Happy birthday... Lucien

Lucien stumbled across a field of fire and steel, shadows writhing between clashing blades. Faces flashed in the chaos—bloodied, broken, pleading. Some called his name. 

Others reached for him with dying hands.

He tried to run to them, but the ground split, swallowing them into darkness. The air stank of iron, and grief burned hotter than flame.

He opened his mouth—no sound came. Only silence, pressing tight as a noose.

Light exploded across the battlefield.

Lucien jolted awake, lungs dragging in sharp gasps, sweat cold against his skin. His heart hammered like he’d sprinted for miles.

He pressed a hand over his eyes, but the dream slipped through his fingers like water.

“…just a dream,” he muttered hoarsely. But his voice didn’t sound convinced.

---

The morning of Lucien’s birthday dawned bright and cruelly cheerful, as though the world itself had no intention of matching his nerves.

The manor was alive with movement—servants carrying trays, polishing the marble floors until they gleamed, adjusting flowers in every hall. The great chandelier in the dining room had been scrubbed until it shone like a captive star.

Lucien, however, didn't wanted to get distracted by his nightmares today. He slouched against the window frame of his room, hair in rebellious disarray.

“I’m going to trip. I can feel it. My destiny is to perish in front of the entire court by tripping on the stairs,” he muttered.

“You won’t trip,” came Arian’s voice from the doorway.

Lucien turned. Arian leaned against the frame with his usual composure, already dressed in elegant dark silks that made his silver hair gleam like frost. His expression was unreadable as always—yet his eyes flicked over Lucien’s half-fastened tunic and mess of a collar.

“…Although,” Arian added smoothly, “you may be executed for crimes against fashion.”

Lucien groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Have mercy, my jailer.”

Arian stepped in, silent as snowfall, and without asking, reached out to straighten Lucien’s collar. His movements were precise, almost too precise.

“You fuss more than my mother,” Lucien muttered.

Arian gave him the faintest side glance. “Your mother doesn’t have to look at you every day.”

Lucien gasped dramatically. “Frostbitten cruelty. On my birthday.”

“Hold still,” Arian said smoothly, tugging his collar straight.

---

The manor transformed by midday.

Sunlight streamed through tall windows, glinting off chandeliers strung with crystal.

 Golden banners of House Aldric draped along the walls, interwoven with black silk, their crest stitched proudly at the center.

 Servants darted in perfect choreography, balancing trays of spiced wine and sugared fruits. The scent of roasted meats and honey cakes filled the air, mingling with the strains of harp and violin.

The courtyard beyond had been decorated with garlands of summer flowers, fountains glittering like liquid glass. Nobles gathered in clusters—bright gowns and embroidered cloaks a kaleidoscope of wealth. Laughter mingled with the clinking of goblets.

Lucien stood at the heart of it all, smiling, bowing, performing the role he had been trained for since childhood. His golden hair caught the light, his easy charm drawing warmth from the guests like bees to nectar.

But his eyes—his eyes kept straying toward the shadows.

“Stop fidgeting,” Arian murmured behind him for what must have been the tenth time.

“I’m not fidgeting,” Lucien whispered back. “I’m… performing a subtle dance of charm.”

“You’re about as subtle as a drunk rooster.”

Lucien bit back a laugh. “That’s specific.”

“Personal experience.”

Lucien blinked, then grinned. “…You’ve never told me that story.”

“And I never will.”

---

The first wave of guests approached, led by Lord Calvess, a barrel-shaped man with a booming laugh and rings heavy enough to sink a small boat. His wife, Lady Mirelle, glided at his side, dripping with sapphires.

“Lucien, my boy!” Calvess declared, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to nearly knock him forward. “Sixteen! You grow taller each time I see you. Soon you’ll be towering over us all!”

Lucien smiled warmly. “If I do, I’ll make sure to use my height only for noble purposes—like rescuing cats from trees.”

Lady Mirelle laughed behind her jeweled hand. “How charming. Your father must be proud.”

Aldric’s deep chuckle came from nearby. “He is proud, when his son remembers to comb his hair.”

Lucien groaned. “Father…”

The guests roared with laughter, and Aldric’s sharp golden eyes softened just a touch as they lingered on his son.

Then Countess Elara swept in, as radiant as moonlight, carrying a small velvet box. She handed it to Lucien with both hands. “Happy birthday, my heart.”

Lucien blinked, suddenly nervous. “You didn’t need—”

“Open it.”

Inside, nestled on silk, lay a slender chain of silver, set with a single crystal shard that shimmered faintly blue.

Lucien’s breath caught. “This is…”

“A focus stone,” Elara said gently. “For when you begin training magic at the Academy. Your father and I thought—”

But Lucien was already hugging her tightly. “Thank you.”

Arian, standing just behind, tilted his head at the stone, eyes unreadable. “…Useful.”

Lucien shot him a grin. “Don’t worry, I’ll only use it to summon hairbrushes.”

“Truly, a tragedy,” Arian murmured.

---

Gift after gift followed—embroidered cloaks, gilded daggers, a rare sword polished until it gleamed like ice. Lucien accepted them with genuine delight, though often twisting his thanks into little jokes that left nobles chuckling.

When Lord Farrow presented him with an enormous, jewel-encrusted goblet clearly designed for decoration rather than drinking, Lucien bowed low. “My lord, I shall drink water from this with such dignity that rivers themselves will envy me.”

The hall erupted in laughter again. Even Aldric’s stern mouth quirked at the edge.

Arian, however, leaned toward him. “You will break it within a week.”

Lucien hissed back, “I will cherish it until my dying breath.”

“Your dying breath will be tomorrow, then.”

Lucien nearly choked on his wine trying not to laugh.

---

The hours passed in warmth and light. Music swelled, nobles danced beneath the banners, and tables overflowed with sweet pastries and roasted quail. Lucien moved through it all like a flame, bright and laughing.

But beneath it—the letter’s words gnawed.

  Welcome back to where you belong.

His golden gaze caught once, twice, on the fountain in the courtyard. The surface shimmered too dark, too still. When he leaned in, he swore he saw his own reflection smirk before his mouth even moved.

He drew back sharply, pulse racing.

Arian noticed. " Something's wrong?”

Lucien forced a grin, lifting a goblet. “Yes, only my devastatingly good looks. Tragic, really. No wonder the fountain’s jealous.”

Arian didn’t laugh. His pale eyes lingered, searching.

---

Night fell. Torches lit the courtyard in a golden haze, fireflies drifting among the hedges. Music grew livelier, nobles spinning in elegant dances.

Lucien slipped away at last, claiming he needed air. His smile had begun to feel like a mask.

He walked into the gardens, the hush of crickets and distant laughter filling the air. White lilies glowed in the torchlight. Behind him, he heard quiet footsteps.

“You always follow me,” Lucien said softly.

Arian stood at his side. “You always wander off.”

For a while, they walked in silence. Then Lucien asked, almost to himself, “Do you ever feel like… you’re meant to be someone else?”

Arian’s expression didn’t shift. “No.”

Lucien let out a soft laugh, but it cracked at the edges. “Of course you don’t. You’re too perfect.”

Arian’s pale eyes flicked toward him. “…You are not fine.”

Lucien shoved his hands into his pockets, staring at the gravel path. “Maybe not.”

He thought to himself,

 Is everything really okay the way it is ? Should I at least tell Aria—

Then—

A rustle.

They froze. From the far end of the garden path, shadows rippled unnaturally, as though torchlight dared not touch them.

Something stepped forward.

Lucien’s breath caught. His own face emerged from the darkness. The same golden eyes. The same hair. But the smile—wrong, sharp, knowing.

Arian inhaled sharply, the first true crack in his composure. His hand went to the hilt of his blade.

The double tilted its head. “So lively,” it said, voice smooth, uncanny. “So loud. So bright.”

Lucien’s pulse hammered in his ears.

The other him spread its arms slowly, mockingly. “Happy birthday… Lucien.”

And the torches all went out.

•••