Folded letter

Lucien’s chest heaved as the darkness pressed against him. He ran, bare feet slapping against cold stone, through a corridor that twisted and stretched like some endless nightmare. The air reeked of iron and damp earth.

Faces appeared in the shadows—warped, agonized, reaching for him. Their mouths opened soundlessly, but whispers clawed at his ears.

“Lucien… help us…”

He tried to grasp one hand, but the figure dissolved into smoke, curling away like ash in the wind.

Something else moved. A shadow faster than thought, its limbs jerking in unnatural rhythm, scraping clawed fingers along the walls. His golden eyes widened as it lunged.

Someone was in its path. A child, frozen in terror.

Lucien didn’t hesitate. His body moved before his mind caught up. He threw the child aside, felt claws rake against his own hand, felt the burn of pain—but he didn’t stop. Panic surged, but instinct was stronger. Someone needed help. Always.

The shadow reached for him again—

Light. Blinding, searing, shattering everything.

He jolted awake with a gasp, chest rising and falling in quick bursts, his hair plastered damp against his forehead. Morning sunlight filtered lazily through his curtains, too calm, too ordinary for the chaos that still rang in his ears.

“…Just a dream,” he whispered.

But he could still feel it. The weight of a hand in his own.

---

The scent of buttered bread and warm tea greeted him when he entered the dining hall.

Arian was already seated, posture impossibly perfect, he looked like winter given form. His hair was a wild fall of silver-white, his skin pale enough to catch the faintest light, and his eyes—cool, silvery-gray—seemed to weigh and measure everything they touched.

He carried himself with the poise of nobility, straight-backed and deliberate, yet his presence was quiet, like frost creeping unnoticed over glass. Against Lucien’s golden warmth, Arian was the calm of moonlight—distant, sharp, and unforgettable. Though his expression remained calm.

“You’re late,” Arian said smoothly, lifting his teacup.

Lucien threw himself into the chair beside him with exaggerated weariness. “I was in a duel. My hair lost to the comb.”

A faint twitch curved Arian’s lips. “Looking at you, I’d say it surrendered without a fight.”

“Cruel!” Lucien tore a piece of bread dramatically. “To wound me so early in the day, when I am most fragile.”

One of the servants coughed into their hand, poorly hiding a laugh.

“Don’t encourage him,” Arian muttered, sipping tea. His gaze flicked to Lucien again—lingering on the faint shadows beneath his eyes. He said nothing. Not yet.

The doors opened. Count Aldric strode in, golden-eyed and dark-haired streaked with silver, his presence commanded attention without effort. Stern yet not without dry humor, he carried the weight of his house in every measured step. 

Behind him, Countess Elara followed, with blueish - black hair pinned with pearls and a gentle, knowing smile, she radiated warmth and quiet strength, moving with effortless grace that softened even the coldest room.“Good morning,” Elara greeted, taking her place. “Lucien, Arian—you seem lively already.”

“Lively?” Arian murmured. “He’s been performing.”

“I call it artistry,” Lucien countered.

“Tomorrow is my sixteenth birthday. Surely, I deserve some admiration.”

Aldric chuckled deeply as he sat. “If you can sit through your speech tomorrow without tripping over your own tongue, then perhaps.”

Lucien groaned. “Father, you wound me.”

“You’ll survive,” Elara teased, sliding a plate toward him. “You always do.”

The hall filled with warmth—clinking plates, soft laughter, the smell of fresh fruit and baked bread. Yet beneath it all, Arian’s pale eyes never strayed far from Lucien.

He dreamed again, Arian thought. He didn’t ask. Lucien wouldn’t answer.

---

After breakfast, the two boys strolled into the courtyard. Summer clung to the air, bees drifting lazily among flowers, fountains murmuring their constant songs.

“After a few months,” Lucien said, stretching his arms, “we’ll finally be at the Academy. Magic, swordplay, strategy…” He flashed a mischievous grin. “And me, dragging you along when you collapse during sparring.”

Arian’s pale brow arched. “I’ll manage. Pride weighs less than you think.”

“Ha! That’s because you’ve never carried mine.”

Arian gave him a sidelong look and—without warning—elbowed him. Light, but firm. Lucien stumbled theatrically into a hedge.

A passing servant nearly dropped his tray trying not to laugh.

“See? Even the hedge sides with me,” Arian said smoothly, though his lips quirked in the faintest of smiles.

“Betrayed… by nature itself.” Lucien yanked a leaf from his hair and pressed it to his chest in mock despair. “Truly, I suffer.”

For a moment, the world was simple—two boys laughing in a sunlit garden.

Then a chill cut through the warmth.
A wind swept across the courtyard, cold enough to raise goosebumps. The shadows along the wall stretched unnaturally, pooling like ink.

Lucien’s laughter faded. His golden eyes narrowed. “…Did you see that?”

Arian followed his gaze. The wall was bare. Empty. His voice was steady, but his fingers curled tightly against his sleeve. “…No.”

Lucien hesitated, then shrugged with forced lightness. “The wind must be afraid of tomorrow.”

But Arian didn’t laugh.

---

That night, Lucien returned to his room. He pushed the door shut, already rehearsing in his head what excuse he’d give if his father’s speech tomorrow bored him to death.

Then he froze.

Something lay on his desk.

A folded letter, sealed with crimson wax. The emblem pressed into it was unfamiliar—spirals curling into thorns. His name was written in a script too neat, too deliberate.

Lucien frowned and reached out—

Tap.

He turned sharply. The windowpane glimmered with moonlight, reflecting his face. But for the briefest instant, another figure stood behind him in the glass. Same golden eyes. Same hair. Same him.

Yet not him.

He swallowed. Forced his hand steady. Broke the seal.

The letter unfolded with a hiss. Six words stared back at him, written in ink darker than midnight:

Welcome back to where you belong.

A shiver crawled down his spine. He gripped the desk so tightly his knuckles whitened.

Because he knew.

Not clearly. Not fully. But deep down, he knew.

This world wasn’t his first.

Before this life, he had lived somewhere else. A place without magic, where steel machines roared louder than beasts, where glass towers pierced the heavens, and lights banished the night. A world called Earth.

It had been eleven years since he awoke in this body. Eleven years since he became Lucien Aldric, son of House Aldric. And for all that time, he had buried the truth.

Not his parents. Not even Arian knew.

No one knew he wasn’t supposed to be here.
The shadows in the window stirred again, and for a heartbeat, his reflection smiled at him knowingly.

Lucien’s breath hitched.

Tomorrow was his birthday. Sixteen years in this world.

And perhaps, at last, the lies were running out of time.

His eyes drifted around the room, taking in the familiar order that had always comforted him. Modest yet well-kept, the space was a careful balance of practicality and subtle elegance. 

A neatly made bed with folded blankets, a polished wooden desk free of clutter except for the essentials, books stacked with deliberate precision, and a single vase by the window held a small arrangement of white lilies and tulips, catching the moonlight and lending the room a quiet elegance. 

The faint scent of their petals mingled with the lavender in the air, grounding him in the familiar and ordinary even as the shadows outside seemed anything but—all spoke of a life under careful watch, of discipline tempered with personal touches. Even the faint scent of lavender in the air seemed to keep the shadows at bay, if only for a moment.

•••