Chapter 34

Lucien Reigns was growing fast — faster than anyone in the palace expected.

By his second year, he was already running through the grand halls like a storm wrapped in silk, chasing after the royal hounds with laughter that echoed from marble to marble. His hair was dark like midnight flame, soft and unruly, falling into eyes that burned a molten gold — the same shade that once danced behind his father’s.

And then there were the horns.

Tiny, curved like the first sprout of moon-forged bone, they peeked shyly from his tousled hair — delicate yet proud. Zerach often traced them with wonder when Lucien slept, his thumb moving in slow circles, remembering what it meant to see his own blood reflected so purely in another. “You’ll grow into them, my son,” he would whisper. “And when you do, the world will tremble at your strength.”

But for now, Lucien was stubborn. Wild. A child of fire and mischief.

When the palace tutors tried to teach him the language of the ancients, he would yawn and toss the scrolls aside, running instead to the courtyard where he pretended his wooden sword was a real blade. “Father fights with strength, not with books!” he’d shout, his little chest puffed in pride.

Zerach, amused yet firm, never raised his voice. Instead, he joined him.

The great Demon King — feared by armies — knelt in the sun with his small son, showing him how to hold a blade, how to breathe before striking.

But Lucien was too impatient. “I don’t want to wait! I want to win now!”

And Zerach laughed — a deep, rare sound that softened the air. “Then first learn to lose, little warrior.”

Their afternoons often ended with Lucien chasing his father through the gardens, the sound of their laughter blending with the wind. Servants who passed by would pause, smiling softly — for it was the only time they saw their king without the crown of sorrow upon his brow.

At night, Zerach would tell Lucien stories — of stars that fell in love, of the first flame that gave birth to their kind. And always, before sleep, Lucien would ask the same question:

“Father, what was she like? Mother?”

Zerach’s voice would falter just slightly before he answered. “She was light itself. And if you listen close enough… she still hums in your blood.”

The boy always fell asleep smiling.

Far away, beyond the forest where the palace towers faded into mist, Lyra grew too — hidden but radiant, a blossom the world had forgotten.

Unlike her brother, there were no horns on her head, no glow in her eyes. Her features were entirely human — delicate, warm, her lashes long and golden, her lips soft like rose petals. She looked like her mother had as a child, yet there was something otherworldly about her calmness — as if the flame of her father burned quietly beneath her skin.

Mira would watch her often and sigh. “You are both halves of the same star,” she whispered. “One born of flame, one born of light.”

Lyra loved the woods. She’d hum as she picked wildflowers, twirling barefoot through sunlight and leaves. But sometimes — just sometimes — she would stop and look toward the far hills where the castle spires glinted. Her small fingers would press to her chest.

“There’s someone there,” she said one afternoon. “Someone who feels like me.”

Mira froze but only smiled faintly. “Maybe someone is watching over you.”

Lyra tilted her head. “Then why does he feel… sad?”

The question hung in the air, soft as wind through branches. Mira said nothing — because she, too, felt it. The strange bond between two children divided by fate, one raised among demons, the other hidden in human silence.

And though the years would stretch between them, the pull of blood would never fade.

The years flowed like the river that wound beneath the palace cliffs—steady, unrelenting, carrying sorrow and hope together in its tide.

It had been ten years since the night Queen Daphne’s cry split the heavens, since fire and blood painted the birthing room walls.

The story of her passing had long since turned to legend.

Some said her spirit still walked the gardens at dusk. Others swore they saw her reflection in the moonlight above the lake, watching over her child.

But only one person carried the truth in his bones—Zerach, the Horned King.

The man who once ruled with fury now lived with a quiet ache that never left him, even in his sleep.

Lucien was his light.

From the moment the boy could walk, he filled the palace with laughter again—wild, daring, and unrestrained.

He had his father’s fierce golden eyes, the same storm-colored hair that shimmered silver at the roots, and beneath the curls that framed his face, two tiny horns peeked out—delicate, curved like polished obsidian, proof of the blood that burned inside him.

Unlike his father’s heavy crown of horns, Lucien’s were soft to the touch, still forming. Zerach often teased him that when they finally grew, they’d pierce the heavens.

But Lucien only grinned and replied, “Then I’ll bring Mama a star.”

Every inch of him radiated mischief. He climbed the fortress walls like a cat, raced through the stables barefoot, and once even tried to sneak into the war council hall wearing his father’s cloak—dragging it behind him like a river of shadow.

Zerach had walked in to find the boy seated on his throne, chin lifted proudly, shouting,

“I am the king of monsters!”

The councilmen had been horrified. Zerach, on the other hand, had nearly laughed himself to tears.

He had Daphne’s smile too—soft, crooked at one corner, the kind that made the whole room gentler.

And when he laughed, truly laughed, the entire fortress seemed to breathe again.

Every morning, before dawn, Zerach took his son beyond the palace gates.

There, beneath the towering oaks of the Silverwood Forest, the two of them trained together—though the sessions often turned more into play than combat.

“Focus, Lucien,” Zerach would growl, his deep voice echoing through the mist.

“Your enemy won’t wait for your laughter.”

“But my laughter will distract him,” Lucien shot back, swinging his wooden sword with unsteady precision.

The boy’s spirit was unbreakable. When he fell, he laughed. When he lost, he demanded another try.

And every time he managed to land a blow against his father’s guard, Zerach saw the spark of a future king flicker in his eyes.

After training, they hunted small game together, shared stories beside the river, or simply lay on the grass watching clouds roll across the sun.

Lucien loved to ask questions—endless, curious questions about everything.

“Father, why do the moon and sun never meet?”

“Why does thunder sound like anger?”

“Did you love Mama right away, or did she make you work for it?”

That last one had made Zerach choke on his drink.

He missed Daphne every single day—but through Lucien, she lived again. Her kindness. Her bravery. Her warmth.

It was in the way the boy helped the servants carry water, in how he ran to soothe crying children of the city, and even in how he whispered to the wild birds perched on the balcony.

Zerach would often stand in the doorway, watching him, his chest swelling with pride—and fear.

Because Lucien reminded him too much of the woman he couldn’t protect.

Far beyond the palace walls, in the quiet village of Marrow Glen, a small cottage stood hidden among birch trees.

There, a woman named Mira, one of Daphne’s old handmaidens, lived in secret.

And within that cottage, a little girl grew—Lyra.

The child was sunlight wrapped in innocence.

She had Daphne’s golden hair, soft and bright as the morning wheat, and her eyes—oh, her eyes—were a calm brown that shimmered like honey when she laughed.

There was no horn upon her head, no mark of the beast blood that had once frightened the kingdom.

Her skin was smooth, her aura human—purely her mother’s gift.

That was why she had been hidden.

In a land where horns were power, a hornless heir was vulnerable.

The council had feared it. Zerach’s grief had blinded him. And Ilyra, knowing the king would not survive losing another child, had sworn to protect the girl until the right time.

Lyra didn’t know the truth.

She believed Ilyra was her grandmother and that her parents were travelers who had died long ago.

Still, some nights, when the moon hung full and bright, she dreamed of fire and wings and a woman with golden hair singing softly to her.

She would wake crying without knowing why.

Years in Motion

When Lucien turned five, he received his first real sword—a gift from Zerach.

The blade was forged from dark steel, engraved with runes that glowed faintly when he touched them.

He swung it with pride, nearly slicing through the dining table before Zerach caught his wrist with a laugh.

When Lyra turned five, she learned to heal small wounds with herbs and touch.

She would place her hands over an injured bird and whisper, “You’ll fly again.”

And somehow, they always did.

When Lucien turned seven, he started sneaking into the soldiers’ drills, mimicking their moves until the captain caught him.

The king punished him—by making him train officially every dawn.

Lucien didn’t see that as punishment at all.

When Lyra turned seven, she began painting. Her hands moved like wind over canvas, creating sunsets and kingdoms she had never seen.

One day, she painted a palace of marble and flame—a place that looked strikingly like Zerach’s fortress.

Ilyra had nearly fainted at the sight.

When Lucien turned eight, he began asking questions about his mother.

Zerach told him only that she was beautiful, brave, and loved him beyond all things.

He didn’t tell him that she died bringing him to life—or that there had been another child.

When Lyra turned eight, she began feeling… different.

Sometimes, her heart would race for no reason.

Sometimes, she’d laugh suddenly, as if sharing a joke no one told her.

And sometimes, she’d cry out in her sleep, whispering a name she’d never heard before.

“Lucien.”

By the time the twins turned nine, destiny began to stir.

It was early autumn when Zerach rode out into the forest one morning, chasing a stag. The leaves were red as blood, the air cool and sharp with mist.

Lucien had begged to go with him, but the king insisted he stay behind to study the old war maps. The boy had sulked for an hour, then fallen asleep in the library surrounded by scrolls.

Zerach followed the stag deep into the Silverwood until he lost its trail.

He dismounted, kneeling to trace the tracks on the soft earth when a sound caught his ear—a small, high-pitched giggle.

He turned.

From behind a fallen tree, a little girl crawled out, mud on her knees, her golden curls wild in the wind.

She looked no more than nine years old—freckled, curious, fearless.

When her eyes met his, she froze. Then, to his utter shock, she toddled forward and whispered, “Dada?”

Zerach’s heart stopped.

For one trembling second, he saw Daphne—her face, her warmth, her very soul—reflected in this child’s eyes.

“Who…” His voice broke. “Who are you?”

Before he could reach her, a woman came running from the trees—older, breathless, her hair streaked with gray.

It was Ilyra, the maid who had vanished the night Daphne died.

She fell to her knees, trembling. “Forgive me, my king. She didn’t mean to—she wandered off. Please, forgive her.”

Zerach’s gaze darted between them—between the terrified woman and the child whose face was his heart’s ghost.

He opened his mouth, but no words came.

Lyra clung to Ilyra’s dress, glancing back once more at the horned king before they disappeared into the woods.

He stood there long after they were gone, the word “Dada” echoing in his mind.

Back at the palace, Lucien ran across the courtyard to greet his father, eyes bright with excitement.

“Did you catch the stag, Father?”

Zerach looked at his son—his heir, his blood, his shadow—and for the first time, his heart trembled with confusion.

Lucien laughed and threw his arms around him, oblivious to the storm that had just begun to form in his father’s soul.

That night, Zerach couldn’t sleep.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw two faces—Lucien’s, full of life and fire, and the little girl’s, soft and human and hauntingly familiar.

Somewhere in the kingdom, a truth was waiting to be revealed.

And though the king didn’t know it yet, the destiny of his children would soon decide the fate of them all.