Lucien stood frozen under the weight of the King's words. My nephew. My brother's son.
Nephew? Son?
The words dug at him, pulling threads he had tried not to touch. He remembered the cold manor where he grew up, the man who called himself his father. The man with black hair, black eyes, black temper. A man who drank until his voice slurred and raised his hand when Lucien asked questions no child should have to swallow.
Lucien didn't look like him. He had always known. Silver hair, pale lashes, sharp features that didn't belong in that house. He had asked once, quietly, "Why don't I look like you?" The answer had been a slap, then silence for weeks.
But sometimes, in sleep, another image flickered. A warm one. Someone with golden hair like sunlight, eyes kind but distant. A face blurred in dream, never sharp enough to grasp, but always there. He had thought it was fantasy—his mind's desperate wish to paint a parent he never had.
And now this King stood before him, eyes trembling, saying: my blood. My brother's son.
It made Lucien's chest ache in ways he didn't have words for.
His lips parted, but no sound came out. He wanted to ask, Then why wasn't I with you? Why did I suffer there? Why now? But the questions tangled with fear.
The hall felt too large, the air too sharp. Instinct made him inch closer to Elias.
And Elias, without even looking, lowered his hand to rest over Lucien's. A steady, grounding weight. Not possessive. Not claiming. Just there. A silent promise: No one will take you from me unless you choose it.
Lucien's throat tightened. For the first time that night, he could breathe.
The King was still speaking, his voice fervent. "I don't want to force him, Elias. I swear it. I'll wait. I'll earn him."
The Queen's hand slipped through her husband's, her gaze soft but firm. "You'll have to be patient. He's not just a boy you can call yours with a word. He's lived through things you can't yet imagine."
Lucien glanced between them. The King's eyes were wet, trembling with an emotion Lucien couldn't name. The Queen's warmth felt real, but still distant.
And Elias—Elias's grip was light but unwavering. A tether.
For all the confusion, the ache, the half-remembered dreams, one truth settled in Lucien's chest: if the world shifted again, if claims and crowns tried to pull him away, Elias would not let go.
Not unless Lucien himself asked.
For a boy who had never once been given a choice in who held him, that meant everything.
---
It was late when Lucien came to Elias's room. The lamps were dimmed, only the moon spilling silver across the desk where Elias was half-dozing over a book. He didn't look surprised when Lucien slipped in without knocking. He just closed the book and waited.
Lucien sat on the edge of the chair, stiff, arms folded tight like he might break if he loosened them. He didn't speak at first. Elias didn't rush him.
Finally, Lucien murmured, "If… if I… if someone…" He stopped, frustrated. The words caught in his throat. His fingers dug into his sleeve.
Elias tilted his head, calm. "If you chose them instead of me?"
Lucien's eyes widened. He hadn't said it, not fully. But Elias had understood.
"I'd still be yours," Elias said simply, voice soft as the night outside. "That doesn't change."
The boy's shoulders shook once, almost imperceptibly. Then he whispered, "Why didn't you ask before?"
"Because it wasn't my right," Elias replied. He leaned back, gaze steady. "Some truths aren't questions you force. They're gifts, given when the heart decides it can bear to open. You weren't ready. Now you are."
For a long moment, Lucien said nothing. His throat worked, breath uneven. Then, quietly, he began.
"My… father," the word tasted bitter, "he never hit me. Not once. Not like people think. But he caged me. Books, drills, lessons—over and over. I wasn't a child. I was… a mirror he wanted polished until nothing of me showed. Perfect manners. Perfect speech. Perfect silence." His voice faltered. "I wasn't his son. Just a puppet."
He rubbed his wrist absently, as though remembering chains that weren't there. "He was never home much. Always away. And when he was… there were secrets. Whispers. Things I never knew. And when I tried to run… I found myself in that place. With Elen and Leya. That's how it began."
Silence stretched. Elias's hand rested lightly on Lucien's arm, warm and steady. Not pressing, not pitying—just there.
The door creaked. Elen leaned against the frame, arms crossed. "Oi. You're not gonna tell us?"
Leya peeked shyly from behind him, her eyes wide.
For the first time in a long while, Lucien laughed. Not loud, not sharp—just soft, like something uncoiled in him. "You two too, huh?" He shook his head. "Fine. You'll hear it all. Every bit."
So he told them. In halting pieces, sometimes slipping into silence before pushing the words out again. And they listened—really listened—not with pity, but with the simple presence of those who refused to leave.
By the time he finished, the room felt lighter. Not healed—wounds that deep don't vanish in a night. But lighter.
And for Lucien, who had always carried his story like a locked chest, that was enough.
---
The next morning, the sun spilled gold through the palace windows. Elias sat with Lucien, Elen, and Leya in the garden, a tray of tea and fruit between them.
"Lucien," Elias said suddenly, voice soft, almost casual, "do you remember how he looked? Your father."
Lucien's hand froze over the cup. His lashes lowered, shielding his eyes.
"My mind's… blurry," he murmured. "I saw him so rarely. I… don't really remember."
Elen blinked. "What? Who forgets their own father's face?"
Leya tilted her head, almost suspicious, but then burst out laughing. "You're terrible at lying, Lucien!"
Even Elias's lips curved faintly. He didn't push. He only nodded once, silently promising that when Lucien was ready, he would tell the truth.
Later, in the audience chamber, the Queen leaned forward in her chair, gaze kind but sharp.
"Elias," she asked, "do you know how he looked? Lucien's father. If we had a face, we could search."
Elias's eyes flicked to Lucien, who gave the faintest nod.
"Yes," Elias said quietly. And he told them what little Lucien had given him permission to share—enough to start the search, but not enough to strip the boy of his privacy.
The King snapped his fingers, turning to his captain. "Send the riders. No—send her."
From the shadows, a woman in plain gray stepped forward. Elias's gaze sharpened instantly.
"…Really?" His voice was dry. "You're showing her to me now? Not afraid I'll recognize your little spy?"
The King only grinned, sheepish but unrepentant. "Of course you'd know. You're Elias. And yes—I had her watch you. I'm sorry. I worried."
Elias sighed, but there was no true anger in his eyes. "Don't apologize. I understand why."
The Queen's smile was sly. "And besides, I like her. Very much. She admires you deeply, Elias. She always has. I thought… perhaps you might open a little, at least as friends."
Elias arched a brow. "Friends?"
"Yes," the Queen said, almost too quickly. "Friends."
Elias chuckled, shaking his head. "You two are cruel. Throwing her at me just to watch the reaction."
"Cruel?" the Queen laughed. "Curious, maybe."
"…What's her name?" Elias finally asked.
The King and Queen exchanged a glance, then the Queen answered, softly but clearly.
"Her name is Lea."
---