The night had barely begun to loosen its grip on the world when Lucien Draeger slipped through the ancient doors of his family estate.
The mansion of the Umbren Tribe stood like a sleeping beast against the moonless sky—towering, ancient, wrapped in shadows that seemed to breathe. Lucien moved through the grand halls with the ease of one who had navigated darkness since birth. His footsteps were silent. His expression was carved from stone.
But his mind lingered elsewhere.
Little angel. The thought surfaced unbidden, soft and warm against the cold fortress of his heart. He hoped she was safe. He hoped her mother was well.
"Where do you think you're coming from, young man?"
The voice struck like thunder.
Lucien's hand froze inches from the side door handle. He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. Of course.
It was the twentieth time his father had caught him returning from the forest. The twentieth time he would have to explain—or rather, not explain—where he'd been.
He turned slowly.
"I'm right here, Father."
His voice was ice wrapped in velvet. Detached. Guarded. The voice of a son who had long ago stopped hoping for warmth.
From the shadows at the end of the corridor, Lord Malric Draeger emerged. Even now, with age lining his features and weariness clinging to his frame, the Lord of the Umbren Tribe commanded attention. His presence was a weight. His gaze was a blade.
"Do you know what time it is, Lucien?"
"I'm well aware, Father."
The words hung in the air like frost on winter branches.
A heavy silence stretched between them—a chasm built over years of misunderstanding and unspoken words. Lord Malric's jaw tightened.
"Lucien... I don't know how many times I must warn you. It's dangerous to wander beyond these grounds at night. You're my one and only successor. What if something—"
"Wait a minute, Father."
Lucien's voice sharpened, cutting through his father's words like a blade through silk. His gray eyes, usually so carefully empty, flickered with something raw.
"Is that all you care about? The throne? The successor?" His voice dropped, quieter but somehow more dangerous. "What about your son? Or have you long forgotten you had one?"
The question landed like a physical blow.
Lord Malric's expression flickered—just for a moment, just barely—but Lucien caught it. Confusion. Pain. Something that looked almost like... guilt.
"No." His father's voice was quieter now, stripped of its usual authority. "You misunderstand me, Lucien. You are my son. Of course I care about you—your safety, your life." He paused, and when he spoke again, the weight of decades pressed into every word. "But you are also the heir to this tribe. And as your father, it is my duty to prepare you for the future you cannot escape."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "And what if I refuse the throne?"
"You have no choice but to rule." There was no cruelty in Lord Malric's voice—only a terrible, exhausted certainty. "The time is approaching, Lucien. Sooner than you realize, you'll be enthroned as the head of the Umbren Tribe. I will retire, and you must take my place."
The words settled between them like stones dropped into deep water.
And then—
A cough.
It started small, barely a disruption. But it grew. Harsh. Violent. Lord Malric's body convulsed, his hand flying to his chest as his face drained of color.
"Father!"
The ice shattered.
Lucien crossed the distance between them in an instant, catching his father just as his knees buckled. The mighty Lord of the Umbren Tribe collapsed into his son's arms, fragile and gasping.
"Father, wake up! Stay with me!"
His voice—usually so controlled, so carefully empty—cracked wide open. Fear bled through every syllable.
The sound roused the household. Servants flooded the halls, alarm spreading like wildfire.
"Call the healer! NOW!"
Lucien's roar echoed through the ancient stone as he lifted his father effortlessly, carrying him toward the bedchambers with a speed born of desperation.
No. No, no, no—
"Father, you must be alright," he whispered as he ran, the words tumbling from lips that rarely begged for anything. "Don't you dare leave me now. Please. Please."
---
The healer arrived within moments—an elderly man with steady hands and knowing eyes. He worked swiftly, checking pulse and breath while Lucien stood frozen in the corner of the room, watching his father's pale face with an expression that didn't know whether to be cold or broken.
Finally, the healer straightened.
"Young master... Lord Malric has long suffered from asthma. This is not his first attack, though it appears more severe than usual."
Lucien's blood ran cold. Asthma?
"I am surprised," the healer continued, "my Lord has never neglected his medication. However, I suspect recent stress may have intensified the attack. I have administered treatment—he is out of immediate danger now. But this condition is lifelong." He held up a small device. "Only this inhaler by his side during attacks will sustain him. Let him rest, young master."
The healer left.
Lucien didn't move.
He stood there, staring at his father's sleeping face, and felt the ground crumble beneath him.
All these years.
All these years of resentment. Of bitterness. Of telling myself he didn't love me.
And I never even knew.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides. His knuckles went white.
"My father is suffering..." The words escaped before he could stop them, raw and broken. "Because of me. I never knew. I never asked. I was so consumed by my own pain that I never once wondered about his."
He turned and fled the room before the tears could fall.
---
The hallway stretched before him, endless and cold. The mansion that had always felt like a prison now felt like a tomb.
When he reached his chambers, the door was already open.
Madam Aldara sat waiting, as she always did. Her kind face, lined with years of quiet strength, softened at the sight of him.
"Son... you've finally returned. I've been waiting."
Lucien's composure—already fractured—crumbled completely.
He crossed the room and sank onto the seat beside her, unable to speak, unable to hide, unable to be anything but what he was: a boy who had just realized his father was mortal.
"Tell me, son... what's happened?"
His voice, when it finally came, was barely a whisper.
"Aunt Aldara... I don't know why I was even born." He stared at his hands—hands that had saved a little girl and her mother, hands that had just carried his dying father. "I feel like nothing but a burden."
Aldara's eyes filled with sorrow. She reached out, covering his clenched fists with her weathered palm.
"Why would you think such a thing, Lucien? I have always taught you to see yourself through the light, not the shadows."
"But am I wrong?" He looked up at her, and for the first time in years, his gray eyes held no mask—only pain. "All my life, it felt like I wasn't wanted. Not as a son. Just a successor. A throne filler. A means to continue the bloodline."
Aldara sighed—a long, heavy exhale that carried decades of untold stories.
"Oh, my dear boy... you are wrong. So terribly wrong."
She tightened her grip on his hands.
"Can you not see it? Your father wants nothing more than for you to be safe. The burden of a tribe's legacy is heavier than you can fathom. He has fought wars, made impossible decisions, carried endless responsibilities. Do you truly believe he ignored you out of hatred?"
Lucien's throat constricted.
"I remember," Aldara continued softly, "how even amidst the crushing duties of his position, whenever your father had a spare moment, he would seek you out. He would embrace you. Play with you when you were but a boy." Her voice trembled slightly. "He adored you, Lucien. The day you were born, I saw in his eyes both fear and fierce love—because he knew you were not an ordinary child. He protected you at all costs."
She reached up, touching the pendant that hung always at his throat.
"This pendant you wear isn't mere decoration. It's a safeguard. An emblem of your father's vow to shield you from the darkness within and without."
Lucien's breath caught. His hand lifted, fingers brushing the cool metal he'd worn for so long without ever truly understanding.
"Your father regrets, Lucien." Aldara's voice was barely a whisper now. "He regrets that in protecting the tribe, he neglected the son he loved so dearly. You've grown hardened, bitter—and he blames himself. Do you think that's easy for him to live with?"
Silence filled the room.
Lucien sat motionless, feeling the toxic fog of years—years of resentment, years of loneliness, years of convincing himself he was unloved—begin to lift.
"Thank you, Aunt Aldara." His voice was rough, scraped raw by emotions he'd buried for too long. "For making me see the truth I've been blind to all along."
He straightened, and when he spoke again, there was something new in his voice—something that hadn't been there before.
"I swear I'll never leave his side again. I'll carry this burden with him."
Aldara's weathered face broke into a proud smile.
"That's all I ever wished to hear, my son."
But then her expression shifted—something darker flickering behind her eyes.
"Though remember..." Her voice dropped. "There are still secrets yet to be revealed. Truths you remain unready to face."
Lucien frowned. "What secrets?"
"Not yet." She shook her head firmly. "When the time is right, you will know. For now, focus on your training. How fares your control over your powers?"
Lucien exhaled slowly, allowing the subject to shift.
"Fortunately, they're in my control now."
"Good." Aldara nodded approvingly. "Remember what I've taught you—never give evil the chance to take hold of your gift. Hide it. Use it wisely. Always for good. Do you understand me?"
"I do, Aunt."
Aldara rose, pressing a kiss to his forehead as she had done since he was a small boy. Then she left, her footsteps fading into the darkness beyond.
Lucien sat alone.
For a long moment, he didn't move. Then, slowly, his hand reached into his pocket and withdrew something small and delicate.
The bracelet.
Little Rosella's gift.
His thumb traced over the simple charm, and despite everything—despite the weight of revelation, despite his father's illness, despite the darkness that had consumed so much of his life—his lips curved into a smile.
"Little angel." His voice was soft, wondering. "I promised I'd cherish this treasure. And I will. Always."
He shook his head slightly, almost amused at himself.
"I wonder what you're doing right now, little angel."
Had anyone else witnessed the cold, fearsome Lucien Draeger smiling like this—speaking so softly, so warmly—they wouldn't have recognized him.
Was it the little girl's light that had pierced through the storm surrounding his heart?
Perhaps.
Just then, a subtle movement stirred in his coat.
Lucien blinked. "Damn it... Whisper. I forgot you were there."
He opened his coat, and a small black bunny leapt out, landing on the floor and immediately beginning to explore.
"There, there. Control yourself, you little creature."
He chuckled—actually chuckled—as Whisper bounded across the room, then back, then jumped onto his lap. The tiny creature snuggled against him, then reached up, tugging gently at his pendant.
Lucien laughed—a real laugh, rare and warm.
"You like this, hmm?"
He scooped the bunny up, cradling it against his chest for a moment before settling it into a cozy corner he'd prepared.
"Sleep well, little one."
Finally, he retreated to his bed. The weight of the night pressed down on him—his father's collapse, Aldara's revelations, the truth that had shifted everything.
But beneath the weight, something else stirred.
Hope. Small and fragile, but real.
And for the first time in years...
Lucien Draeger slept in the arms of peace.
---
To be continued...
Up next: Chapter 9