here, hands perfectly gloved, looking down at the bastard son of the Emperor like she was still deciding if he was salvageable.
Lucas dropped his gaze.
He could still taste rot in his memory. Could still hear the thud of those velvet curtains in the windless, golden cage. The sickly sweet smell of fruits and flowers rotting. The stickiness of his unwashed skin.
He shouldn't be here.
This wasn't real.
His chest tightened at the sharp, breathless thought that he might have been spared. That the life he lived, suffered, and died through… was over.
He shifted his gaze to the statue standing above the altar. A god he barely remembered—one of mercy, perhaps. Or judgment. They all blurred together in the end.
'Did I die? Or… I never lived that life?'
No.
No, it was too painful. Too real. Too raw to be anything but truth.
The fever. The silence. The bruises hidden under silk. The sound Velloran made when he was disappointed—how casual it had become. The weight of waiting for death with no more tears to cry.
He had lived it.
He had died in it.
And now he was here. Again.
The gods had done something. Or fate had snapped. Or time itself had pity. He didn't know.
But he was breathing.
And Lady Serathine D'Argent was standing a few steps away, watching him like a puzzle she'd already started solving.
"Still kneeling?" she asked. "You must have something very impressive to atone for."
He blinked slowly, still too unnerved to move.
His legs weren't weak, not truly—not yet—but his mind hadn't caught up with the fact that they could still carry him. That they were unbroken. That he hadn't collapsed in the dirt behind the East Wing and rotted under silk.
The memory made his stomach twist.
Then her voice came again, softer this time.
"Here," she said and extended her hand toward him, graceful and unhurried. Her amber gaze didn't flinch as she watched him wince at the ache behind his knees. "Let me help you."
He stared at her hand. So clean. Steady. No malice in her grip, no pretense.
Just a hand, offered without strings.
That made it worse, somehow.
"I—" His voice cracked; he winced at the sound of it. "You don't have to." It was difficult to remember how his voice sounded before, now that it was younger and thinner.
"I don't do anything I don't want to," she replied. "And you, darling, look like a boy the gods spat back out for a reason. Let's not waste the theatrics."
He hesitated. His fingers hovered before finally allowing them to close around hers.
Warm. Real. Alive.
The shift was almost too much. He stood with her help, stiff and slow, every movement echoing the memory of a body far older than this one. He swayed once.
She didn't let go.
"There," she murmured, brushing a non-existent crease from his sleeve. "See? Not so tragic."
His throat tightened.
He hadn't been touched like that in years.
Not without purpose. Not without cost.
And yet here she was, smoothing his sleeve like he hadn't just clawed his way back from death. Like he was just a boy—young, shaken, but whole.
He swallowed hard, unsure how long he could hold the pieces together before they slipped.
"You walk like someone twice your age," she observed, glancing down at his feet. "Has no one taught you to fake grace yet? Or are you determined to make your priest think you're halfway to martyrdom?"
Lucas didn't answer. Couldn't. Not with his heart pounding so loudly in his chest. Not when he could still smell the rot in his memory. Not when the ache in his knees felt too much like guilt.
She adjusted her fan again, tapping it lightly against her palm. "You're going to have to get better at lying, darling," she said as she turned toward the temple doors. "This court devours sincerity."
He didn't move. Not immediately. The sunlight filtering through the stained glass hit the gold embroidery at her back, gilding her like something divine.
He was still trying to understand if this was salvation or punishment.
But her words echoed.
'This court devours sincerity.'
And if what his mind had seen was true—if that pain, that death, had really happened—then all he wanted was to flee the moment he reached adulthood.
She turned her head, slow and deliberate, her expression unreadable beneath the veil of practiced grace.
The kind of look only women like her could wear. Rich beyond imagination, they are always at the top of the food chain, far from rumors and petty games.
It told him nothing. Which, of course, told him everything.
"Now, there is something interesting going on in this temple," she said eventually, almost to herself. "You should care about the court, but no matter. I think I like you enough."
The fan tapped once against her wrist. A soft, deliberate sound—like punctuation on a sentence no one else could hear.
"We would make an interesting pair," she added, the edge of a smile curling at her lips. "A socialite queen and her new protégé."
Lucas didn't know what to say to that.
He didn't know if it was a trap, a joke, or worse—genuine interest.
He hated that it was working. That he didn't flinch. That a part of him, buried deep beneath the rot and the silence, whispered Yes. This time, choose better. Choose first.