The wind outside the inn window whispered against the old glass panes, rattling faintly like bones in a forgotten crypt. Eden was quiet tonight—too quiet for a city built on secrets and sin.
Sabine sat on the edge of the bed, the candlelight catching the edges of her hair as it spilled down her shoulders. Her fingers hovered just above the delicate curve of her son's cheek, afraid to wake him, afraid not to touch him. His breathing was soft, barely there, as though the world hadn't yet laid full claim to him.
"You don't know it yet," she murmured, voice rough with exhaustion and something older, deeper, "but the world's already trying to take you from me."
She lowered her hand, letting her palm rest lightly on his small chest. She could feel the heartbeat beneath her touch—fast and sure, like a little drum inside a fragile cage. "But I won't let them. Not the demons, not his cursed family, not fate itself. I'll burn Eden to ash before I lose you."
The baby didn't stir, but his lips parted with a tiny breath, a soundless sigh in the warm room. Sabine leaned down and kissed the side of his face, just above the temple, her hair brushing his brow. "You're mine. No matter whose blood made you. You are mine."
Her voice cracked on the last word, and she curled protectively beside him, pulling the thin blanket higher. The air was scented faintly with wax and the city's grime, but here, close to him, it was clean—pure. She let her eyes flutter shut.
And then…
The world shifted.
The child's mind stirred.
He could not speak. Could not sit. Could not even cry with intent, not really. But there was a fire inside his bones—an ancient, humming energy that coiled and uncoiled like smoke. Thought was not quite formed, but awareness… that had already begun to take root.
Warmth. He knew this warmth.
The scent. Her.
He could feel her heartbeat—slower, heavier than his own—but syncing, always syncing. When she laid near, something inside him pulsed brighter. Familiarity. Comfort. Protection.
A primal echo that whispered: this one is yours.
There were flashes in the dark of his mind. Buried deep, like oil in stone. A man with eyes like fire. A voice that echoed like storms cracking across a barren sky. Pain. And then… arms. Cradling. Soft singing, off-key but lovely. Her voice.
He recognized her.
Not with memory, but with something older than memory. Bond. Blood. She was mother. And if he had language, he would have named her that with reverence.
Her face hovered above his now, haloed in flickering candlelight. He couldn't smile—didn't know how yet—but something like joy sparked in his chest when her fingers touched his brow.
"You're going to be dangerous," Sabine whispered, smiling faintly as if reading the shimmer in his gaze. "Just like him. Maybe worse."
Her thumb brushed along his cheek. "But I'll make sure the world fears you the right way. On your terms. Not theirs."
The baby blinked slowly. He understood none of the words—but the tone, the promise in her voice, wrapped around him like armor he didn't yet need.
"I named you for power," she said after a long pause. Her lips grazed his forehead, so softly he almost didn't feel it. "I named you for legend." The candlelight danced in her eyes. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "My little Lucien."
The baby's lids began to close again, drawn by warmth and her breath, by the lull of her heartbeat and the safety of her arms. But even as sleep pulled him under, the name Lucien rang in his developing mind like a chord struck in perfect tune.
He didn't know what it meant.
But somehow, he knew it belonged to him.
Sleep took him swiftly, but it was no gentle cradle. It was a fall—fast, tumbling, as though the floor of the world had opened beneath him.
Lucien didn't cry. He didn't scream. He only blinked as the world around him shifted from warmth and candlelight to cold and ruin.
He stood—not as a baby, but as something else, something other. Not in a body, but in a vision. His consciousness drifted like a wisp above shattered stone and darkness.
There was no sky. Only a ceiling of smoke that rippled and pulsed like it was breathing.
Below, pillars stretched toward the heavens, vast and skeletal. Once, they might have been glorious—etched in gold, carved with runes that whispered power—but now, they were broken, jagged, some still burning with green fire.
The floor was slick with blood, thick and dark, almost black in the fading light. It crept across the marble like fingers, reaching.
Lucien didn't know where he was. But he'd been here before.
In the middle of the ruin stood a throne of bone—high and sharp, with blades curling like thorns from the armrests. Upon it, there was nothing. Just the imprint of where someone once sat.
Then, the silence cracked.
From the edge of vision, it came slithering: a shadow, thick and unnatural, more than just the absence of light. It moved like smoke, but it dragged something heavy with it. The air bent around it, distorted, like a mirage in a furnace.
And then—it turned.
Eyes. Too many eyes. Floating in the mass. Glowing silver and green, unblinking. Claws slid from the cloud—long and black, metal or bone, it was impossible to tell. They scraped the ground as it moved forward, slicing through blood and stone alike.
Lucien stared. He could not move.
The thing didn't speak. It laughed.
Not with a voice, but with sounds that clanged like shattered bells, deep and wrong. Every sound it made pulled at something ancient inside Lucien. Something that curled and hissed in his blood.
"You are not ready."
The words didn't come from the creature. They came from within Lucien himself.
"But you will be."
The world began to shake. The ruins groaned, like they remembered what had been lost. The shadow surged forward and then a light split the sky.
A beam, thin and blinding, shot down from the heavens like a blade. It pierced the darkness, struck the throne, and for one brief moment, the world screamed.
Lucien blinked.
The throne shattered.
The monster recoiled, vanishing with a howl that cut through reality itself.
And he was falling again.
Falling.
Falling.
Until he woke with a sharp gasp in his tiny chest, fingers curling slightly in Sabine's arms.
She didn't notice. She was still humming softly to herself, half-asleep. But in his still-developing mind, the image burned like a brand.
'The smoke. The throne. The light. The thing that waited beyond it.'
And somewhere deep inside him… something stirred.