Chapter 35

The years drifted through the kingdom like a slow river — gentle on the surface, but deep with unspoken currents. The fortress that once roared with battle now breathed with quieter sounds: laughter, the clang of training swords, the song of morning bells echoing through the valley.

Time had done what even kings could not — it had turned grief into memory.

Zerach’s palace, once darkened by loss, now glowed again with life. For in the heart of the royal wing, running barefoot through marble halls, shouting at sparrows that perched by the balcony, lived a boy who carried both his father’s flame and his mother’s light.

Lucien Reigns.

He was the fire reborn.

At ten years old, Lucien was bold, wild, and impossibly curious — the kind of child whose laughter echoed through the entire citadel, who wrestled with guards twice his size, and whose questions could unravel the patience of any court scholar.

His hair was a deep gold, streaked with hints of bronze that shimmered when sunlight struck it. His eyes — sharp and molten — mirrored his father’s, glowing faintly when angered or excited. Tiny horns peeked from his curls, smooth and dark, no longer than his thumb, a mark of his father’s lineage. But where Zerach’s horns spoke of command and storm, Lucien’s carried innocence — the crown of a child who had not yet learned the weight of power.

Zerach adored him.

The mighty Horned King, feared by nations and whispered about by legends, became almost human in his son’s presence. He trained Lucien himself — guiding his sword hand, teaching him how to read the patterns of battle and the poetry of leadership. But he also played with him, something the soldiers never dared believe until they saw it with their own eyes: the king chasing a laughing boy through the gardens, both of them collapsing in the grass as dusk fell, the father’s laughter echoing like thunder softened by rain.

Some nights, when the boy had fallen asleep with his tiny hands curled around Zerach’s arm, the king would look down at him and whisper:

“You are the best of us, Lucien. The piece of light the gods allowed me to keep.”

But not all of Zerach’s light had remained in the palace.

Far from the city walls, hidden among the quiet hills of Cural, another child grew — a girl of soft laughter and gentle grace, raised by a widow who spoke little of the past.

Her name was Lyra.

She was ten, too, though no one in the palace knew she existed. Her mother’s last order — to hide the second twin — had been obeyed in silence.

Lyra’s features were unmistakably human: smooth skin kissed by the sun, hair like liquid honey, and eyes that mirrored the ocean’s calm — eyes that once belonged to Queen Daphne. She had no horns, no trace of her father’s demonic blood. But sometimes, when she was angry or afraid, the air around her would hum faintly, as though the wind itself bent to her emotions.

The woman who raised her, old Miren, never explained where she came from. But Lyra often dreamed of a tall man with golden eyes and a woman with hair like hers, reaching for her across a gulf of light.

She would wake, heart pounding, the name “Mama” trembling on her lips.

The villagers adored Lyra. She helped at the well, tended to sick animals, and brought bread to the poor. But there was always something otherworldly about her — something that made people lower their voices when she passed.

Sometimes, when the sun set just right, her shadow would stretch longer than it should. Sometimes, she would sing songs no one had ever taught her — old lullabies from a kingdom she had never seen.

Miren saw these things and prayed every night. She knew one day, the truth would come for the girl — and she feared the day it did.

One morning, Lucien stood at the edge of the fortress courtyard, staring into the distant forest. The wind was wild that day, carrying with it the scent of pine and rain.

He had grown restless — his father was in council, his tutors dismissed for the day. So he did what any boy of ten with fire in his veins would do. He took a horse and rode toward the woods.

“Don’t stray far, Prince Lucien!” a guard called after him.

Lucien only grinned. “I’ll be back before the stars wake!”

He galloped into the trees, laughter echoing through the green.

Hours passed before the skies began to gray. Birds wheeled overhead, and the forest sang with the sound of insects and rustling leaves. Lucien stopped near a brook, letting his horse drink. He crouched beside it, staring into his reflection — the faint glint of his small horns, the sharpness of his father’s jawline.

He wondered, not for the first time, what his mother had looked like.

His father spoke little of her, only that she was “the fire that burned brighter than all the stars.”

He sighed and picked a white flower by the stream, tucking it behind his ear.

That was when he heard it — the sound of laughter.

Soft. Clear.

Not the laughter of a bird or fairy. It was human.

Lucien rose, scanning the trees. “Hello?”

From the shadows stepped a girl, barefoot, her skirt damp with dew. She carried a basket of herbs, her golden hair tangled by the wind.

For a moment, they only stared at each other.

Lucien’s throat went dry. Something in her face — the shape of her eyes, the curve of her smile — felt hauntingly familiar.

The girl blinked, then smiled shyly. “You shouldn’t be here. These woods belong to the village.”

“I’m… exploring,” Lucien said, puffing up a little. “I’m the prince.”

She tilted her head. “Prince of what?”

He grinned. “Of everything.”

She laughed — that same clear, ringing sound that made the leaves tremble.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Lyra.”

It hit him like a spark — a name that felt like something he’d heard whispered in a dream.

“I’m Lucien,” he said quietly.

Their eyes met — gold and ocean blue. The air around them stilled, as though even the forest held its breath.

Neither understood it, but something ancient stirred within them — the bond of blood long divided, of two halves finally within reach.

A rustle broke the spell. An older woman hurried from the trees, her face pale. “Lyra!” she scolded. “You mustn’t wander so far!”

Lyra turned quickly. “I’m sorry, Mira. I didn’t mean—”

Her voice faltered when the woman froze — seeing the boy’s small horns glinting in the light.

The woman bowed low, trembling. “Your Highness… forgive us. My child meant no disrespect.”

Lucien frowned. “It’s alright. I was just—”

But before he could finish, Mira scooped Lyra’s hand and pulled her away. “Come, girl. Now.”

Lyra glanced back once, eyes wide with something between wonder and sorrow.

“Wait!” Lucien called, but the forest swallowed her before he could follow.

He stood there for a long time, holding the white flower in his hand, the sound of her laughter still echoing in his ears.

That evening, when he returned to the palace, Zerach noticed his son’s strange quiet.

“Did you trouble the tutors again?” the king teased.

Lucien shook his head. “I met someone.”

Zerach arched a brow. “Someone?”

“A girl,” Lucien murmured. “She was… different.”

The king smiled faintly. “At your age, all girls are.”

Lucien frowned. “No, Father. She looked like Mama.”

Zerach froze.

The boy’s words cut through the air like a blade of memory. For years, he had buried his grief deep, refusing to reopen the wounds of Daphne’s death. But now, hearing his son speak her name — it stirred something he thought long dead.

He knelt before the boy, resting a hand on his shoulder. “What was her name, Lucien?”

“Lyra.”

The sound of it made the king’s chest tighten — a name that felt like an echo.

Zerach said nothing more, only nodded and sent Lucien to bed. But long after his son’s breathing had steadied, the Horned King sat alone on the balcony, staring into the dark horizon.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere out there, a piece of his heart still lived — one he had never known he’d lost.

And deep in the forest, under the silver light of the moon, Lyra lay awake too, tracing the name Lucien in the air.

She didn’t know why the thought of him made her chest ache, or why the wind outside her window whispered the same word over and over —

“Brother.”