The smell of roasted meat drifting from taverns, the clash of merchants shouting in the market square, the distant toll of a bell tower echoing through moonlit streets. After the suffocating eternity of The White, every sound, every color, every breath felt overwhelming.
But his return was not a homecoming—it was an infiltration.
Lucien moved like a ghost through the city's alleys, his pale frame blending into the dark. His noble appearance—fragile, refined, aristocratic—was both a blessing and a curse. He could walk among the highborn without suspicion, but in the wrong place, his delicate face marked him as prey.
He needed information. And there was only one place to find it: the Citadel.
The heart of the city rose before him, a towering fortress of black stone and gilded spires, guarded by steel and enchantments. Within its walls, the lords and generals who pulled the strings of nations drank wine, schemed, and counted their coins.
Lucien's grip tightened around his mother's amulet. Somewhere within those walls, the answers lay—why his bloodline had been erased, why The White had claimed him, and why the world itself had conspired to bury his family in silence.
The guards patrolled in pairs, their armor clinking, their eyes sharp. But Lucien had fought creatures that warped reality with their existence; slipping past mortal men was child's play.
He pressed himself into the shadows, his aura condensed so tightly it vanished from perception. Step by silent step, he passed beneath torchlight, his presence thinner than smoke.
The Sole Exception is not seen unless he wills it.
A courtyard stretched before him, and beyond it, the Citadel's great hall. From within, voices spilled out—nobles laughing, generals bickering, the soft tones of courtiers whispering poison into one another's ears.
Lucien's lips curved faintly.
Humans. So fragile, yet so certain of their power.
He slipped through a side passage, climbing the stone like a phantom until he reached a balcony overlooking the hall. From here, he saw them—lords draped in silk, merchants with jeweled fingers, soldiers polished like steel dolls. And at the head of the chamber, beneath banners of gold and crimson, sat the man Lucien's instincts burned against.
The Citadel's Chancellor.
A figure robed in authority, his voice smooth as oil as he raised a goblet, speaking of trade, alliances, and enemies to crush. To everyone else, he was just another ruler. But to Lucien, the man's aura reeked of something deeper—something unnatural.
It was faint, but undeniable. The same flavor of void that had lingered in The White.
Lucien's breath steadied, his eyes sharpening.
So this was it. The link between his prison and the world outside.
The game had begun.