Lucien stared at the dying embers in the hearth, the flickering light casting long shadows across his chamber. Night had fallen, and the warmth of day had long retreated behind the cold stone walls of the Ravencroft keep. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the occasional hiss of wind slipping through the window crevices.
He had dismissed his attendants early. The wine sat untouched beside him, and the half-written letter to the Northern Court lay forgotten on the desk. None of it mattered right now.
Because his thoughts were with Eiran.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
Lucien leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. How had it come to this? He'd woken up in this world vowing to survive, to change the course of a villain's life, to avoid death. He hadn't planned to fall into the orbit of the story's hero.
But here he was.
Every moment they spent together—their conversations in the war tent, the unspoken understanding in their silences, even the tension when they disagreed—it all fed something inside Lucien he hadn't known was starving.
Connection.
Eiran had a fire inside him, yes—but he also carried the weight of expectations, of a kingdom's hopes, of countless scars no one ever acknowledged. Lucien saw that. And the more he saw, the more he felt.
The more he feared.
Because falling for Eiran didn't just break the rules of the story—it rewrote the ending entirely.
What if Eiran never felt the same?
What if Lucien's love was just another crack in a crumbling dam?
The knock on the door startled him.
He didn't answer right away. Another knock—this time softer.
"Lucien?"
Eiran's voice.
Lucien stood quickly, opening the door to find the prince wrapped in a dark cloak, his golden hair damp from the evening mist. He looked… tired. Drawn. But his eyes were steady.
"Can I come in?"
Lucien stepped aside.
No words were needed. Eiran entered, pulling the door shut behind him, and for a moment, the tension hung between them like a third presence.
Lucien poured them both a glass of wine in silence, handed one to Eiran, and then returned to the hearth.
"I couldn't sleep," Eiran said finally, staring into the flames. "I kept thinking about that boy."
Lucien didn't ask which boy. He knew.
Earlier that day, they'd received news of a young squire—barely fifteen—killed in a skirmish near the Northern border. It wasn't a battle. It was an ambush. A warning. Someone wanted the negotiations to fail.
Lucien swallowed. "He reminded you of someone."
Eiran nodded. "Of me. When I first held a sword, I thought I was invincible. But he didn't even get the chance to believe that."
The silence deepened. Lucien could feel Eiran's pain—the guilt, the helplessness. He wanted to reach for him, to offer comfort, but he didn't know how.
Instead, he whispered, "None of this was supposed to happen."
Eiran turned. "You mean in the story?"
Lucien met his gaze. "Yes. And no. I've been thinking about that a lot lately—how much of our lives are ours, and how much is just… written."
Eiran walked closer, glass in hand. "And what if everything was written? Would you still fight it?"
Lucien didn't hesitate. "If the ending leads to your death, then yes. Always."
A soft breath escaped Eiran's lips. Not quite a sigh. Not quite relief. "You speak like someone who's lost me before."
Lucien closed his eyes.
"I have."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Eiran stilled. "What do you mean?"
Lucien's hands trembled slightly. He placed his glass down, walked to the window. "I don't know if you'll believe me. I don't even know if you should. But I know how this story ends. I've seen it. In another life."
He paused, the wind brushing against his cheek.
"You die. Because of me. Because of the man whose body I now inhabit."
Eiran didn't speak for a long time.
When Lucien turned around, he expected disbelief. Accusation. Laughter.
But Eiran's eyes were calm. Sad.
"Then maybe that's why I feel like I've known you longer than a month. Like I've been angry at you for things I can't name."
Lucien blinked. "You believe me?"
"I believe in pain," Eiran said. "And I believe in you. Even if I don't fully understand why."
Lucien's chest tightened.
Eiran stepped forward. "So tell me, Lucien. If you knew I was fated to die, why approach me at all? Why risk this?"
Lucien's voice was barely a whisper. "Because I couldn't stand watching it happen again."
Eiran studied him, then gently placed a hand on Lucien's shoulder.
"Then don't watch," he said softly. "Stand beside me. Fight it."
Lucien's breath hitched. "I'm afraid. Not of dying. But of failing you again."
Eiran's hand moved to his cheek, calloused fingers brushing against skin.
"Then don't."
It wasn't a promise. It wasn't forgiveness.
It was an invitation.
Their lips were inches apart, breaths mingling.
Lucien closed the distance, slowly.
The kiss was tentative—uncertain—but full of meaning. Of fear. Of longing.
When they parted, Eiran rested his forehead against Lucien's. "We shouldn't…"
"I know."
"But I don't want to stop."
Lucien smiled faintly. "Then let's not. Not tonight."
They didn't speak after that.
They didn't need to.
That night, Lucien fell asleep with Eiran beside him, the prince's breath soft against his neck. For the first time since waking in this cursed story, Lucien felt something close to peace.
But peace was a fragile thing.
And outside their door, in the shadows of the corridor, someone stood listening.
A pair of eyes narrowed in the dark.
And fate—so briefly altered—prepared to strike again.
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To be continued...
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