Dawn broke softly over the Umbren Mansion, as if hesitant to disturb the secrets held within its ancient walls.
Golden rays slipped through the tall windows like blessings, scattering light across marble floors and ancestral portraits. The house seemed almost alive, touched by warmth—yet one room remained untouched, shrouded in its usual gloom, as though the sun itself feared to trespass.
That room belonged to Lucien Draeger.
He often said the light was not meant for him—that he was cursed, born to dwell in shadows where warmth could not reach. The servants whispered when they thought he couldn't hear. The Cursed Son. The Shadow Heir. The boy born from darkness.
But what exactly was the Umbren history they feared to speak of? What curse clung to his name like frost to winter windows?
Even Lucien himself did not know.
He only knew that his father carried the truth, locked away behind tired eyes and heavier silences. And for reasons Lucien could not fathom, Lord Malric Draeger kept it buried—along with so many other things.
Perhaps he thinks me too weak to bear it, Lucien thought bitterly. Perhaps he's right.
He shook away the thoughts and rose.
Since the night of his father's sudden collapse—the night Lucien had held him, begged him not to leave—something had shifted. The resentment he had carried for years, the belief that his father saw him only as a successor and not a son, had begun to crack. In its place grew something fragile and unfamiliar: love. Complicated, painful, desperate love.
Every morning now, Lucien went to greet him.
He walked through the silent corridor, his footsteps barely whispering against the stone. The mansion held its breath around him, as it always did. When he reached the heavy door to his father's chamber, he paused—listening.
Silence.
He entered.
Lord Malric was still asleep.
Lucien frowned, his brow furrowing. His father was always awake at this hour, seated upright in bed, already reading reports or writing correspondence. Now he lay pale against the pillows, his face gaunt, his breathing uneven—a fragile whisper of the man who had once commanded armies.
Something tightened in Lucien's chest. A fist around his heart, squeezing slowly.
Is this my fault?
The thought came unbidden, cruel and insistent. His father's health had crumbled under the weight of endless worries—worries about the tribe, about the future, about him. Lucien had seen the strain in his eyes, the exhaustion in his frame. He had simply chosen not to see it.
I did this.
The guilt twisted inside him like a blade.
He turned to leave—and stopped.
On the bedside table lay a diary, its pages spread open as if abandoned mid-thought. A pen rested beside it, fallen from fingers too tired to hold on.
Lucien's heart stilled.
A diary?
His father, who spoke in riddles and guarded secrets like precious jewels, had left his thoughts exposed. Open. Vulnerable.
Curiosity overcame hesitation. Lucien reached for it, his fingers brushing the worn leather cover. His conscience whispered warnings, but something stronger—darker—pushed him forward.
He read the first line:
"I was warned that he would be born again... but I never imagined it would be my own blood. I fear the history of the Shadows will repeat—"
---
"What are you doing, Lucien?"
The voice cut through the silence like a blade.
Lucien snapped his head up. His father's eyes were half-open, clouded with exhaustion but sharp with something else—fear? Disappointment? Both?
*Cough *Cough
Lord Malric's body convulsed with the effort of speaking. "Invading your father's privacy... is not a noble thing."
Lucien's jaw tightened. The diary remained in his hand, the words seared into his memory.
"And hiding the truth from your son—is that noble, Father?"
Lord Malric's expression darkened. "Now is not the time for you to know."
"Then when will it be?" Lucien's voice rose, frustration breaking through the ice. "When you're too weak to speak? When I find your cold body and wonder what secrets you took to your grave?"
"Perhaps... when I am gone."
The words landed like stones dropped into still water—heavy, final, rippling with implications Lucien didn't want to face.
He froze.
Anger sparked within him, sharp and unrelenting. It burned through his veins, hot enough to scorch. "Why must you always speak of death?! What's wrong with you, Father? Tell me the truth. I am your SON!"
Lord Malric studied him.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The morning light crept across the floor, inch by inch, as if afraid to interrupt.
When Malric finally spoke, his voice carried something Lucien had never heard before—something that sounded almost like hope.
"Lucien... I don't think God intends me to live long."
Lucien's breath caught.
"When you turn eighteen—next year—you will take my seat as head of the tribe."
Silence.
Lucien straightened. The ice returned to his voice, but beneath it, something trembled. "Do you doubt I can lead, Father?"
Malric shook his head weakly, the movement costing him visible effort. "No. I fear not your strength..." His eyes met Lucien's—gray meeting gray, mirror meeting mirror. "I fear the people. They may not accept you. They may rise against you."
A dry laugh escaped Lucien's throat—humorless, cold.
"So you fear they will try to kill me?" He stepped closer to the bed, his presence filling the room like coming storm clouds. "Have you forgotten my darkness, Father? Do you really think anyone can end me so easily?"
Malric coughed again, longer this time. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.
"I haven't forgotten."
A pause.
"I fear something far greater than death, Lucien." His eyes held his son's with terrible intensity. "You cannot yet understand."
Something greater than death.
The words echoed in Lucien's mind, refusing to settle.
"Father..." His voice softened—just for a moment, just enough to show the boy beneath the ice.
Silence stretched between them, heavy with everything unsaid.
Finally, Lucien spoke—low and firm, a vow carved from somewhere deep.
"Do not trouble yourself. The day I wear the crown, everything will bend before me. I will not fail you."
Lord Malric's eyes flickered with something—pride? Fear? Both?
Then he muttered, "You are permitted to read this diary... only when I am gone."
The words struck Lucien like a physical blow.
His fists clenched at his sides. The thought of his father's death—of a world without him—left a hollow ache inside his chest, vast and cold.
Still, he bowed his head.
"As you wish, Father."
He turned and left the chamber without looking back.
---
Back in his own room, the weight of the morning pressed down on him like the walls were closing in.
He dropped onto the edge of his bed, replaying every word he had read, every word his father had spoken.
"I was warned that he would be born again... but I never imagined it would be my own blood."
Born again.
My own blood.
What did it mean? What history haunted his father's dreams? What truth was so terrible that it could only be spoken from beyond the grave?
"How much longer must I wait for the truth?"
The whisper was harsh, ragged—torn from somewhere deep.
Anger surged.
He struck the floor with his boot, the sound echoing through the silent chamber like a gunshot. For a moment, he burned with fury—at his father, at the secrets, at the cruel fate that kept him stumbling in darkness.
Then, slowly, he stilled.
The fire banked. The ice returned.
But beneath it, something had changed.
Lucien Draeger had always known he was different. He had always felt the darkness coiled within him, waiting, watching. But now—for the first time—he understood that his difference had a history. A source. A reason.
And whatever that reason was, it terrified his father more than death itself.
He looked toward the window, toward the forest beyond, toward a future he could not see but could feel—pressing against him like a coming storm.
What am I, Father?
What am I becoming?
The morning sun climbed higher, filling the room with light Lucien still refused to claim.
He did not know that the challenges awaiting him were far greater than anything he had yet imagined.
He did not know that the truth, when it came, would shatter everything he believed about himself.
He only knew that the waiting was over.
Something was coming.
And Lucien Draeger would be ready.
---
To be continued...
Up next: Chapter 12