"Jean, I know you asked me not to press the issue, but about the child, Lucian... What happened today?"
Rose's voice was steady, but there was a sharp edge to it. The kind that meant she already knew I wasn't going to like what she had to say. She stood in front of my desk, arms crossed, her sun pendant earrings swaying slightly as she shifted her weight. Dressed in a deep red blazer over a burnt orange shirt, her stance was firm, no-nonsense as always.
She continued, eyes narrowing. "Do you think this has something to do with what the disciples of Delphe's Eye spoke about?"
I exhaled slowly, rubbing my temple. Of course, she'd bring that up.
"Rose, listen to me carefully." I met her gaze, leveling my tone. "Send word to him. Tell him this: 'Raziel Delmar has started to open their eyes. They're on their way to Vesperia. Be on watch."
For a brief moment, Rose's hard expression faltered, just slightly. But she recovered fast, scoffing under her breath. "And?"
"And..." I forced a small, tired smile, though my mind was clouded with concern. "How's the kid? Must be hard watching someone as gifted as them and knowing they'll never be yours."
Her lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl. "Fuck you, Jean."
I chuckled, but there was no humor in it. Just exhaustion.
Rose's tone turned razor-sharp. "And you're one to talk. You let yours walk away with a wolf in sheep's clothing. We all saw it, Jean—his 'uncle'? That wasn't his uncle. Which means his aunt was the one we were looking for, isn't that right?"
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
She took a step forward, her voice low but carrying the weight of her accusation. "You're going to let that kid fall into the wrong hands because the higher-ups said to leave it be? What the hell is the kid's deal anyway? Why go through all this secrecy?"
I sighed, the weight of the situation pressing into me like an iron chain. "Look, all we know is that somehow he's connected to the prophecy the Eye spoke about."
Rose's gaze burned into me.
I continued. "You know, the Crone's Eye Faction is more than just some backroom cult. They're the messengers of the gods—of something beyond even them. They receive prophecies, messages we don't always understand, and relay them to us so we can prepare."
I turned, staring at the bookshelf against the far wall, but my eyes weren't looking at it. "The prophecy was first told ten years ago. Then, it was repeated this year. January first."
I let the words hang in the air for a moment before reciting them.
"Beware the Salt Queen's Last Wave, For only the True King, reborn from despair, Can seal the breach or cast all into endless night. For he will be the last wave of the old, And the beginning tides of the new."
A chill settled over the room.
Rose exhaled sharply. "And you think that applies to Lucian?"
"I don't think." I turned to face her again. "I know."
She clenched her jaw but didn't argue.
I ran a hand down my face. "But there's something The Eye isn't telling us. Today, Lucian displayed more power than he should have. A lot more. And for a moment..."
I hesitated.
For a moment, I was certain he was going to kill them.
Rose's expression darkened.
I continued, my voice quieter now. "A beast was coming out. A monster. And that monster... loved to fight. Loved it too much."
I could still see it. That damn smile. The way he looked at them. The way his body moved. The way the air around him changed.
A deep unease curled in my gut. "That kid… he wasn't just fighting back, Rose. He was enjoying it. That wasn't anger. That wasn't fear. That was pure thrill."
The words settled between us like a lead weight.
Rose's gaze flickered, conflicted for just a second before she buried it under another layer of frustration.
"Jean," she said, tone softer this time, "we need to do what's best for everyone. But I get it. It's not easy."
I scoffed. "No, it isn't."
I turned back to the window, watching the sky darken outside.
"Little did I know…" I murmured. "I already started it."
As Uncle Jamie and I pulled into the driveway, the sight of the house brought a mix of relief and dread.
It looked normal. Neat. Ordinary. A well-kept suburban home with a welcoming front porch, warm lights glowing from the windows. A place that was supposed to feel safe.
But I knew better.
Inside these walls, everything was a carefully constructed illusion—a stage for the twisted play that unfolded behind closed doors.
The living room was cozy in all the ways that counted: plush furniture, soft lighting, tasteful decor. But it wasn't real. It was too curated, too perfect. The photos on the walls—smiling faces, a picture-perfect family—felt like props in some sick charade of normalcy.
And my room? Red and black decor. Racing-themed. A reflection of someone I was supposed to be. A sanctuary built for a version of me that didn't exist anymore.
Uncle Jamie stood next to the car, arms crossed, silent. His posture, his presence—it screamed discipline. A military man through and through. The way he carried himself, the way he expected perfection, the way his eyes told you when you had already disappointed him before he even spoke.
Tonight was no different.
He wasn't in uniform, but the authority never left him. Just a polo shirt and jeans, yet the air around him was suffocating.
Then there was Aunt Sarah.
Elegant. Sharp. Always poised, always composed. Dressed to perfection—stylish, yet never flashy. Her dark hair in a neat bun, glasses perched just right, every little detail as calculated as the words that left her lips.
She played the role of the loving caretaker with chilling accuracy.
We stepped inside, and the calm atmosphere wrapped around us like a snake.
The scent of dinner filled the air—something hearty, rich, warm. A deception. A distraction.
We sat at the table. The meal was served with practiced grace. The conversation? Casual. At first.
School. Sports. The weather.
And then—
The shift.
Aunt Sarah, setting down her fork with the faintest clink against the porcelain, turned to me. Her smile is unwavering.
"So, how was school today, Lucian?" Her tone was light. Too light.
I shrugged. Neutral. Controlled. "It was fine. Nothing special."
Uncle Jamie didn't look at me immediately, but I could feel the weight of his gaze. Measuring. Calculating.
Then—his voice. Steady. Too steady.
"I heard there was a bit of excitement today."
I froze. Just for a second.
"Something about a… scuffle?"
The air thinned. My grip on the fork tightened. "Yeah," I said, forcing nonchalance. "There was a little fight. But it wasn't a big deal."
Aunt Sarah's eyes narrowed slightly. The smile stayed.
"Fights are never just 'little,' Lucian." Her voice was soft. Too soft. "They have consequences. Don't they?"
I swallowed. Nodded. "I know. It just… got out of hand."
Uncle Jamie leaned back in his chair, arms still crossed. His stare was unreadable.
"You need to learn to control your temper."
I swallowed hard.
Not like other kids.
It was a phrase they'd always thrown at me. Like a mantra. A quiet warning. A reminder that I was different—that their expectations sat heavier on my shoulders than anyone else's.
But how? They never told me that part.
The only thing I knew for sure was that anything less than perfection was unacceptable—because imperfection meant exposure. It meant questions. It meant letting the cracks show, and if they saw the cracks, they'd start to dig. And if they dug too deep, they might find the truth, I didn't even understand myself. So I learned to smile when I wanted to scream, to nod when I wanted to disappear, to ace every test and master every move until the person they saw was the mask, and I wasn't sure if there was anything left underneath it anymore.
Aunt Sarah reached across the table, placing a delicate hand over mine. The warmth of her touch was an illusion. Nothing was comforting about it. Cold. Calculated. Empty. "We're just worried about you, sweetie," she murmured, voice dripping with manufactured concern. "We want you to succeed. To be the best you can be."
I pulled my hand away. "I know." The words felt like dust in my mouth. My eyes stayed locked on my plate.
A heavy silence settled over the table. No one spoke. No one moved. But the weight of unspoken expectations sat thick in the air, pressing into my chest like a slow-building storm.
Uncle Jamie was the one to finally break it. "You understand the problem, don't you?" His voice was low, measured, but the edge was there. The tension. The warning.
I didn't look up. I didn't want to see his face. "You didn't just pick a fight today, Lucian. You picked a fight with the wrong people."
I clenched my fists beneath the table. "They came after me first." My voice was steady, but I could feel something simmering beneath the surface. An old, familiar heat.
"Doesn't matter," he shot back. "You broke them. And now their families will come looking for us."
All of them. Major players. Powerhouses. Families with reach and influence in every corner of the world.
I had crippled their sons. And now they were coming.
"We need to leave. Tonight."
Aunt Sarah sighed, dabbing her mouth with a napkin like we were discussing the weather and not my impending execution.
"Start packing, Lucian," Uncle Jamie said. "Say your goodbyes. We're out of here in an hour."
I didn't hesitate.
I pushed away from the table, chair scraping against the floor, and left.
I made my way through the dimly lit hallway, feet moving faster than my thoughts. I didn't even know where I was going until I stopped in front of her door.
Caree Uriel McLyion.
The only person in this house who didn't see me as a problem to be fixed.
I knocked once.
"Come in, Lu."
Her voice. Warm. Familiar. Safe.
I stepped inside.
She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, a sketchbook balanced on her thighs. Her room smelled like ink, old books, and the faint scent of vanilla lotion and cocoa butter. The walls were lined with paintings—her work. She was always drawing something.
She looked up at me, deep brown eyes catching the dim light.
"Something's up," she said immediately.
I exhaled, rubbing the back of my neck. "Yeah. We're leaving."
Caree frowned, closing her sketchbook. "Leaving? As in—?"
"Tonight."
She stared at me for a long moment, then swung her legs off the bed and stood. She was tall, not as tall as I, but close. Five-foot-nine, built strong. She wasn't just any A-Rank Mage—she was one of the best. The only reason she hadn't joined a Syndicate yet was because she was waiting for her application to Vermillion Pheasant.
The Number One Syndicate.
She folded her arms. "Who'd you piss off?"
"All of them."
A long pause. Then she sighed, shaking her head. "Of course you did."
I gave her a half-smirk. "Wouldn't be me if I didn't."
She huffed, walking over and smacking me upside the head.
"Dumbass."
"Ow—hey!"
"You're out here making enemies with Syndicate families?" She crossed her arms again, tilting her head. "You got a death wish or something?"
I didn't answer. Because I didn't know.
Silence stretched between us.
Caree sighed, dropping onto her desk chair, spinning it to face me. "You know, for someone as smart as you, you suck at planning."
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered. "I'm working on it."
She studied me for a second, then suddenly smiled.
"Come here."
I frowned. "Why?"
"Because I said so, dumbass."
I rolled my eyes but stepped closer.
She reached out, then smacked the hell out of my forehead.
"OW—what the—!"
"That's for making me worry." She smirked.
Then, before I could complain, she pulled me into a hug.
I froze.
"Be safe, Lu." Her voice was softer now. "I know you don't want to leave, but… I have a bad feeling about this. Just promise me you'll watch your back, okay?"
I hesitated. Then, slowly, I raised my arms and hugged her back.
"Yeah. I promise."
But as I pulled away, something gnawed at the back of my mind.
"Wait." I frowned, taking a step back. "You're not coming with us?"
Caree's expression shifted—just slightly.
"Nah," she said, forcing a casual shrug. "I'm staying behind. Gotta finish packing things up."
I narrowed my eyes. "Packing things up? For what?"
She exhaled through her nose, then reached over to her desk, flipping open a sleek black envelope—the kind reserved for official Syndicate notices.
My stomach dropped.
"No way."
Caree smirked, flipping the envelope between her fingers before handing it to me."Got my acceptance letter. Vermillion Pheasant."
I stared at the letter, feeling a weird mix of emotions.
Relief. Pride. Dread.
"When?"
I leave in a couple of days. Just gotta finalize everything here first. But yeah—officially a Pheasant now."
I ran a hand through my hair. "So that's why you're not coming. You're not packing up our stuff—you're packing for yourself."
She shrugged again, but this time it felt forced.
"Pretty much."
For some reason, that didn't sit right with me.
"You could still come with us, though. Just long enough to lay low, then catch your transport to VP later. It'd be safer that way."
She scoffed. "Lucian, I'm A-Rank. And I'm officially Syndicate-affiliated now. Nobody's coming after me."
That wasn't the point.
I knew nobody would touch a newly recruited Pheasant. But something in my gut twisted at the thought of leaving her behind.
"Just doesn't feel right," I muttered.
Caree smiled, shaking her head. "You're acting like I won't see you again."
You won't.
I didn't say it. But the thought sank deep into my mind, heavier than it should've been.
Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe it was the lingering rush from the fight.
Or maybe it was something else.
Because, for some reason, as I looked at her, the image blurred.
I didn't see Caree sitting at her desk, smirking at me.
I saw her lying in a hospital bed, unconscious, with chaotic energy plaguing her body.
I blinked. The vision was gone.
But the feeling remained.
"Lucian?" Caree raised an eyebrow. "You good?"
"Yeah." My voice was hollow.
She studied me for a second longer, then smirked. "C'mon, don't look so mopey. This is what we always talked about, right? Making something of ourselves? You get your big adventure, and I get to be a badass on the best team in the world."
I forced a smirk. "So basically, I get stuck doing all the work while you sit pretty in VP?"
"Hey, I earned my spot, okay?" She nudged my shoulder, rolling her eyes. "I didn't just beat up a bunch of Syndicate brats in an afterschool program—"
"Wow. Alright. Damn."
Caree snickered.
For a second, things almost felt normal.
Then Uncle Jamie's voice rang through the house. "Lucian! Time to go!"
My stomach twisted again.
Caree stretched, rolling her shoulders. "Guess that's my cue to say goodbye."
I nodded.
But I still didn't move.
"Lu?"
I looked back.
She grinned, giving me a lazy salute. "You better not forget me when you get all famous and shit."
I smirked. "Not a chance."
And then I left.
I hesitated for a second, glancing at my uncle, who was pulling bags from the trunk. His jaw was tight, his movements sharper than usual. He was still pissed.
But there was something else. Something I couldn't put my finger on.