The morning after the dinner, Lucien woke with a purpose that felt both frightening and exhilarating. His hands no longer trembled with helplessness—they clenched with determination.
He'd spent half the night lying awake, replaying that moment at the dinner table. The violet wisps around his fingers. The pulse of something responding to his oath. It hadn't been his imagination. It had been real, tangible, his.
Now he just needed to understand what it was.
Elara had already left to begin her morning duties in the main house, leaving behind a simple breakfast of bread and cheese. Lucien ate mechanically, his mind already racing ahead. His mother had told him stories of violet's history, but stories weren't enough. He needed facts, techniques, knowledge.
And there was only one place on the estate where knowledge lived.
The Argentel library was legendary—three stories of collected wisdom spanning centuries, from combat treatises to magical theory to historical records. It was supposedly open to all family members, though Lucien had never dared test that claim. Bastards existed in a strange legal grey area: technically family, practically forbidden from anything that mattered.
But after last night, after being looked through like empty air, Lucien found his fear had transformed into something sharper.
If they're going to ignore me anyway, he thought, pulling on his plainest clothes, then I might as well be ignored while doing something useful.
The walk to the main house in daylight felt different than his nighttime trudge to the dinner. Morning sun painted everything in golden warmth, and the estate buzzed with activity. Servants tended gardens, guards patrolled walls, and in the distance, Lucien could hear the rhythmic clang of steel on steel from the training grounds.
His siblings, no doubt. Beginning another day of proper instruction while he slipped through shadows like a ghost.
The library occupied the eastern wing of the main house, a separate structure connected by a covered walkway. Its architecture was older than the rest of the estate, built from grey stone that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Lucien had seen it from a distance countless times but had never been inside.
The main entrance stood open, and Lucien hesitated at the threshold. A middle-aged woman sat at a desk just inside—the librarian, he assumed, her severe bun and wire-rimmed spectacles giving her the appearance of someone who valued order above all else.
She looked up as his shadow fell across her desk, and for a moment, Lucien prepared himself for dismissal or worse. But she simply frowned slightly, as if trying to place him, then returned to her cataloging with a dismissive wave.
Not worth acknowledging, Lucien realized. But also not worth stopping.
He'd take it.
The library's main floor was breathtaking. Shelves stretched toward vaulted ceilings, packed with leather-bound volumes in every shade. Ladders on rails provided access to higher levels, and reading tables were scattered throughout, several already occupied by studious-looking branch family members. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating floating dust motes and creating pools of warm light perfect for reading.
Lucien kept to the edges, moving between shelves with practiced invisibility. He scanned titles as he went: Foundations of White Light Theory, The Argentel Technique: A Comprehensive History, Holy Flame Applications in Modern Warfare. Book after book celebrating white, documenting white, analyzing white.
Nothing about violet.
He climbed to the second floor, where the texts grew older and more specialized. Here he found treatises on other colors—red's passion and fire, gold's radiance and enhancement, blue's fluid adaptability, green's growth and resilience. Each color system was documented in exhaustive detail, their histories and techniques preserved with reverence.
But violet? Nothing. Not even a mention in the comprehensive color theory texts, as if an entire hue had simply been excised from the spectrum.
Erased from history, his mother had said. Apparently, she'd meant it literally.
Lucien's frustration mounted as he searched shelf after shelf. He was about to give up when he noticed something odd: a gap in the library's logical organization. The second floor ended with a locked door bearing a small plaque: Archive Storage - Restricted.
Restricted. Which meant interesting.
He tried the handle—locked, as expected. But the door itself was old, the wood warped slightly with age. Lucien examined the lock and felt a small thrill of rebellion. He'd never picked a lock in his life, but he'd read about it in one of his adventure novels. And more importantly, he'd watched the estate locksmith work from a distance during one of his lonely wanderings.
It took him twenty minutes, a bent pin stolen from a reading desk, and three near-discoveries by passing scholars before the lock clicked open. His hands were shaking again, but this time with excitement rather than fear.
The door opened onto a narrow staircase leading up. No windows, just darkness and the smell of old paper and mildew. Lucien climbed, each step creaking ominously, until he emerged into what had clearly once been the library's third floor.
Unlike the maintained floors below, this space had been abandoned to time. Dust lay thick as snow on every surface. Cobwebs draped like curtains between shelves. The windows were so grimy they barely admitted light, casting everything in murky twilight. Many of the shelves had collapsed, spilling books across the floor in chaotic piles.
But the volumes themselves...
Lucien picked up the nearest book, blowing dust from its cover. Chromatic Theory: The Complete Spectrum. He opened it carefully, the binding cracking with age, and began to read.
Unlike the sanitized texts below, this book acknowledged all colors—including ones Lucien had never heard of. Indigo, for "deep seeing and truth-finding." Orange, for "creative chaos and inspiration." And there, finally, violet.
His heart hammered as he read:
"Violet represents the twilight hour—neither day nor night, existing in the liminal space between states. Those blessed with violet can manipulate the boundaries between what is and what could be. Their power is neither creation nor destruction, but transformation. They impose their will upon reality's malleable edges, reshaping the possible."
The description was frustratingly vague, but it was something. Lucien devoured every word, then moved to the next book, and the next. He lost track of time as he excavated knowledge from the forgotten floor.
The Sovereignty Colors: A Political Analysis described how violet houses had once served as kingmakers and royal advisors, their ability to "adjust outcomes" making them invaluable in both war and diplomacy—and ultimately, too threatening to allow to survive.
Practical Applications of Spectrum Manipulation had an entire chapter on violet techniques, though half the pages were water-damaged beyond reading. What remained spoke of "zones of influence," "conceptual impositions," and "reality anchoring."
Case Studies in Color Warfare documented a battle where a single violet knight had "made the enemy's formation forget its cohesion," causing an army to collapse into chaos without a single blade being drawn.
Lucien read until his eyes burned and his throat was parched. The texts were incomplete, damaged, contradictory—but they painted a picture of power that was subtle yet devastating. Not the overwhelming force of white's holy fire or red's passion flames, but something more insidious. Violet users didn't overpower their opponents—they made reality itself cooperate with their desires.
"The space between reality and dreams," one particularly cryptic manuscript claimed. "Where will becomes law."
He was so absorbed in a treatise on "violet dominion techniques" that he didn't hear the footsteps on the stairs until it was too late.
"Well, well. What do we have here?"
Lucien's blood turned to ice. He knew that voice—had heard it holding court at dinner, commanding training sessions, accepting praise from their father.
Aldric.
His half-brother stood at the top of the stairs, blocking the only exit. In the dim light, Aldric's white aura was clearly visible—a faint glow that seemed to emanate from his skin, marking him as someone whose power had fully manifested. He was dressed in training leathers, probably taking a break from morning drills.
And his expression was one of amused contempt.
"The bastard can read," Aldric said, descending into the room with the casual confidence of someone who'd never been challenged. "How surprising. Though I suppose even rats learn tricks if given enough time."
Lucien stood slowly, carefully setting the book aside. His mind raced through options. The stairs were blocked. The windows were too high and too grimy to escape through. There was nowhere to run.
"This area is restricted," Aldric continued, moving closer. He was taller than Lucien by a head, broader through the shoulders, and radiated the easy strength of someone who'd never doubted their place in the world. "Though I suppose you're used to going where you're not wanted. That little mansion of yours isn't enough? You have to sneak into our library too?"
"The library is for family," Lucien heard himself say, the words escaping before he could stop them. "And I'm—"
"You're what?" Aldric's smile was sharp as a knife. "Going to say you're family? You're a stain, bastard. A reminder of Father's momentary weakness. The fact that you're allowed to breathe our air is more charity than you deserve."
Each word landed like a physical blow. Lucien's hands clenched at his sides, and he felt that familiar heat building in his chest—humiliation mixed with rage mixed with a helplessness that tasted like copper.
"What are you even doing up here?" Aldric picked up one of the books Lucien had been reading, glancing at the title with disinterest. "Chromatic Theory? Planning to educate yourself into relevance?" He laughed, the sound cruel. "Let me save you the effort. No amount of reading is going to change what you are. Colorless, powerless, worthless."
"I'm not colorless." The words came out quiet but firm.
Aldric's laughter cut off. "What did you say?"
"I said I'm not colorless." Lucien lifted his chin, meeting his brother's gaze despite the fear coursing through him. "I have power. It's just not white."
For a moment, something flickered across Aldric's face—surprise, maybe, or concern. Then it vanished beneath a sneer. "Not white? Then what? Don't tell me you inherited Mother's dingy purple." He said "mother" like it was an insult. "That would be perfect. The bastard marked with a dead color, completely useless for anything except—"
He reached out and shoved Lucien, hard.
It wasn't a devastating blow—just enough to send Lucien stumbling backward, to remind him of his place, to reinforce the physical hierarchy between them. Aldric had probably done it without thinking, a casual assertion of dominance.
But something inside Lucien snapped.
Not broke—snapped into place, like a puzzle piece finding its home.
The world seemed to slow. Lucien felt the violet power surge through him, not in wisps this time but in a wave. It poured out of him instinctively, desperately, creating a space around his body where his will became suddenly, terrifyingly real.
No, he thought. Not this time. Not again. NO.
And reality listened.
Aldric's body, mid-stride as he advanced for another push, suddenly lurched. His legs moved wrong, as if the floor had tilted beneath him or his muscles had received contradictory commands. His confident swagger turned into a stumble, arms windmilling for balance he couldn't find.
He crashed into a bookshelf, hard enough to rattle the wood and send dust cascading down.
Lucien stood frozen, violet energy crackling visibly around his hands now—not wisps but coherent streams of purple-tinged light. The space around him felt different, as if the air itself had become more responsive to his thoughts.
I did that, he realized with shock and exhilaration. I made him stumble. I imposed my will on his body, made him move against his intention.
Aldric caught himself, breathing hard, and for a moment—just a moment—Lucien saw genuine shock on his brother's face. Fear, even. The great Aldric Argentel, heir to the house, had been made to stumble by the worthless bastard.
Then Aldric's expression hardened into something ugly. His own white aura flared, defensive and aggressive. "You... what did you just—"
"I didn't mean to," Lucien said quickly, the words tumbling out. "I just—you pushed me, and I—"
"You attacked me." Aldric's voice dropped to something dangerous. "You actually attacked me. An heir. With your pathetic, forbidden power."
"It's not forbidden—"
"It should be!" Aldric stepped forward, and Lucien instinctively tried to summon that violet wave again. But nothing came. The power had exhausted itself, or his control had evaporated, or both. He felt hollow, drained, defenseless.
Aldric's hand shot out and grabbed Lucien by the collar, lifting him slightly. Their faces were inches apart, and Lucien could see rage warring with something else in his brother's eyes. "Listen to me very carefully, bastard. What just happened? That never happened. You were never here. You never touched these books. And you certainly never used that disgusting purple trick on me. Understood?"
"Why?" The question escaped before Lucien could stop it. "Afraid I might actually be strong?"
Aldric's laugh was bitter. "Strong? You're a flickering candle in a hurricane. But you're also stupid enough to try fighting above your station, and that makes you dangerous in all the wrong ways." He shoved Lucien backward. "If anyone finds out you attacked me, Father will have you sent away. Or worse. Your little purple power isn't going to save you from political reality."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "So here's how this goes: you forget about violet. You forget about power. You accept what you are—a mistake that exists on sufferance—and you stop reaching for things that don't belong to you. Know your place, bastard. Stay in your shadow. Because if you ever use that power near me again, I'll make sure Father knows exactly how dangerous his little indiscretion has become."
Aldric released him and stepped back, straightening his training leathers. His white aura dimmed back to a faint glow. "This library section is collapsing and unsafe. I'll be informing the librarian it needs to be locked properly. You won't be coming back here."
He moved toward the stairs, then paused. Without turning, he added, "You should be grateful, you know. For the life you have. Any other house would have left you and your mother to starve in the streets. Father's mercy is the only reason you exist at all."
Then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the staircase.
Lucien stood alone in the dusty twilight of the forgotten library, his legs shaking, his hands still tingling with residual energy. The violet wisps had faded completely, leaving him feeling raw and exposed.
But underneath the fear and humiliation, something else burned.
He'd done it. He'd actually manifested his power—not just wisps but something real. He'd imposed his will on Aldric's body, made his brother stumble despite Aldric's superior strength and training.
It had been instinctive, uncontrolled, brief. But it had been real.
Lucien looked down at the books scattered around him—the forbidden knowledge Aldric wanted to keep from him. Knowledge about violet's true nature. About transformation and manipulation and the space between reality and dreams.
Know your place, Aldric had said.
Lucien knelt and began gathering books, his movements quick and deliberate. He selected the most intact volumes—Chromatic Theory, Practical Applications, and a slim journal titled The Twilight Knight's Manual. He could hide them in his mansion, study them in secret.
Because he knew his place now.
It was wherever he decided to stand. And he had no intention of staying in the shadows.
He descended the stairs carefully, books hidden inside his shirt. The librarian didn't look up as he passed. No one saw him leave the main house, slip through the gardens, return to his small mansion.
No one ever saw him.
And for the first time, Lucien was grateful for his invisibility. Because it meant no one would notice when he began to change.
In his room, he carefully arranged his stolen books beneath a loose floorboard. His mother would be gone for hours yet. He had time.
Lucien opened The Twilight Knight's Manual and began to read.
The first page bore a single sentence in elegant script:
"Reality is negotiable for those with the will to insist otherwise."
Lucien smiled, and his hands began to glow faintly violet in the afternoon light.