When Lucian woke up the next morning, the first thing he saw was the low, splintered ceiling above him — uneven, wooden, and suspiciously close to caving in. It took a full thirty seconds for him to realize this wasn't his bedroom back home, or even the charred remains of the Lowell manor. It was Rohan's house. Which meant everything that happened yesterday hadn't been a fever dream.
He groaned and rolled over, burying his face into the pillow. The smell of smoke drifted faintly from the next room, and for one horrifying moment, he thought Rohan had somehow set this house on fire too.
He shot up, disoriented, hair sticking out like dry grass.
From the kitchen came a string of curses, clattering pans, and something that hissed like a dying animal.
Lucian stared at the doorway. "Is he… cooking or exorcising an evil spirit?" he muttered, half in disbelief, half in fear.
When he finally dared to step out, the sight that greeted him could only be described as a crime scene. Flour on the floor, an egg dripping down the wall, and a pancake or what used to be one — smoldering quietly in the pan.
Wen Rohan turned to him, grinning as if this were perfectly normal. "Morning. Breakfast's ready."
Lucian eyed the blackened disc on the plate. "You burned it."
"It's crispy," Rohan corrected proudly, placing it in front of him. "Extra flavor."
Lucian sat down slowly, mentally calculating how fast food poisoning worked. He picked up his fork, then the syrup bottle. If he drowned it in enough sweetness, maybe he wouldn't taste the despair baked into it.
Rohan leaned against the counter, amused. "Eat up, young master. Don't tell me people in the future don't eat?"
"We do," Lucian said, forcing down a bite. "But not... this."
"That's gratitude for you," Rohan said, shaking his head. "Save your complaints. It's either my cooking or starvation."
Lucian took another bite, winced, and muttered, "Maybe starvation."
By noon, he had recovered from the ordeal — barely. He had taken a long shower, and now stood awkwardly in the living room, wearing Rohan's clothes. The shirt was too tight, the pants an inch too short. He tugged at the sleeves helplessly.
Rohan, lounging by the window with a book, looked up, and for a moment, his expression shifted.
"You really do look like him," he murmured.
"Like who?"
"Lance," Rohan said simply, closing the book. "Enough that if I didn't know better, I'd think—" He stopped, the thought unfinished, and smiled faintly. "Never mind. Come on, we should plan what to tell Ellis and Lance before they—"
A knock interrupted him.
Both froze.
Rohan set the book down, straightened, and went to the door. When he opened it, Ellis and Lance stood there.
Lance's expression was thunderous. "You disappeared yesterday and didn't come back," he snapped. "Where the hell were you?"
"Nice to see you too," Rohan said mildly. "Come in."
Inside, the tension was thick enough to chew. Rohan gestured toward Lucian. "This is my sister's uncle's cousin's nephew's son."
Ellis blinked. "Your... what?"
"Basically, distant relative," Rohan said, as if that explained everything.
Lance frowned. "How do you forget your own relative?"
"I can't even remember what I had for dinner last night," Rohan said flatly. "You expect me to remember someone who sent me a letter months ago?"
Lucian forced a shaky smile, praying they'd buy it.
Ellis, sharp as ever, leaned forward. "He looks exactly like Lance."
Rohan didn't miss a beat. "Coincidence. Happens all the time. Like how you look like the baker's dog."
"Excuse me?" Ellis threw a crumpled paper at him. Rohan ducked, grinning.
Lance shook his head but the corner of his mouth twitched — almost a smile. "Fine. Whatever. You always attract strange people anyway."
"Exactly my charm," Rohan said with mock pride.
The mood lightened. They talked about their plans for the next few weeks. Lance complained about being stuck at home.
Lucian frowned. "But it's July. Shouldn't you still have class?"
Ellis shrugged. "School burned down. Renovations and all that. We're stuck with homeschooling until it's fixed."
Rohan stretched his arms. "Best vacation I've had."
Ellis glared. "You're supposed to be Lance's bodyguard, not his co-conspirator in laziness."
Before Rohan could argue, the sound of a car pulling up outside cut through their laughter.
The color drained from Lance's face. Rohan's expression hardened instantly.
"Stay here," he told Lucian. Then he turned to Lance. "Your father's home."
Lucian froze.
Ellis said quietly, "He'll be looking for Lance. He always does."
Rohan placed a hand on Lance's shoulder, gave him a subtle nod, and led him outside.
Lucian stood still for a long moment. Curiosity gnawed at him — the need to see the man his mother and him love, the man whose portrait hung in their house, gentle-eyed and smiling.
He crept to the window and peeked through the faded curtains.
A tall man stepped out of the car — refined, imposing, his presence sharp as polished steel. His face was younger, less lined, but unmistakable. His grandfather.
For a heartbeat, warmth bloomed in Lucian's chest.
He remembered a hand ruffling his hair when he was little, the scent of old paper and tea.
"Good boy," his grandfather had said back then, smiling softly. "Never raise your hand in anger."
But the image shattered as the man before him turned, shouted something, and struck Lance hard across the face.
The blow was so sudden that Lance staggered and fell to the ground.
Lucian's breath hitched. His fingers gripped the windowsill until his knuckles turned white.
That wasn't the grandfather he knew.
The warmth inside him drained away, leaving only a cold, hollow ache.
Outside, Lance didn't fight back. Rohan caught his arm, eyes blazing, but didn't intervene. Ellis stood frozen before running out of the manor when his grandfather looked at him.
Lucian's voice trembled in the empty room.
"Grandfather…"
He stepped back from the window, heart hammering, disbelief twisting in his chest.
What happened to you?
The question echoed in his mind, unanswered, as the faint sound of arguing carried in from outside.