There was a quiet knock at the door.
Lucien didn't move. The servant on the other side didn't enter—just slid a note under the door before retreating with barely a sound.
He walked over and picked it up.
Elegant script. Polite tone. Standard protocol.
> As per custom, the heir of House Vaelor is expected to rejoin the family for breakfast tomorrow morning. Seating begins at sunrise.
—Steward Marcell
Of course. The weekly family breakfast.
Where status bled between smiles. Where unspoken rivalries simmered beneath polite conversation and silverware.
He remembered those mornings. How the old Lucien used to swagger in late, yawning, throwing the whole seating order into chaos just to prove a point. How he'd antagonize Evelyne with every bite. How Celeste would shrink beside her mother. How Seraphina would sit with a calm smile, but her fingers clutched the napkin a little too tightly.
And Caelum…
He always tried to keep the peace. Always wore that tired look in his eyes, as if hoping—just once—they could eat like a family.
Lucien folded the letter and set it aside.
He would go.
But not as the brat they remembered.
No games. No cruel smiles. No needless provocations.
Just silence, observation—and control.
---
The sun had barely kissed the horizon when Lucien stood before the grand dining hall of House Vaelor.
He paused.
The massive doors loomed ahead—oak carved with the family crest: a phoenix rising from obsidian flames. A symbol of rebirth.
How fitting.
Lucien exhaled slowly and pushed the doors open.
The hall was quiet, save for the soft clink of cutlery and the muted crackle of fire in the hearth. Warm light danced across polished silver and porcelain, casting soft glows on faces that once knew him well—and now watched him like strangers.
Four heads turned.
Duke Caelum Drayven Vaelor, at the head of the table. Broad-shouldered, cloaked in a high-collared black tunic trimmed in crimson. His dark hair was brushed back, silver threads near the temples catching firelight. His eyes—those tired, warm eyes—widened just slightly.
"Lucien," he said, voice unreadable. "You're early."
Lucien gave a shallow bow. "Good morning, Father."
A beat of silence. One heartbeat. Two.
Caelum nodded, slowly. "Take your seat."
Lucien walked to the spot traditionally reserved for him—between Evelyne and Celeste. Not once did he let his shoulders slump, nor his gaze dart. He sat with practiced care. Back straight. Hands folded.
To his right, Celeste barely moved. The ten-year-old girl sat stiffly, her small fingers tightening around a fork. Her golden curls were tied with a ribbon the color of winter skies. She peeked at him once. Quickly looked away.
To his left, Evelyne said nothing. She cut into her meat with graceful precision. The seventeen-year-old's expression didn't waver. But her aura—it burned. Calm. Composed. Like a storm beneath still waters.
And across from him…
Seraphina Vaelor.
She was as composed as ever—serene in a sea-blue gown that hugged her form with gentle elegance. Not a hair out of place. A soft necklace of pale crystals shimmered against her throat. She raised her cup of tea to her lips.
But her eyes—amber and bright—watched him over the rim, just for a second longer than necessary.
Lucien didn't speak.
He didn't slouch, didn't smirk, didn't tap his fingers against the wood as the old Lucien would have.
He simply… ate. Quietly. Deliberately. Measured movements, every bite calculated.
He could feel Evelyne's glance flicker once, then away.
Celeste dropped her spoon. Flinched. He reached to hand it back—but stopped. She wouldn't take it from him. Not yet. He left it gently beside her plate without a word.
Minutes passed.
Talk began—cautious, surface-level.
Caelum asked about regional harvests. Seraphina responded with updates on trade shipments and seasonal taxes. Evelyne added a brief remark about patrol schedules. All of it like a script rehearsed too many times.
No one addressed Lucien.
Not until—
"How's your head?" Caelum asked, mid-sip of his drink.
Lucien blinked. "Clear."
A pause.
"Good," the Duke said simply. "Steward Marcell said you woke with… unrest."
Lucien's jaw tightened, but he gave a small nod. "A moment of confusion. It passed."
Caelum gave no sign of disbelief. Only sipped again.
It wasn't much. But even that single question felt like an olive branch.
Then came a voice, soft as a feather. "You… didn't insult anyone today."
Lucien turned. Celeste.
Her wide eyes stared at him, lips trembling as if unsure whether to smile or hide.
Lucien offered nothing dramatic. Just a small nod. "I won't."
She blinked. Stared.
And for the first time in over a year, Celeste looked at him—not through fear, but through curiosity.
Seraphina set her teacup down gently. "It's good to have you at the table, Lucien."
Her voice was calm. But her hands, folded in her lap, were clenched just enough for the knuckles to pale.
Lucien nodded once. "Thank you… Lady Seraphina."
A subtle tension filled the air.
He had never called her that politely before.
She didn't reply. But something shifted in her gaze—less cautious now. Still guarded. But no longer bracing for venom.
---
By the end of the meal, Lucien hadn't raised his voice. Hadn't made a single sarcastic comment. Hadn't baited Evelyne or ignored Celeste.
He simply listened.
And when the servants moved to clear the plates and the family began to rise, he stood last.
As Caelum turned to leave, Lucien spoke—quietly, but enough to be heard.
"I'll be attending my studies again starting tomorrow. If that's acceptable."
Caelum paused. Looked over his shoulder. Something passed through his eyes—relief? Surprise? Approval?
"All right," he said. "Welcome back, son."
---
Lucien stood alone in the hall once they left. The fire was lower now, the plates gone.
But for the first time since arriving in this world…
He didn't feel like a ghost haunting someone else's life.
He felt like someone writing his own place in it.
---
He didn't return to his chambers.
Not right away.
Instead, he made his way through the manor's east wing—where the morning sun bled golden light across the marble floors. Past the portraits. Past the alcoves.
Until he reached the unused courtyard behind the training hall.
A place the old Lucien had avoided like the plague.
He stood at its edge, taking in the sight. The wooden dummies stood in rows, collecting dust. The practice blades lay stacked in racks, untouched. A single training circle lay carved into the stone ground, its lines faded from disuse.
He stepped into the center.
The weight of his own body felt unfamiliar. Each step jiggled in places he hated. The robe clung awkwardly to the soft curve of his stomach. Even the air felt heavier.
But he didn't stop.
He rolled up his sleeves, knelt on the stone floor, and placed his palms flat.
And then—
He began to move.
Slowly. Controlled.
Push-up. One.
His arms trembled instantly. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His breath came sharp.
Two.
He collapsed.
Chest hit the ground with a dull thud. His arms screamed. His pride burned hotter.
He lay there for a second, cheek pressed against cool stone, heartbeat thundering in his ears.
Then he pushed up again.
And again.
By the fifth push-up, his limbs were shaking. His lungs heaved like bellows.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
Because this wasn't about strength. Not yet.
This was about intent.
About reclaiming a life—one rep at a time.
---
Ten minutes later, he was sprawled on his back, drenched in sweat, chest heaving, heart pounding like a war drum. The sky above was pale blue, streaked with white.
A bird flew across it. Free. Effortless.
Lucien closed his eyes.
He didn't need to be the strongest.
He just needed to be better than yesterday's version of himself.
That would be enough.
For now.
---
As his breathing slowed and the morning breeze cooled his sweat-soaked skin, Lucien sat up. The stone beneath him was hard, unyielding—just like the path ahead.
But for the first time since awakening in this world, he felt it.
Not fear.
Not shame.
Not despair.
Resolve.
He stood—unsteady, aching, but upright.
Tomorrow, he would do more.
And the day after that.
Until the name Lucien Drayven Vaelor meant something new.