The Sancturm corridors always smelled of dust and incense. But tonight, as Lucian moved through them, they smelled like secrets.
He passed the northern ward quietly. No armor. No cloak. Just soft leather boots, a plain tunic, and a hood pulled over his face. It was the third night in a row he walked these halls when the moon was highest.
The Archive Vault was sealed by twelve layers of sanctified magic. Nine of them were Council-made.
He broke them all in under three minutes.
---
The room inside was dead cold.
A relic chamber where cursed artifacts—swords, scrolls, bones—were kept under strict prohibition.
Lucian walked past a rusted crown once worn by a mad king. Past a vial of screaming light that twisted inside its glass. Past a twin dagger with blood that never dried.
He stopped at the center altar.
Where the Crimson Veil floated.
It shimmered in the air, a cloak woven of red thread and dying stars. Said to belong to the first Sancturm traitor—a warrior who challenged the Council during its founding and was erased from every record.
Lucian reached out.
His hand trembled.
But the Veil came willingly.
It wrapped around his shoulders like it knew him.
---
He returned before dawn. The cloak folded into his satchel. His heartbeat louder than footsteps.
At the gates, Riven waited.
"Where were you?"
"Nowhere," Lucian replied.
Riven studied him. "You're lying."
"I know."
Neither spoke further.
---
That morning, the Council summoned Riven—not Lucian.
They asked about his behavior. His absences. His shift in power signatures.
"He's grieving," Riven said flatly.
Valen narrowed his eyes. "Grief doesn't bend marble and whisper in the old tongue."
Thorne added, "He's changing."
"No," Riven said. "He already has."
---
Lucian stood on the far cliffs of the Sancturm's outer edge, staring into the sky like it might have answers.
He slipped the Crimson Veil over his shoulders.
It responded instantly.
His body flickered—just slightly—like his spirit had stepped an inch outside his flesh.
He focused.
Suddenly, he was inside the Sancturm barracks.
He hadn't moved his body.
But he saw through the eyes of a young guard drinking water.
A whisper of power.
Lucian exhaled.
Then blinked—and he was back on the cliff.
His nose bled. Slightly.
Not perfect.
But it had worked.
He smiled.
---
That night, in a Council chamber lit by bluefire, one of the elder scribes was found dead.
No wounds. No signs of struggle.
Just a mirror, cracked in half, at his feet.
And on the wall—drawn in his own ink—was a single phrase:
> "He sees you now."
---
Riven confronted Lucian two days later.
"You're playing with things you don't understand."
Lucian's eyes glowed faintly in the dark.
"I understand more than they ever wanted me to."
Riven shook his head. "You're turning into them."
"No," Lucian said, stepping past him. "I'm turning into what they fear."
---
Lira found the old notes beneath Lucian's bed.
Drawings of possession runes. Half-finished mirror glyphs. A map of the vaults. Timelines. Names.
She sat alone that night, holding one note in particular:
> "They've lied about everything. But I'll make them confess it all."
Her hands trembled.
She didn't know whether to warn him… or stay beside him.
Because even in the madness growing within him—he was still hers.
For now