~LUCIAN'S POV
Alaric's summons lingered in my mind like a specter I could not shake.
The cold of it crawled down my spine as I stood at the threshold of his chamber, with my boots pressed against stones that felt older than time itself.
The bastard scared me - even as my brother, not that I would ever admit.
He had this way of peeling back layers, of seeing right through the cracks in your armor. Of knowing what you tried so desperately to hide.
I knew why he had called me into his chambers today.
He was about to ask me the one question I dreaded the most, but would inevitably face.
"What did you see?"
The words alone twisted my gut like a blade. His voice was always low, and expectant, feeling like a probe into the deepest recesses of my mind. Each time he asked it, I had to lie. Pretend the visions I saw were meaningless smoke, fragments too blurry to count and noises too distant to grasp.
I had chosen to walk instead of teleporting into his chamber, because I needed time to think and compose my words, to help smooth the edges of my lie, before settling in his presence.
I walked the dim hallway, letting the sound of my boots on stone settle my thoughts. The torchlight flickered against the walls, casting shadows that seemed to twist and lunge, alive with whispers of the past.
Alaric's senses were sharper than any other demon I had met, he'd cut through bullshit in a heartbeat, blindfold or not. Sometimes, I wasn't even sure if he was truly blind because it feels like his blindfold seemed like a prop, a tool to heighten the mystery around him.
My visions were useless.
A jumble of images that made little to no sense. Past, present, future all mashed up together. Most of it was blurry, like looking through smoke.
Most of the time, nothing made sense.
If I had seen clearer, Mother wouldn't have died.
But all I'd seen were whispers. Echoes. Noise without meaning.
I swallowed against the tightness in my throat.
I had tried to hold the threads. Tried to anticipate what would come. Tried to bend fate with what little I could grasp.
I had failed.
The death of Mother, Queen Ophelia—the smell of her blood, the horror frozen in her eyes as she hung lifeless on the altar, was etched into me like fire carved into stone. Three thousand years had passed, yet the wound never healed.
Even now, the memory twisted my stomach with rage and guilt.
Teleportation was common among demons, but high-ranking ones like us possessed abilities beyond the norm. The stronger you were, the longer you could hold portals open, bend reality, and tear through realms.
Lower-ranking demons lacked flashy gifts, but they were still predators compared to humans. They were faster, stronger, and steeped in darkness.
Alaric's eyesight was a constant reminder of what we had lost and what he had sacrificed. He moved through the world without seeing it as we did, yet every gesture, every glance of recognition, carried the weight of memory, of battles witnessed and powers wielded. To see through him was to see a history of pain etched into the very essence of his being.
And yet... there was something more. Some invisible weight he carried, as if the sky itself had been stolen from him. Something tethered him to the ground, even when his power should have made him untouchable.
His silver flames haunted me. Not in the way fire should, but in the way only he could wield power: precise, absolute, terrifying. Even his flames could not reach what had been taken from him, something unseen that left him restrained and incomplete.
He could bring life back at a cost, but only if a blood relative took their place.
I had seen him reach for Mother, hands trembling, desperation clawing at the edges of that cold composure he carried so easily. But the only relatives she had left were us three, and Alaric couldn't trade any of us places with her.
I had watched him fail.
Meanwhile, Zephyrus terrified me more than Alaric ever could. His time manipulation, his ability to bend reality, to rewind or alter moments to his will, but that came with a cost. The more he meddled with fate, the worse the backlash.
I had seen him nearly break himself trying to save Mother, wanting to alter the thread of her destiny, and it had broken him - nearly destroying himself trying to save Mother, his core fracturing under the strain. Even recuperation might not have saved him if he'd pushed further.
Now he pretended that power didn't exist, focusing instead on brute strength and volatile red flames. That crimson fire burned like a wild thing in his veins, chaotic and destructive.
I'd seen him burn entire cities in his rage.
His temper needed to be studied.
I envied them both.
Me?
I was stuck with visions.
Shitty fragments that revealed nothing.
'What did you see?' Alaric's question haunted me because I knew I hadn't seen enough.
Hadn't seen anything when Mother died. Over three thousand years had passed, and my visions were still shit, blurry snippets, mostly useless. Alaric said it'd take time, that I'd master it... but I had lost hope.
Over the centuries, I had learned to rely on logic instead. Reading, border patrols, decrees, minor skirmishes—I excelled at structure.
My blue flames were different, they burned cool and calculatingly like ice turned to fire. I could weave them into different patterns and form them into taking shape of objects from nothing: swords, daggers, whips, chains, even creatures born of intent rather than chaos.
I stepped toward the chamber doors, hands loose at my sides while hiding the tension in my fingers, and steadying my breath. Shadows swirled around me as if alive, whispering, testing my focus.
The guards flanking Alaric's chamber inclined their heads in unison, voices low and unthreatening yet powerful in its formality.
"Lord Lucian."
I gave a subtle nod in acknowledgment before pushing the doors open.
The chamber swallowed me, dim and ancient. The scent of old parchment and silver smoke lingered in every corner, as shadows clung to the stone walls, stretching and dancing under the flicker of the candle perched on Alaric's massive desk.
He sat behind it with his blindfold in place, hands tracing lines in a worn leather tome. His focus shifted the moment I entered, a weight pressing down on me. Not anger. Not curiosity. Just... presence. The kind that bends space around you while demanding attention.
I crossed the room in quiet steps, boots silent against the stone. I lowered myself onto the small pillow before his desk, reminding myself why I always took this place: beneath him. Always beneath him. It was a lesson in dominance, and he reveled in it.
His voice cut through the air, low and deliberate.
"Tell me what you saw."
No preamble, no small talk, just that question hanging like a challenge.
I lied smoothly, "Nothing, I saw nothing brother." My jaw barely moved, my expression neutral.
His head tilted just enough to indicate recognition. His voice dropped, almost a growl.
"Lucian."
My gut twisted but I kept my posture relaxed. "It's been years," he began with a firm tone, "and you've seen nothing still? No glimpses? No whispers?"
I shifted slightly on the pillow, the movement minimal, controlled. My hands rested on my thighs with my fingers curling once before stilling.
"Unfortunately, no."
The chamber responded to that lie with a pause, a subtle shift in the air as he let out a small grunt which filled the room.
Silence.
"Are you relenting in your cultivation?" he asked.
Not a question.
A demand.
My spine straightened instinctively. "No, brother. I cultivate at the hour of the moon every fortnight."
His head turned fully toward me.
"Fortnight?" His brow lifted beneath the blindfold.
The pause stretched.
"Your power has not progressed in centuries," he said coolly. "Are you lagging?"
The words landed like a blade.
My throat tightened while holding his gaze.
"Lucian."
I exhaled slowly. "Brother," I whispered.
Another pause.
"Fine." His fingers dragged along the edge of the book, tapping out an impatient rhythm. "You will receive new elixirs by the end of the week. The medicine bureau has acquired rare herbs. They should heighten your vision. Clear the fog."
I resisted the urge to scoff.
I'd heard it all before.
Months of elixirs. No change.
Still blind to fate.
I inclined my head. "I understand, brother."
His focus returned to the book, and the weight lifted slightly.
"And," he added without looking up, "tell Zephyrus he cannot continue losing his temper while training the soldiers. He is thinning our ranks—half a dozen dead daily. If this continues, there will be no demons left to fight when war comes."
A pause.
"I expect you to convey this."
"I understand, brother." I whispered.
His fingers traced the page once more, dismissing me with the weight of his attention alone.
I left the chamber, hands unclenching as the tension bled out.
New elixirs.
As if they could fix what had been broken since birth.
My thoughts drifted to the vision from the night before.
Just a glimpse which was hazy and distant.
But clear enough to have caught, Dove's face.
Pain. Blood.
Death.
I couldn't tell him.
Not yet.