Chapter 36

The next few days passed quietly in the grand halls of Ge Palace — though not in peace.

Lucien could not stay still.

Every dawn, before the guards changed shifts and before the palace truly awoke, he slipped out — barefoot, cloaked, and determined. He moved like a wisp of smoke through the eastern gates and disappeared into the thick woods that stretched beyond the royal walls.

He was searching. Always searching.

Each day, he followed the same winding path that led him to the place where he had once met the girl whose laughter still echoed in his heart.

“Lyra,” he whispered into the forest, voice soft but trembling with hope. “Lyra, it’s me.”

Only the wind replied, carrying his voice through the branches like a forgotten song.

He would wait for hours, watching the trees, listening for her footsteps — but she never came.

By the time dusk fell, Lucien always returned to the palace with slumped shoulders and silent steps. His tutors thought he was tired from training. His father thought he was simply growing. But only Lucien knew the truth — his heart ached with an emptiness he couldn’t name.

Lyra was the first true friend he had ever known.

The first person who saw him as Lucien — not as “Prince,” not as “Your Highness,” not as the son of King Zerach the Fearless.

She had smiled at him like he was normal. And now that she was gone, the world felt smaller, colder, lonelier.

In the woods, Lyra sat by a small window, chin resting on her hands as she stared toward the faint glimmer of the palace towers far beyond the trees.

Mira entered the room carrying a basket of wild herbs, her gray hair tied in a knot, her eyes watchful and sharp despite her age. There was kindness in her face — but also something harder, something shaped by years of secrets.

“Lyra,” she said firmly, “I told you not to go near that part of the woods again.”

Lyra turned, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders. “But I didn’t do anything wrong. He was kind to me. He shared his bread and—”

“Enough.” Mira set the basket down with a sigh. “You don’t understand, child. There are many people who want you dead.”

Lyra’s small hands tightened around the window ledge. “Why would anyone want to hurt me?”

Mira looked away. “Because of who you are.”

Lyra frowned. “And who am I?”

For a long moment, Mira said nothing. She bent to sort her herbs, pretending to be busy. “You’re my child,” she said finally. “And that’s all that matters.”

But deep down, Lyra knew Mira was hiding something. There were moments when Mira would stare at her too long, as if seeing someone else through her eyes. Moments when her voice trembled whenever she spoke of the past.

Still, Lyra obeyed.

She loved Mira — the only mother she had ever known. And when Mira warned her to stay close, Lyra stayed.

So while Lucien wandered the forests alone, Lyra spent her days indoors — learning from Mira, studying old scrolls, and helping gather herbs for healing. Mira taught her to read, to write, to cook, to recognize the signs of danger in the woods.

But no matter how many lessons filled her days, the image of that boy — his curious smile, his eyes that seemed to glow like sunlight through amber — refused to leave her mind.

Back in the palace, Lucien returned to his studies.

He trained with the finest masters, learning the art of swordplay, strategy, and command. He was fast, fierce, and already more talented than men twice his age. Yet his heart wasn’t in it.

He fought to forget — but even in battle, he saw her face.

Zerach, his father, watched him with both pride and quiet worry. The king had once been known as the Dragon of the East — powerful, wise, and untouchable. But fatherhood had softened him in ways war never could.

He still blamed himself for Daphne’s death. His queen. His light.

If only he had been there — if only he had fought harder to save her — she might still be alive.

Sometimes, he looked at Lucien and saw her smile flash through the boy’s expression. It tore him apart.

One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the sky in fire, Zerach entered his son’s chambers.

“Lucien,” he called softly.

Lucien turned, his wooden sword resting beside him. “Father?”

“Come,” Zerach said with a faint smile. “A warrior must train not just in the mind, but in spirit.”

Lucien jumped to his feet. “Are we sparring again?”

“Yes,” Zerach chuckled, “but this time, no holding back.”

Lucien laughed — a rare sound — and began unbuttoning his tunic to move freely. But as he did, Zerach’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, his expression shifting from pride to unease.

There, across Lucien’s upper back, two faint ridges glimmered under the torchlight — glowing softly, like embers beneath the skin.

“Lucien…” the king said slowly, reaching out. “Have you felt pain here?”

Lucien hesitated. “Sometimes. It burns — when I’m angry… or scared.”

Zerach’s breath caught. His hand trembled as he traced the lines.

He had heard stories of such marks — ancient, terrible tales buried in old scrolls.

They were said to be the signs of a cursed lineage — of beings born with wings of shadow, remnants of a demonic bloodline that consumed all goodness from the host.

Those born with such wings were called The Consumed.

Their hearts began pure but were devoured by the hunger of their power. They destroyed everything they loved, burning their world to ash before turning upon themselves.

Zerach had seen one with his own eyes once — a creature that had slaughtered its kin, weeping as it fell apart under its own flames.

He had prayed never to witness such a curse again.

But here, before him, stood his son.

And yet… something was different. The light beneath Lucien’s skin wasn’t dark red — it shimmered gold, threaded with silver light. Not corruption. Not possession. Something else entirely.

Could it be that he wasn’t cursed… but chosen?

Zerach’s chest tightened. He touched Lucien’s shoulder and whispered, “What is your purpose in this world, my son?”

Lucien blinked, confused. “Father?”

Zerach forced a smile. “Perhaps… to prove that light can be born even from darkness.”

That night, when Lucien finally drifted to sleep, Zerach sat beside his bed, watching the faint glow on his back pulse like a heartbeat.

He whispered into the silence,

“Daphne… wherever you are, guide him. Don’t let our son fall into the same fate as those who came before him.”

Weeks passed.

Lucien’s powers grew stronger, though he didn’t understand them. Sometimes when he was angry, the flames around him would bend toward his hand. The air seemed to tremble with his emotions.

The palace servants whispered in secret — calling him the winged boy. But Zerach silenced anyone who dared spread fear.

To the world, Lucien was the future king — the crown’s pride, the perfect heir.

To himself, he was just a boy longing for a friend who had vanished into the forest.

In that same forest, Lyra was growing into a graceful young girl. Her beauty was quiet yet radiant — hair like moonlight, eyes like morning skies. She was soft in voice, kind in heart, and curious about everything.

Mira, though strict, loved her deeply. She saw Daphne’s reflection in every smile, every stubborn tilt of Lyra’s chin.

She taught Lyra all she knew — reading, healing, the ways of the woods. But no matter how much she learned, Lyra’s thoughts always wandered toward the boy she’d met long ago.

Sometimes, when the forest was still, she could almost feel him — as if a faint warmth flickered somewhere far away, calling her name.

But Mira’s words echoed in her mind: There are people who want you dead.

And so she stayed hidden. Always hidden.

Years drifted by. Months turned into seasons, and seasons turned into years.

Lucien and Lyra grew — apart, yet connected.

At nine years old, Lucien was already taller than most boys his age, with broad shoulders and golden eyes that carried both strength and sadness. His laughter was rare now, replaced by a quiet determination.

Zerach adored him. Despite the worries that haunted the king’s nights, he always made time for his son.

They trained together under the burning sun, hunted together under silver moons, and spoke of the future in the glow of firelight.

Zerach often told him stories of Daphne — of her bravery, her compassion, the way she could calm storms with a word.

Lucien listened in silence, memorizing every tale. He had never seen her, yet somehow he felt he already knew her — through the warmth that stirred in his chest whenever her name was spoken.

He wanted to be like her. Not the warrior his father wanted him to be — but the protector his heart whispered he was meant to become.

Meanwhile, Lyra grew into her own kind of strength.

Under Mira’s watchful care, she learned to heal wounds with herbs, to listen to the songs of nature, to move unseen through the forest.

But she was lonely.

Sometimes she would climb the tallest hill and gaze toward the distant palace, its golden spires glinting in the sunlight.

There, she would close her eyes and whisper, “I wonder if he still remembers me.”

She didn’t know his name. She only knew his eyes — bright and fierce, like sunlight breaking through smoke.

Every year, that memory grew softer… yet deeper, like a scar that refused to fade.

And then, one fateful day — as destiny would have it — their paths began to draw near again.

Lucien, now ten, rode into the outer woods for training with his guards. But as they stopped near the river’s edge, something pulled at his chest — a strange, magnetic force that whispered: Go deeper.

Ignoring his escorts’ protests, he wandered off alone, stepping through the trees until he reached the clearing where he had met her years ago.

The air felt different here — alive, almost humming.

And then… he heard it.

A faint voice. Soft, familiar. Humming a tune he remembered from long ago.

His heart raced. He followed the sound — and through the branches, he saw a young girl gathering herbs by a stream, sunlight dancing on her hair.

He froze.

“Lyra…” he breathed.