The house was quiet again.
Too quiet.
The blood had been scrubbed from the courtyard stones, though if one stood very still at dusk, the iron scent still clung to the air like a memory that refused burial.
Lucien sat by the tall window in the east library, legs tucked neatly beneath him in the velvet armchair that used to swallow his smaller frame. He had grown in six years, but not enough. He still looked breakable in the wrong light.
A book rested in his hands.
Not a children's story.
Latin.
Old.
Bound in cracked leather.
His eyes moved steadily across the page, absorbing every word without pause. The fire crackled low beside him. Outside, the winter trees scraped their branches against the glass in long, skeletal sighs.
He turned a page.
He did not blink.
He did not fidget.
If anyone had been watching closely, they would have noticed he had not breathed in several minutes.
Footsteps approached down the corridor.
Heavy. Familiar.
Lucien turned the page again before the knock came.
"Come in," he said softly.
Alaric stepped inside.
He looked older. The lines at the corners of his eyes had deepened since that night. There was silver in his hair now that had not been there before.
For a moment, he simply watched his son.
Lucien did not look up.
"Is it done?" Lucien asked.
Alaric frowned. "Is what done?"
Lucien finally lifted his gaze.
The firelight reflected in his eyes. Brown. Calm. Human.
"The decision," he clarified.
Alaric stepped further into the room and closed the door behind him. The latch clicked louder than it should have.
"Yes," he said quietly. "It's done."
Lucien marked his place in the book with a thin black ribbon and closed it carefully.
Silence stretched between them.
"I'm going to marry Clara," Alaric said.
The words lingered in the air like fragile glass.
Lucien's expression did not change immediately.
Then—
A slow smile.
Not wide.
Not childish.
Measured.
"I know," Lucien replied.
Alaric blinked. "You… know?"
Lucien tilted his head slightly. "You've already chosen the ring. It's in your desk drawer beneath the false bottom. You've taken it out three times this week."
Alaric stiffened.
Lucien's gaze returned to the fire.
"She says yes in your thoughts every time," he added gently.
A flicker of unease crossed Alaric's face. "Lucien."
Lucien looked back at him.
This time, something in his eyes felt warmer.
Almost.
"I'm happy," Lucien said.
Alaric exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders. "You are?"
"Yes."
The word came easily.
Too easily.
Alaric stepped closer. "She loves you, you know. She always has. She'll officially be your mother."
Lucien's fingers tightened slightly around the book's spine.
Mother.
The word settled somewhere deep inside him.
He studied his father's face. The hope there. The longing. The fragile belief that this marriage would mend what had broken in that courtyard.
"Will it make you less afraid?" Lucien asked softly.
Alaric hesitated.
"Of what?"
"Of me."
The fire cracked sharply.
Alaric stepped forward immediately and crouched in front of him. "I'm not afraid of you."
Lucien held his gaze.
He did not blink.
"You should be sometimes," Lucien said in a voice far too calm for an eight-year-old boy.
The temperature in the room dipped.
Just slightly.
Alaric swallowed. "That night… you were protecting yourself."
Lucien considered that.
"Yes," he agreed.
But something flickered behind his eyes.
A memory.
Bones breaking.
Blood warm in his mouth.
The way it had felt.
Good.
He stood from the chair slowly, moving past his father toward the window. His reflection stared back at him in the dark glass.
Small frame.
Soft curls.
Wide eyes.
He pressed his palm lightly against the cold surface.
Behind his reflection, for a split second, something else moved.
Tall.
Horned.
Watching.
Lucien blinked.
Gone.
"Do you love her?" he asked without turning around.
"Yes," Alaric said without hesitation.
Lucien nodded once.
"Then marry her."
His voice sounded simple.
Childlike.
But beneath it was something calculating. Something ancient that understood bonds and vows and bloodlines better than any adult ever could.
Marriage meant unity.
Unity meant protection.
Protection meant no one would dare touch what belonged to them.
Lucien turned back toward his father, smile gentle and perfectly placed.
"She'll be safe here," he said.
It sounded like a promise.
It sounded like a threat.
Alaric rose and placed a hand on Lucien's shoulder. "You're a good boy."
Lucien looked down at the hand.
For a brief second, his pupils thinned unnaturally.
Then they softened again.
"I try," he said.
From the hallway, Clara's laughter drifted faintly toward the library.
Light.
Alive.
Lucien closed his eyes and listened to it.
His heartbeat remained slow.
Steady.
Not entirely human.
When he opened his eyes again, the warmth was back in them.
But deep beneath it, something else stirred.
Watching.
Waiting.
Family was power.
Marriage was a bond.
And bonds could be broken.
Lucien picked up his book again and reopened it to the marked page.
This time, the Latin words he read were not about history.
They were about rituals.
Binding rituals.
He traced one line thoughtfully with his finger.
Just in case.
Because even as he allowed himself to look like a son…
The tribrid inside him never stopped preparing.
And somewhere in the dark corners of the estate, the shadows shifted as if they, too, approved of the union to come.