Lucas may have only been five years old, but he knew when things weren't normal.
Take the flower on the windowsill. A Hellebore, dark as ink and soft as dusk. It had never wilted. Not once. Not in all the time he could remember.
He'd never asked his father about it. Not because he believed Steven didn't know, but because he sensed he wouldn't answer.
He'd seen his father staring at it before, silent and still, on misty nights when the moonlight smothered the room in its soft glow. There was always something heavy in his gaze, a mix of affection and sorrow.
Lucas had learned early that while his father never lied to him, he sometimes left truths unspoken. But he never stopped him from looking for them.
That's why he was in the study now, his small fingers brushing across the weathered spines of old books, deciding which to read today.
Then he paused.
Something called for him, not a sound, not a voice, but a feeling. A pull.
His eyes drifted to a different shelf. One he hadn't looked at before.
Greek mythology.
He didn't know why, but the books seemed to call to him.
He picked one out and returned to his room, the Hellebore still watching from the sill.
Somewhere inside, he hoped these stories held answers to his questions.
To the riddles that surround his life.
...
Lucas had begun to understand his father better over the last three years.
A man who carried secrets. A man who bore burdens no mortal should shoulder but did so with a quiet smile that rarely left his face.
Lucas had an idea of what some of those secrets might be after reading the books in the study. And he was certain his father knew that he knew. Yet neither had confronted the other.
That was another lesson Lucas had learned with time:
Respect.
He didn't want to force his father to answer questions he wasn't ready or willing to give. So he simply waited until Steven thought it was time. Until then, he would continue his research into Greek mythology.
"Lucas, you're daydreaming again."
He turned to see Elizabeth walking toward him, a tray in each hand, sunlight catching in her fire-red hair. It shimmered like hot coals when she moved, her bronze-flecked eyes gleaming beneath thick lashes.
She plopped down beside him, nudging his elbow with one of the trays.
Most kids didn't talk to Lucas. He asked strange questions. Listened more than he spoke, different from the usual energetic kids. Some kids said he was creepy. Others thought he was just weird. Fortunately, his mature attitude earned him the teachers' favor, and as a result, he was never bullied.
But Elizabeth was different from him. Bold. Sharp. Confident in ways that felt older than her years but never unkind. She'd taken one look at him during their first week of school and decided they were friends.
And that was that.
Still, sometimes when she looked at him too long, when the shadows stretched across her face in just the right way, Lucas felt something stir behind her amber eyes, something inhuman.
Returning home, Lucas found the house empty.
Steven was likely still at work. He taught history and mythology at the university and was probably held up by something, lectures and office hours, the usual.
Lucas left his bag by the door and ran upstairs to his room.
It was a space carved out of solitude. A black double bed, a desk nestled in the corner, and walls of bookcases crammed with worn but well-loved books. Posters of astrology hung like quiet constellations on his walls, while a single window looked out toward the forest beyond.
The backdrop of New Orleans glowed faintly in the distance, its light reaching him despite the barrier of trees between them.
But that wasn't what caught his attention.
It was the mist.
Creeping. Crawling. Curling through the underbrush below the window, low and silver, a stark contrast with the earthy colours of the forest.
Lucas stared at it, hypnotized by the fog's swaying tentacles, and then he felt it.
A tug.
Familiar.
It wasn't fear he felt but certainty. He remembered it, that pull. The same one that had drawn him to that strange mythology book years ago, one that helped in answering his questions. And like back then, he didn't question the feeling.
He obeyed it.
He slipped back downstairs, out the door, and into the trees.
The forest swallowed him without sound.
Lucas couldn't tell how far he walked or for how long. The mist seemed to bend space and time in quiet ways, blurring the world around him. Shadows thickened. The air turned cool. His thoughts wandered.
He began to imagine what might lie ahead, maybe a temple, a hidden grove, a ruin untouched by time. But his mind finally settled on one image he hoped for most:
An ancient castle.
Almost as if the mist had been waiting for an order, it stirred.
Swirled chaotically, forming before his eyes.
Stone walls grew from the fog, solidifying: An arching gate. Towers shrouded in moonlight. And at the heart of it all, a throne.
It loomed at the far end of a great hall, carved from obsidian, and upon its high back sat a single symbol: a pupil-less eye.
But it wasn't the throne that stole his breath.
It was the door behind it.
A door made of silver and flame, one that burnt his eyes just from looking at it. Its presence gnawed at his gaze - like it wasn't meant to be seen. Not by mortal eyes.
Lucas tore his eyes away, heart thudding as he rubbed his eyes, hoping the action would help restore his sight.
When he gained his sight back, he looked, instead, to the throne.
And saw the single object resting on its seat.
A tarot card.
The Fool.
...
Lucas didn't remember how he made it back home, only that when he looked up, he was standing at the forest's edge. The moonlight poured over the house like it was guiding him with its silver caress.
He pushed through the front door, heart thudding, already expecting the scolding. Maybe even punishment. Steven would be anxious. Angry, even.
But he wasn't.
Instead, Lucas found him calm, seated in the living room. Resting on the coffee table were two teacups, steam still rising from them. Steven leaned forward, picking one up, sipping slowly.
...
At the sound of the door, Steven turned.
His eyes widened, just a flicker, and he exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His gaze moved over Lucas, quick but careful. Checking for injuries. Reassuring himself, his son was whole.
Then the worry faded, softening into quiet concern.
Steven nodded toward the seat across from him, saying nothing.
Lucas sat, small hands wrapping around the warm porcelain of his cup. He hadn't realized how cold his fingers had gotten until the tea chased the chill away.
For a while, they sat in silence, the soft clink of the cups their only company.
"I'm sorry," Lucas finally murmured, guilt drawn across his features. "I should've..."
"It's fine," Steven cut in gently, softening his tone to help Lucas calm himself. "I was worried when I couldn't find you. But when I learned you'd be safe… I decided it was better to wait here than go charging off into the night."
He smirked, jokingly adding. "Hopefully you don't think any less of your old man for waiting with tea instead of heroically charging through the woods in search of you."
Lucas couldn't help it - he smiled.
But then a thought stirred.
"How did you know I'd be safe?"
Steven sipped his tea, his expression unreadable now. "We all have our secrets," he said softly. "And while I hate keeping things from you… The time's not right."
He lowered his head for a moment, hiding his guilt. Just a flicker. But Lucas caught it, the weight behind those words.
Steven wanted to tell him. That much was clear. But something, someone, was keeping him from doing it.
"Go on upstairs," Steven said. "We'll talk tomorrow, once you've had some rest. I'm sure the excitement of tonight has worn you down."
Lucas nodded, realizing exhaustion was setting in. He stood, gave one last glance at his father, and padded up the stairs.
Once the door to his room clicked shut, Steven rose.
He walked into his study.
There, he pulled a book from the shelf - its spine worn. A click sounded as the book activated a hidden mechanism. A panel shifted open in the wall, revealing a small, steel safe.
From his pocket, Steven removed a bronze revolver, placing it gently inside, beside a torch and a sealed envelope.
The envelope, written in delicate, flowing cursive, was addressed to Lucas.
Steven stared at the torch for a moment longer.
Then he closed the safe. Locked it and returned the book to its place, hiding the safe once again.
He turned back to his desk.
Still-burning candles circled a ring of ashes, strange symbols chalked into the wood beneath them - the remnants of a ritual.
Steven started clearing the desk, hiding the traces of the ritual. Once he was done, he returned to his seat, finishing off his tea as he stared through the window and into the night.