The mornings had a rhythm now. The sun spilled across the fields, painting everything gold, and for once, Lucien didn't feel the world pressing against him. He brewed tea, carried his son on his shoulders, and even smiled without thinking about strategy or war. The sounds of laughter from Selene and their child filled the cabin, echoing through the forest like a shield against the memories of battle.
Fatherhood was foreign at first. He had spent centuries learning to survive, to fight, to endure pain beyond imagining. Holding a tiny, fragile life in his hands felt like balancing a star in the palm of his hand — something precious and easily lost.
"Papa, look!" The small voice tugged at his sleeve.
Lucien bent down to see his son lifting a wooden practice sword, its tip wobbling dangerously. The boy's eyes were wide and shining, not with fear, but with determination — a spark that reminded Lucien far too much of himself at that age.
"Careful," Lucien murmured, placing a hand gently over the boy's. "Control comes from patience, not strength."
But when the boy swung, Lucien's senses prickled. A faint pulse, like a shadow of the White, flickered at the tip of the sword. The child's aura shimmered subtly, bending the light around him. Lucien froze.
"Father?" The boy's voice trembled, half-confused.
Lucien crouched, eyes wide in awe. His son had inherited more than courage — some of the White's energy, some fragment of the void that had shaped him, was already stirring. A pulse of raw potential that Lucien felt in the marrow of his bones.
"You… can feel it too," he whispered, voice low, reverent. He placed a hand over the boy's small fist. "That's your gift. One day, you'll understand what it means."
Selene watched from the doorway, hands resting on her pregnant belly. She smiled softly, her gaze knowing. "You'll teach him, won't you?"
Lucien nodded, a rare smile flickering across his face. "I will. I'll teach him everything I've learned. But he won't be a weapon. Not like I was. He'll be… more."
The days that followed became lessons beyond combat. Lucien showed his son how to sense energy, to move with purpose, to respect strength but never worship it. They wandered the forests, explored quiet rivers, and Lucien marveled at how naturally the boy's power responded — not as raw destruction, but as instinctive balance.
At night, Selene would watch them practice, leaning against the cabin frame. Lucien's movements were precise, fluid, almost graceful in a way he had never allowed himself in battle. And the boy mirrored him, fumbling at first, then striking with small, deliberate arcs that carried an unspoken harmony.
Lucien's laughter was quiet, genuine. He hadn't felt such peace since… he couldn't even remember when.
But every so often, in the edges of his vision, he would notice the skies darken subtly, or the wind shift without reason. The world was quiet for now, but whispers of the void and distant threats tickled at his senses.
He would be ready.
For now, though, there was sunlight, laughter, and the slow, steady heartbeat of family — something stronger than any god, any void, any blade.
Lucien, the Sole Exception, was learning to live.
And his son, already a spark of potential, would one day carry the legacy forward.