For a long time after he returned, none of them knew what to say.
The cell was the same—stone walls slick with damp, iron bars etched with dull runes, the sickly glow that never let the eyes rest. The air still tasted of rust and old water. But the silence inside it had changed.
It had weight now.
Elenora hovered near him like a flame trying not to flicker out. She kept reaching for him, then stopping herself at the last second, as if touch might shatter something fragile and unfamiliar. Lucien sat opposite, back against the wall, shoulders rigid, eyes never leaving the boy's body as though he could rewrite the scars by sheer will.
The boy sat where they placed him, cross-legged, hands resting neatly in his lap.
He didn't fidget.
He didn't ask questions.
He didn't cry.
And that terrified them more than the scars.
Elenora was the first to break the silence.
"You're cold," she whispered, voice hoarse. "Come here."
The boy hesitated.
Not because he didn't want to—some buried part of him ached for it—but because his body had learned that closeness often preceded pain. It was an old rule now: nothing warm lasts.
Elenora held her arms open anyway, patient, trembling.
Lucien said nothing, but his gaze softened by a fraction.
After a long moment, the boy shifted forward.
Elenora wrapped him in her arms and pulled him against her chest, careful not to press too hard on the scarred ridges that ran across his shoulders and ribs. He was smaller than he should have been for thirteen, lean and tightly held together, as if even his muscles were afraid to take up space.
The boy's body went rigid.
Elenora tightened her hold just enough to anchor him.
"It's me," she whispered, again and again. "It's me. You're safe here. You're safe with us."
Safe.
The word slid across his mind like water on stone—unable to sink in.
But he didn't pull away.
That alone felt like a victory.
The first step to repairing him, Elenora decided, was routine.
Not because routine fixed pain. But because routine created a shape the mind could rest against. In the experiment chambers, everything had been designed to be unpredictable—pain at random, hunger at whim, mercy as bait.
In the cell, she rebuilt structure using only their voices.
"Morning," she said the first time, even though there was no sun. She touched his hair gently, fingers threading through dull grey strands. "We start with breathing."
Lucien nodded. "Then posture."
The boy obeyed automatically.
He had been trained to obey.
But Elenora didn't want obedience.
She wanted presence.
"In," she said softly. "Four counts. Hold. Out. Four counts."
The boy breathed.
His breath was shallow at first, more habit than function, but Elenora's voice stayed steady.
"Again," she murmured. "Not because you must. Because you choose."
Choose.
That word was sharper than safe.
It made something inside him twitch.
He tried again.
This time the breath went deeper, just barely, like the body remembered it had a chest meant for air and not just pain.
Lucien watched closely, then spoke when the boy's shoulders started to loosen.
"Feet," Lucien said. "Feel them on the stone. Weight distributed evenly. You are not prey."
The boy's jaw tightened.
Lucien's voice softened. "You are not prey anymore."
Elenora leaned close, lips near his ear.
"You are our son," she whispered. "And you are still here."
The boy didn't respond. But the rigid line of his spine eased another fraction.
They brought back the old lessons like stitching over a wound.
Etiquette first.
Not for nobility.
For identity.
Lucien corrected the way the boy held his chin, the way his gaze wandered too distantly.
"Look at me when I speak," Lucien said, not harshly—firmly. "Not because I demand it. Because you deserve to be here."
The boy lifted his eyes.
They were grey, dull, drained.
But for a second, Lucien saw something behind them. A flicker of intelligence sharpened by cruelty.
Lucien swallowed hard and continued.
"Your words matter," he said. "Even in a cage."
He made the boy practice introductions.
"State your name," Lucien said.
The boy's lips parted.
Nothing came out.
Elenora flinched like the silence had struck her.
Lucien's expression remained steady, but his hands clenched.
Again, Lucien tried—gentler.
"Not now," he said quietly. "Just… repeat after me."
He spoke the name like it was sacred.
"Aurelian."
The boy's eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
A tremor passed through his mouth, his throat.
"…Aur…" he whispered, voice cracking.
Elenora's hand flew to cover her mouth. Tears filled her eyes instantly.
Lucien's gaze burned with fierce relief.
The boy swallowed, breathing shallowly, like saying the name had cut something loose inside him.
"Aurelian," he whispered again, clearer this time.
The cell felt suddenly quieter, as if even the runes paused to listen.
Elenora pressed her forehead to his hair.
"You remembered," she whispered. "You remembered."
The boy stared at the floor, hands trembling slightly.
"It won't stay," he said softly. "Sometimes it… slips away."
"Then we will teach it back," Lucien said.
Not a promise.
A vow.
That night, Lucien began teaching him something new.
Not the family sword art.
Not yet.
This was different.
This was the sword that existed before steel.
A discipline for the mind.
"When they interrogate you," Lucien said quietly, "they don't just want your words. They want your shape. They want to carve you into what they need."
The boy listened without blinking.
Lucien continued. "A swordsman fights with body and blade. But the first battlefield is here."
He tapped two fingers lightly against the boy's forehead.
"The mind can be cut. It can bleed. It can scar. But it can also be trained like muscle."
Elenora watched anxiously. "Lucien…"
"This is necessary," Lucien said. "They've already begun experimenting. If they return him to that room, they'll try to break him again. We need him to endure without losing himself."
The boy's voice was flat. "I already lost myself."
Lucien's gaze sharpened.
"No," he said firmly. "You are speaking to me. That means you're still here. Broken is not gone."
Then he taught the discipline.
It was called The Still Blade—an old Valemont meditation used by soldiers facing fear, pain, and mind intrusion. It was designed to keep a swordsman coherent under torture, poison, or grief.
Lucien spoke slowly, guiding him.
"Close your eyes," he said.
The boy obeyed.
"Imagine a blade," Lucien continued. "Not in your hand. Not in the world. In your mind."
The boy's breathing stuttered.
Elenora reached for his hand, squeezing gently.
Lucien's voice stayed steady. "A blade does not argue with pain. It does not beg. It does not run. It exists."
The boy's lips twitched faintly.
Lucien kept going. "Now imagine your thoughts like water. Turbulent, loud, chaotic. Pain stirs it. Fear churns it. They want you drowning."
The boy's fingers tightened around Elenora's.
Lucien's voice dropped lower. "But water can become still. You do not fight it. You let it settle. One breath at a time."
In.
Hold.
Out.
The boy's breathing began to follow the pattern.
Lucien continued. "When they hurt you, do not think: I am in pain. That makes you the pain. Instead think: Pain is present. Like rain. Like wind. Something outside you that passes through."
Elenora's eyes squeezed shut, tears slipping free. She couldn't bear the idea of teaching her son how to be tortured.
But Lucien's gaze did not waver.
"I know it's cruel," he said softly to her, then back to the boy: "But cruelty is already in the world. This discipline is how you survive it."
The boy's voice came as a whisper. "Will it stop hurting?"
Lucien exhaled slowly.
"No," he said honestly. "But it will stop owning you."
The boy went very still.
Lucien guided him deeper.
"Build a room in your mind," he said. "A place they cannot enter. A place only you can open."
The boy's brow furrowed slightly.
Elenora whispered, "Think of the academy courtyard."
The boy flinched. A flash—sunlight, laughter, warmth.
He swallowed hard, but he held the image.
Lucien nodded as if sensing the shift. "Good. A room. Now place the blade in the center of it. And tell yourself: I am the hand that holds it. Not them."
Silence stretched.
Then the boy's breathing steadied.
For the first time since he had returned, his shoulders lowered fully.
Elenora stared at him, astonished.
He looked… present.
Not healed.
Not whole.
But anchored.
Healing, they learned, was not sudden.
It was a series of small returns.
The next day, the boy ate without waiting to be told. He didn't rush, but he didn't leave the food untouched either. He drank water slowly, like he wanted to keep living.
Lucien taught him posture again, but now it wasn't just etiquette—it was reclaiming shape.
"Stand like you belong to your body," Lucien said.
The boy stood.
His knees shook.
Lucien didn't comment on the weakness. Only said, "Again."
Elenora taught him memory anchors—little rituals to tie him to himself. Touch the scar on his left wrist and repeat his name. Press his thumb against his palm and remember his mother's voice. Count three breaths and picture his father's eyes.
Aurelian.
Aurelian.
Aurelian.
The name began to stick.
Not perfectly.
But more often.
The boy started speaking more. Not much, but enough.
Sometimes he asked questions that weren't tactical.
"Did… the sky look like the pictures?" he asked one night, voice small.
Elenora blinked, then nodded, smiling through tears. "Yes," she whispered. "And when you see it, you'll know it's real."
He absorbed that quietly.
Lucien watched him, the corners of his mouth tightening.
The boy was coming back.
Slowly.
Painfully.
But coming back.
Then the corridor outside shifted again.
Footsteps.
Keys.
The cult didn't forget their tools.
The boy's body tensed, but Lucien's hand landed on his shoulder—firm, grounding.
"Still Blade," Lucien said softly.
The boy closed his eyes for a heartbeat.
In.
Hold.
Out.
When he opened them again, his gaze was steadier.
Not fearless.
But controlled.
Elenora squeezed his hand, voice shaking but determined.
"No matter what they do," she whispered, echoing words from years ago, "you come back to us."
Aurelian nodded once.
And for the first time, he believed he could.