Chapter 10: Here We Go Again, Going Back to That Damn Royal Academy
Morning arrived over the EverBlack estate like a reluctant guest, slipping in on tiptoe through the velvet curtains that framed the tall windows like heavy-lidded eyes. Golden light pooled across marble floors veined with silver whispers, spilling over silken sheets rumpled from another night of fitful vigil, turning the room into a canvas of soft amber and lingering shadow. The mansion held its breath in the hush of dawn, its grand halls echoing with the faint creak of settling beams and the distant murmur of servants stirring like ghosts in the walls—lives orbiting the family's unyielding core, unseen but ever-present.
Lucian sat motionless by the window, a silhouette etched against the rising sun, his dark eyes—hollow as wells that had run dry—framed by the deep bruises of shadows that spoke of yet another sleepless night. Sleep had become a stranger these past months, a fleeting visitor who knocked and fled before the door could open, leaving him adrift in the quiet hours where thoughts circled like vultures over barren ground.
Two months.
Two months since fate's capricious hand had yanked him back into this vessel—his third unraveling, regression, or whatever twisted jest the heavens played on weary souls. Time had blurred into a misty haze, days bleeding into one another like watercolors left too long in the rain; only the ache endured, a constant companion sharper than any blade, threading through his veins like invisible wire.
In those weeks, his existence had settled into a rhythm as predictable as the tide's pull—quiet, mechanical, stripped of the fire that once defined him. Each dawn, he would slip from his chamber like a shadow seeking light, tracing the narrow path that snaked behind the mansion's stern facade. It wound past overgrown thickets where wildflowers nodded in secretive clusters, up the grassy slope of the hill that overlooked the sprawling capital—a modest rise, unclaimed by gardeners or grandeur, where the world below seemed distant, almost kind.
It was his sole breath of freedom, that hill—his one sanctuary amid the cage of stone and expectation. There, beneath the ancient tree's sprawling arms, he would settle against its rough bark, roots cradling him like the indifferent hold of an old friend. He sat in silence, gaze lost to the horizon where the city's spires pierced the sky like defiant fingers, the wind sifting through his ashen-white hair with fingers cool and careless. Sometimes, he plucked the small fruits that clustered near the tree's base—tart bursts of red, barely sweetened by sun, their juice sharp on his tongue but enough to quiet the hollow growl in his belly, a simple act of survival in a body that felt less like home and more like borrowed time.
On softer days, his sister Lucia would appear at the path's crest, a vision in her simple gown, silver hair catching the light like threads of captured moonlight. She carried parcels wrapped in warm cloth—fresh bread still steaming from the ovens, cheeses soft as whispered secrets, fruits ripened to honeyed yield—setting them beside him with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, her presence a quiet offering no words could demand.
He always met her with the same ritual, voice even as polished stone. "Thank you, Lucia."
Polite. Distant. A shell of courtesy, empty of the warmth that once flickered between them like candleflame.
She never pressed, never let frustration crease her brow, but he felt it all the same—the subtle fracture in her gaze, the way her shoulders dipped a fraction heavier each time, as if his numbness chipped at the edges of her hope. And yet, he couldn't summon the curve of a smile, couldn't bridge the chasm with feigned light—not anymore. The well of joy had run as dry as his tears, leaving only the echo of what might have been.
A soft knock shattered the morning's fragile peace, rapping against the chamber door like a hesitant heartbeat. "Young Master Lucian, it's time for breakfast."
The voice belonged to the same maid as the day before—young, with that practiced lilt of deference servants wove around nobles like thorns around a rose, cautious as if bracing for the sudden lash of temper or the cold dismissal that could shatter a morning's calm.
Lucian turned his head toward the sound, the motion deliberate as a clock's hand marking the hour, then rose from the chair with the quiet grace of one long accustomed to burdens unseen. "...Alright," he murmured, his tone a level murmur, too even, too devoid of the old edges that once sharpened every word. A pause lingered, then he added, softer still, "I'll be joining this time. And... sorry for yesterday."
The maid faltered on the threshold, her eyes widening a fraction behind the door's slim crack—surprise blooming like a sudden bloom in winter soil. The apology hung there, small and unadorned, whispered like a confession long held, sincere in its rarity. She dipped into a quick bow, composure fracturing just enough to betray her uncertainty. "Y-yes, young master. I'll inform the family at once."
The door clicked shut, sealing him in solitude once more, and Lucian stood a beat longer, gaze snaring on the full-length mirror that loomed like a silent judge across the room. His reflection stared back: the ashen-white hair falling in untamed waves, the abyssal black of his eyes swallowing the morning's gold—familiar lines, yet twisted by the stranger wearing them.
'This face,' he thought, the bitterness a slow seep like ink in water, 'is cursed to echo every mistake, every fall.'
He shrugged free of the night's rumpled robe, the silk whispering to the floor like a shed skin, and crossed into the adjoining bath—a sanctuary of white tile and steam-veiled mirrors, where the air hung thick with the crisp bite of cold soap and polished stone. Water cascaded from the spout in a silver fall, warm against his skin as he stepped beneath, rivulets tracing paths down his back like futile attempts to wash away the grime of ghosts. He lingered longer than habit demanded, the steady rush a white-noise veil against the world's insistent hum, steam curling around him like half-formed thoughts. The heat seeped into muscle and bone, but it never truly touched the cold knot at his core—never thawed the frost that had settled there since the north's final storm.
When he emerged at last, droplets still beading on his shoulders like unshed regrets, he dressed with methodical care in the Blackstar family's casual attire: a crisp white shirt tucked beneath a vest of midnight wool, tailored pants falling straight as a noble's resolve, the silver insignia at his collar catching the light like a watchful eye. It was the uniform of privilege, every seam a testament to blood and birthright—yet his eyes, those endless voids, betrayed none of the fire such garb demanded.
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The dining hall unfolded like a stage set for ritual, sunlight pouring through grand arched windows in lavish cascades, gilding the long oak table and setting polished silverware agleam like scattered stars. The air carried the comforting hush of morning repast: the rich savor of roasted meats slow-simmered to tender yield, the yeasty warmth of fresh-baked bread rising like a quiet promise, faint notes of herbal tea mingling with the subtle tang of preserved fruits.
At the table's head presided his father, Draven EverBlack Von Blackstar—a monolith of authority, stern features chiseled as if from empire granite, sharp eyes the color of storm-tossed seas scanning the room with the unblinking vigilance of one who commanded legions with a glance. Beside him sat his mother, Lissette Imelda Von Blackstar, a vision of poised elegance in her gown of deep sapphire silk, every movement graceful as a dancer's arc—yet her hands clasped tight in her lap, knuckles pale as if wrestling invisible chains, her quiet worry a veil thinner than lace.
Across from her lounged Damon, golden heir to the Blackstar blaze, leaning back in his chair with the easy sprawl of unchallenged confidence, his gaze darting between siblings and parents like a hawk tracing fleeting shadows, curiosity sharpening the blue ice of his eyes. Lucia occupied the opposite seat, her silver tresses catching the light like woven moonlight, watching the doorway with the soft vigilance of a sister who knew the fractures in family stone all too well.
Lucian entered like a draft through an ill-sealed door—quiet, unannounced—and dipped his head in the ritual bow, voice even as still water. "Father. Mother."
Draven lifted his gaze from the delicate porcelain cup cradled in his hand, steam rising like unspoken judgments, his expression a mask of imperial stone—unreadable, yet etched with the faint lines of a man who bore the weight of legacies like armor too long worn. "Lucian."
The hush that followed thickened, heavy as the air before thunder, broken only by the faint chime of forks against plates, the subtle scrape of a napkin unfolded. At last, Draven's voice cut through, even but laced with frost's edge. "Have you reflected on what you did to the princess?"
Lucian halted mid-stride, the question landing like a thrown gauntlet in the sunlit expanse.
It hung there, sharp and suspended, a blade balanced on its point.
Draven's gaze intensified, steeling to tempered iron. "You shamed this house when you let that engagement crumble to dust. You humiliated the Blackstar name before the royal court's unblinking eyes—turned our honor to fodder for their whispers."
Lucian raised his head with glacial slowness, meeting his father's stare not with the blaze of old defiance, but with eyes like polished onyx—vast, absorbing, utterly still.
No spark of anger to ignite the fray. No flare of rebellion to challenge the throne. No shadow of fear to betray the heart.
Just... nothing. A void that drank the light, leaving the room colder in its wake.
Lissette's breath snagged, a fragile hitch in the quiet, her fingers tightening on Draven's sleeve. That look... she thought, a shiver tracing her spine like frost on glass. It's not the gaze of a wayward son, lost in youthful storms. It's the eyes of one who's danced too close to death's door—too many times, and come away with nothing but the echo.
Lucian stood frozen in that tableau, unmoving as a statue in a forgotten garden, the weight of expectation pressing down like an unseen crown.
Draven's patience frayed at the edges, his voice sharpening like a whetstone on steel. "Answer me, boy."
Silence deepened, a chasm widening between father and son.
The duke's timbre rose, edged now with the thunder of command. "Lucian Azrael Von Blackstar, you will—"
"Draven," Lissette interjected, her voice a gentle current damming the flood, her hand alighting on his like a dove on turbulent waters—firm in its maternal resolve, yet soft as the plea beneath.
Draven whipped his head toward her, eyes narrowing like storm clouds gathering, but the words died unspoken at the tremor veiling her features—the quiet fracture in her composure, a mother's intuition laid bare.
"He's... different," she breathed, the admission a fragile thread in the heavy air. "Can't you see it? The way he carries himself... like the world's weight has already broken him."
Her husband's frown deepened, carving lines like ravines in his brow, but he held his tongue, the fire in his gaze banking to embers.
The tension coiled a moment longer, taut as a bow at full draw, before Draven exhaled—a gust of restrained gale—and reclined in his chair, the wood creaking like a concession. "...Very well. We'll table this poison—for now."
Lucian inclined his head in a slow, measured nod, his face a blank scroll awaiting ink that never came.
Draven's expression eased a fraction, the iron softening to tempered resolve, though his words landed with the gravity of decree. "Regardless of the rot that's taken root, you return to the Royal Academy today. It's past time you righted your course, Lucian—no more skulking in shadows, evading the duties of your blood. Face the forge and emerge tempered, or be lost to it."
Lucian's lips parted on a silent breath, but no protest rose—no flicker of the old venom to challenge the edict. He simply lowered his gaze in quiet assent, the motion as inevitable as the sun's arc.
The academy—the grand edifice of marble and mana, where nobles sharpened their edges on whetstones of rivalry and romance—held no allure, no dread. The echoing halls, the scheming faces, the intricate games of reputation spun like spider silk... none of it stirred the ashes of his spirit. It was all chaff in the wind, meaningless as echoes in an empty hall.
But this was the script, the cage's unyielding bars. His role, etched in the stars of this world's cruel play.
'Here we go again,' he thought, the words a weary refrain in the quiet forge of his mind. 'Back to that damn academy... back to the unraveling.'
The same vaulted arches, the same masks of feigned alliance, the same inexorable tale coiling to ensnare him once more.
Only this time, no arrogance would armor his steps. No fire would kindle his retorts. No ambition would drive his hand.
Just a man who had tasted death's bitter cup too often—treading the path of a life he no longer held faith in, a shadow among the living.
Lucian straightened the collar of his vest with fingers steady as stone, then turned toward the door, voice emerging soft but unyielding as a vow whispered to the wind. "Understood."
As he crossed the threshold into the corridor, the morning sun snared his hair in its golden net, casting it in a fleeting halo of pale silver light—a crown for the condemned.
To the world beyond these walls, he appeared the picture of young nobility: poised, unrumpled, stepping forth to claim another day of privilege and pursuit, the weight of expectation a mantle he wore without strain.
But in the hidden chambers of his heart, he knew the unvarnished truth.
He was striding once more into the narrative of his own undoing—again.