The rain came soft that morning, tapping against the window panes like a quiet warning. Lucian sat by his desk, staring at the droplets tracing paths down the glass. In his first life, he would have cursed such weather—dull, dreary, a thief of outdoor sport.
Now he found it fitting.
The world outside was already weeping, though no one in this house yet knew why.
Lucian folded the parchment before him, slipping it into the drawer. The map of names and threads had grown overnight, drawn and redrawn until his candle guttered to nothing. Each name was a knot, each knot a reminder: this world was a web, and he had once been the fly caught at its center.
Not again.
He rose, pulling on his cloak, and left the chamber.
The first strand began with servants.
He remembered faces—those who had whispered to rivals, those who had turned coats when his family bled. But he also remembered the ones who had stayed loyal, who had hidden what scraps they could, who had died for a house already burning.
As he passed through the lower hall, he saw one now: Mira, a kitchen maid, barely twenty. In his past life, she had been accused of theft, beaten, and cast out. Later he had learned the theft had been staged by another servant who had taken bribes from Duke Renard's men.
"Mira," Lucian said.
She jumped, nearly dropping the tray she carried. "M-my lord?"
Lucian kept his tone even. "You have a steady hand with service."
Her eyes widened. No noble son spoke so to a servant. "I—I do my best, my lord."
"See that you keep doing so." He paused, then lowered his voice, just slightly. "And should any accuse you unjustly, come to me before all others."
She blinked, stunned. "My lord?"
He moved on without explanation, cloak whispering behind him. But when he glanced back, her face glowed with something fragile and dangerous: hope.
One thread secured.
The second strand lay in his brother.
Adrian was reckless, eager to prove himself. In the past, that eagerness had led him straight into traps—dares taken, warnings ignored, games turned fatal.
Now Lucian found him in the training yard, wooden blade clashing with another squire's. Adrian fought fiercely, laughter spilling as he pressed his opponent back.
Lucian watched silently until the match ended. Adrian caught sight of him, grin bright. "Brother! Did you see? I nearly had him in two strokes!"
Lucian approached, gaze sharp. "Nearly is not enough. You leave your guard open."
Adrian pouted. "I was winning."
Lucian took the practice blade from a nearby rack and raised it. "Again. With me."
Adrian's grin faltered, but he obeyed. They circled, wood clacking as they struck. Adrian attacked boldly, but Lucian parried each strike with measured precision.
On the fifth exchange, Lucian twisted, catching Adrian's wrist and sending the blade spinning into the dirt. He pressed his own weapon lightly to his brother's chest.
Adrian scowled. "That wasn't fair."
"It was survival." Lucian lowered the blade. "Your recklessness will kill you. Curb it, or you will not live to boast of victories."
Adrian froze, taken aback by the cold weight in his brother's words. For a heartbeat, the boy looked almost frightened. Then he nodded, slowly. "…I'll try."
Lucian's heart ached, but he hardened it. Better a brother who feared his sharpness than one who lay cold in the river.
Second thread woven.
The third strand reached farther—toward the very men who plotted in shadows.
Lucian remembered well the debt owed to the Ardelion coffers by Lord Fenton, a minor noble who sat the council's fringes. In his past life, Fenton had defaulted, running straight into Chancellor Veynar's waiting embrace. That debt had become another knife at Ardelion's throat.
Not this time.
Lucian found him in the stables that afternoon, speaking with a steward. Fenton nearly dropped his gloves when Lucian addressed him directly.
"My lord Fenton," Lucian said smoothly, "I hear your holdings near the eastern marsh suffered poor harvest."
Fenton stammered, caught between embarrassment and fear. "Y-yes, my lord. A blight. Unfortunate, but…"
Lucian smiled faintly, the expression sharp as a blade. "Unfortunate indeed. Still, debts unpaid have a way of souring further. You should know my father's patience runs thin."
The man paled, nodding rapidly. "O-of course. I will… I will find the means to repay, swiftly."
"See that you do," Lucian murmured. He turned, leaving Fenton sweating behind him.
It was a small nudge, a subtle reminder. But already the path shifted. Fenton, cowed early, might yet hesitate before running to Malrik's leash.
Third strand tightened.
By evening, Lucian returned to his chamber, mind racing. The day had been small motions, minor words—but a spider never wove a web in haste. It was thread by thread, patient, deliberate.
He lit the candle and unrolled his parchment once more. New marks joined the map. Mira circled in green—potential ally. Adrian marked with a star—protected at all costs. Fenton underlined—watch closely.
Lucian leaned back, eyes narrowing at the growing web.
"This time," he whispered, "you will not weave around me. This time, I am the spider."
The candle flame shuddered in the draft, casting shadows across the wall. And in those shadows, Lucian Ardelion smiled.