Chapter 27: I'm a Fool !
Night swallowed the capital in darkness so complete it felt almost solid—a void that pressed against windows and crept into corners where candlelight couldn't reach. In Lucien's chamber, warmth came only from scattered flames that painted shadows across walls and skin.
He stood naked at the balcony railing, staring toward the cityscape horizon. Cold air raised goosebumps across pale skin, but he didn't move. Didn't seem to notice the temperature at all. Just stood there, breathing, existing in that space between thought and emptiness.
Behind him, Aisa sat on his couch wrapped in his imperial cloak—the fabric far too large for her small frame, drowning her in royal purple and gold embroidery. She looked profoundly uncomfortable, fingers clutching the edges like a lifeline.
"Prince Lucien—" Her voice came small and uncertain. "My father would worry if I don't return home. Pardon me, but I should—"
"Aisa." He didn't turn. "Your father will worry. That's natural. Fundamental. But what matters now is your choice."
He turned then, and the borrowed candlelight caught his body in stark relief—every muscle defined, every line deliberate, moving with that unconscious grace that made him seem carved rather than born.
She couldn't look away. Couldn't quite breathe properly.
"You were always free to do what you want. I'm not here to force you."
"I—I want to stay." The words tumbled out before she could stop them. 'Why is this prince so different? He hasn't even tried to... but princes in stories always...'
"Aisa." He moved toward the balcony railing again, then stepped up onto it with casual balance. "Do you know what makes good, good? And bad, bad?"
She stood abruptly, fear spiking through confusion. He was standing on a railing three stories above stone courtyard, smiling like this was perfectly normal.
"Good means—means helping people. Saving them. Doing virtuous things." She struggled to form coherent thoughts while watching him balance on that narrow edge. "Bad means stealing, killing, doing wrong things."
"What I know—" He walked along the railing now, one foot in front of the other, arms relaxed at his sides. "—is that there is no good or evil. Only power. Only ambitions. Only the will to create your own meaning."
He lifted one foot, balancing on the other, hovering over nothing but air and death.
"Death is the most tender thing one could feel."
The statement landed soft and certain, like a benediction.
Then he stepped back onto the balcony floor and moved toward her with sudden purpose. He lifted her—not roughly, but possessively—carrying her toward the bed like she weighed nothing.
"Forget what I said." His voice shifted, becoming something almost warm. "I want you to stay exactly as you are. Forever."
He laid her on silk sheets that probably cost more than her family's house, then moved to light additional candles around the room. Warm light bloomed in careful intervals. He pulled his cloak from her shoulders and unfolded a blanket, tucking it around her with unexpected gentleness.
"Prince Lucien, what are you—" She could barely process what was happening. "I can't—I'm not a princess or—"
His finger pressed against her lips, silencing her.
"Didn't I say there's no inherent value? One creates their own if they have power."
He guided her head to the pillow, then moved to sit at the table across the room. One knee drawn to his chest, hand supporting his head, watching her with those unsettling violet eyes.
"Prince Lucien, I couldn't—if word gets out—"
"You should sleep. Who else will bring my favorite dish in the morning?"
He reached for a leather-bound book on the table—'The Meaning After Nothingness'—and opened it to a marked page. His eyes tracked across familiar words while glancing at her frequently.
"You don't know..." His voice dropped to something barely audible. "You let me look back at—"
The warmth drained from his expression like water from cupped hands. His eyes went distant, fixed on something only he could see.
He didn't finish the sentence aloud.
Hours passed. Aisa dozed fitfully, unable to achieve deep sleep but unwilling to leave. The sight of him reading there—naked, alone, surrounded by candles and shadows—held her transfixed.
Eventually Lucien set down the book and moved to the couch, stretching out with one arm behind his head.
"Alcine."
A shadow detached from the corner where it had been standing motionless for the entire exchange.
"I hope you'll understand," Lucien said quietly, eyes already closing.
Alcine approached and knelt beside the couch, his expression unreadable behind years of perfect service.
Alcine nodded once and rose, moving toward the door with that ghost-like silence. But he paused at the threshold, looking back at his master sprawled on the couch while a young maid slept in his bed untouched.
'The devil I worship has become more devilish,' Alcine thought, feeling something like grief settle in his chest.
He left without making a sound.
---
Dawn light was just beginning to touch the horizon when Stella entered the chamber without knocking—a privilege she'd earned through repeated intimacy, though she was beginning to realize that privilege meant less than she'd believed.
She stopped just inside the doorway, surprise and envy warring across her features.
Aisa lay in Lucien's bed, curled beneath expensive blankets. Lucien himself slept on the couch, one arm dangling toward the floor, completely nude and utterly unguarded.
Stella's heart twisted painfully at the sight. She'd lain with him. Multiple times. Knew the weight of that body, the skill of those hands, the pleasure he could provide. But she'd never seen him like this—vulnerable, almost peaceful, choosing restraint over indulgence.
"Aisa." She approached the bed, keeping her voice low. "What is going on?"
The younger maid startled awake, confusion and guilt mixing on her face. "It was Prince Lucien who asked me to stay. I'm sorry—"
Stella studied her. Then glanced at Lucien's sleeping form. Then back at Aisa.
Nothing had happened. That much was obvious.
The jealousy drained away, replaced by something more complex. Understanding, perhaps. Or the recognition that she'd never been more than a body to him, while this girl might actually mean something.
She moved to where Lucien slept and draped a blanket across his body—not because he needed it, but because the tenderness demanded expression.
"He's so different," Aisa whispered, standing. "More than I ever imagined."
"Now go prepare his food and clothes." Stella's voice carried automatic authority, falling back into familiar roles because everything else felt too uncertain.
Aisa left with quiet footsteps.
Alone with Lucien's sleeping form, Stella reached out and touched his silver-white hair with something approaching reverence.
"I wonder what you really are," she murmured. "Even your father wasn't like this."
She'd slept with Emperor Emrik too. Multiple times over the years. Understood power and pleasure and the way men with authority wielded both.
But Emrik had never looked at her with anything beyond appetite. Had never shown this strange, terrible kindness that felt more dangerous than any cruelty.
Lucien stirred slightly but didn't wake.
Outside the window, the sun continued its rise—indifferent, inevitable, painting everything in shades of gold that made even emptiness look beautiful.