Chapter 53 53
And the more Lucien taught me—small movements, subtle balances of lightning and shadow—the more I realized he wasn’t the cold, terrifying prince everyone painted him as.
He was easygoing. Teasing. Funny, even.
“You grip your sword too tight,” he joked as I tried channeling lightning through a practice blade. “Do you stab your breakfast eggs like that too?”
“Only when people sass me before my coffee.”
Lucien barked a laugh.
Alaric, though? His face might as well have been carved from granite.
When I caught him looking, finally, he met my gaze full-on—blue eyes locked on mine like the whole world had narrowed down to just that moment.
Lucien cleared his throat. “We should pause. I don’t want to burn you out.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, wiping sweat from my brow. “Good idea.”
As I turned, Lucien caught my hand—not in a flirtatious way, more like steadying my wrist as a fellow mage.
But Alaric moved.
In three steps, he was beside us, his hand closing gently—very gently—around my other wrist.
“That’s enough for today,” Alaric said, voice quiet but final.
Lucien raised both brows, amused but not stupid. “Jealous, Duke?”
“I prefer to call it… cautious.”
Lucien’s smirk flickered, but it wasn’t sharp. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to steal your knight.”
His eyes flicked to mine, amused. “Unless she wants to be stolen.”
Alaric didn’t blink. “She doesn’t.”
I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or combust on the spot.
Later, walking back through the quiet palace gardens, I asked Alaric quietly:
“Are you really that bothered by him?”
He gave me a sidelong look, thumb brushing idly across my knuckles. “No.”
A pause.
Then he added:
“But if he touches you again like that, I’ll punch him anyway.”
The next day.
It was late.
The kind of quiet where the palace seemed to breathe on its own—candles flickering low, marble halls echoing with the distant hush of wind through stained-glass windows.
I’d gone to the castle library. Not for books, really. I just... needed the silence.
But of course, silence didn’t last long in my life.
Prince Damian Lucien found me there, standing near the tall arched windows overlooking the moonlit courtyard. I wasn’t surprised. I’d started expecting him in moments like this.
He stepped in without announcement, all quiet boots and shadow-wrapped presence.
"You always come here when you can't sleep," he said, voice casual but deliberate.
"I like the quiet," I replied. "No knights. No councils. No prophecies hanging over my head like bad wallpaper."
Lucien chuckled softly. "Bad wallpaper is exactly the right mood."
He stood beside me now, hands in his pockets, looking out the same window.
And I just... asked it. Because the weight of it had been bothering me since that first day he’d walked back into the world like a living ghost.
"Why me?" I asked quietly, not looking at him. "Why are you so interested in my magic? Why not just... tell everyone whatever shadow plan you have and handle it yourself?"
Lucien’s jaw flexed like he wasn’t sure whether to lie or laugh. But in the end, he answered:
"Because I know you’re the only one who can do it. Defeat the final Rift." His voice softened into something honest. Heavy. "With me. And Alaric."
My throat tightened.
"That’s not just flattery?"
Lucien actually smiled—small and real. "If it were flattery, I’d tell you your eyes look like midnight lightning storms." His gaze flicked to mine then. "But no. This isn’t about that."
I turned fully to face him, needing the whole truth now. "How do you know?"
Lucien let out a slow breath. Then... he said it.
"When I was missing. Trapped in the Rift."
He glanced up at the window again, eyes reflecting pale moonlight like glass.
"I found him. Max."
My pulse jumped. "Max."
Lucien nodded slowly.
"I don’t know how long I was there—weeks, months, years? Time doesn’t work right inside. But one day, I stumbled into this... clearing. It wasn’t like the rest of the Rift. There were no monsters. No rot. Just a single man, sitting cross-legged under a dead tree."
Lucien’s voice grew quieter, edged with something close to reverence.
"He looked ancient. Hair silver-white. Robes like he’d been meditating for centuries. But when I asked him who he was, he just... smiled."
I swallowed. "What did he say?"
"He told me stories," Lucien murmured. "About things that didn’t make sense. Places with lights in the sky that never went out. Metal carriages without horses. He called it ‘Earth.’"
I froze.
Lucien saw it.
"He said there was someone. Someone from that world who could save this kingdom when the final Rift opened. Someone who would arrive here... storm-born."
He didn’t say my name. But he didn’t have to.
Max had known.
"I didn’t believe him at first," Lucien admitted. "But then... he told me your name. Abby."
My knees felt weak. I grabbed the edge of the window ledge.
"That’s impossible," I whispered.
Lucien’s expression flickered with dry humor. "So’s surviving a Rift with no magic. Yet here I am."
I exhaled shakily. "What else did he say?"
"Only that I wasn’t meant to fight alone," Lucien said, voice going softer. "That there were three. Shadow. Storm. Flame."
He didn’t need to explain.
Shadow. Him.
Storm. Me.
Flame... Alaric.
It made my heart twist painfully in my chest.
"So," I whispered, glancing down at my hands. "That’s why you’ve been hovering like a smug cat with too many secrets."
Lucien’s smile tilted. "Maybe."
I shook my head, eyes burning—not from tears, but from how overwhelming it all felt.
"And the council doesn’t know?"
"No," he said. "They can barely handle prophecies involving one chosen knight, let alone... whatever this is."
"Why tell me?"
Lucien shrugged lightly. "Because if the final Rift really is coming, you deserve to know. And..." His smile softened into something gentler now. "I trust you not to run."
I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of that trust settle over me like a second cloak.
Silence stretched between us for a long minute.