The sword glinted in the dark before Lucien could stop it. Pain tore through him as the blade slashed diagonally across his chest; blood burst forth.
And there stood Tristan, gripping the hilt.
—
Lucien jerked upright with a gasp, his hand flying to his chest. His breath came in ragged pulls, and his clothes clung to his sweat-slicked skin. He lifted his ivory silk pajamas, revealing a lean teenage torso crisscrossed with jagged scars.
No fresh wound, but the gash on his abdomen had now turned into another scar among many.
"…a dream…" he muttered.
Sighing in relief, he sank back onto the bed. His eyes drifted to the canopy's painting overhead—two knights on horseback clashing—as he steadied his breath. It seemed that meeting with Tristan had left a deep impression on him, severe enough to twist into a nightmare.
Exhaling slowly, he raised his hand and stared at the pale, calloused palm.
It took him less than a second to grasp the truth. "So, I've truly become Lucien, huh?"
If memory served, Lucien was Tristan's half-brother, two years younger. Both were heirs to the Solairé Empire. However, there wasn't much information about Lucien—he'd already been dead by the time the story began, fated to die at the hands of the protagonist: Tristan.
'But… why did he save him?'
Was it because there were too many people around for Tristan to kill him then and there?
His brow furrowed as he recalled the worry etched across Tristan's face. He had to admit, Tristan had the talent to be an actor.
Dismissing the thought, Lucien scanned the surroundings. The opulence felt alien to him: gilded rococo furniture gleamed under sunlight pouring through arched windows, casting golden pools across the marble floor—a room befitting a prince.
He swung his legs off the bed and headed for the window, but the creak of the door stopped him. An elderly butler stepped inside and froze, his grey eyes widening as their gazes crossed.
"Your Highness…?" he faltered, then his voice boomed, "His Highness has awakened! Summon the physician and inform Their Majesties at once!"
Footsteps pattered down the hall as maids scattered at his command.
The man hurried to Lucien's side. "Your Highness, you mustn't strain yourself," he said, offering his hand. "Let us return to your bed."
Lucien stared at the outstretched hand before meeting his gaze, asking indifferently. "Who are you?"
The butler stiffened, brows furrowing. "P-pardon?"
"Who are you?" Lucien repeated.
Yet, instead of answering, the man gawked at him as if he'd seen the sun rise from the west.
"Her Majesty the Empress is entering!" a blaring voice interrupted, shifting their attention to the entrance.
A blonde-haired woman in an ornate gown, trailed by several ladies-in-waiting, swept into the room. Her bloodshot cerulean eyes brimmed with tears, relief etched on her features.
The elderly butler bowed respectfully and stepped aside. Lucien held her gaze. A whirlwind of emotions—grief, guilt—swelling inside him, though he couldn't grasp the cause.
When his vision blurred, Lucien blinked hard, only for the world to tilt. "Huh?"
"Argh!" Pain lanced through his skull, driving him to his knees, hands clutching his head. The agony seared as countless images flickered at the edges of his consciousness.
"Lucien!" A woman's despair cry rang out before a blinding light flashed into his eyes, obliterating everything in white. The world vanished along with his pain.
…
"Lucien?" The previous voice echoed softly in the void.
He opened his eyes, and colors surged into a sea of smiling faces. Jubilant cheers and lively music filled the air as he sat atop a luxurious open carriage, drawn by four majestic horses. Confetti swirled, vibrant banners fluttered under the warm sunlight—a grand parade.
Confusion veiled his mind at the abrupt shift in reality, yet the scene stirred a strange sense of déjà vu. Amid the surrounding euphoria, a chilling tide of fear crept in, and his heart hammered against his ribs.
'I… can't move my body…'
No matter how hard he strained, his body refused to obey. He couldn't move or speak, like a helpless spectator in Lucien's skin.
"Lucien?" the voice called again.
Lucien turned to find the Empress sitting beside him, smiling tenderly in an elegant peach gown adorned with glittering jewels.
She reached out, fingers gliding gently through his son's hair. "Does this festivity bore you?"
Lucien shook his head. "No, it's just—"
"Neigh!" A deafening whinny split the air, whipping their heads around—the horses were already upon them.
A tremendous force slammed and hurled Lucien onto the cobblestone floor. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth as he tumbled, pain flaring with each impact; the world a chaotic blur. Sprawling on the ground, trembling, his vision flickered like scattered fireflies, the sounds muffled and distant.
"…Luce! …help! Physician!" Tristan's frantic voice broke through as he lifted Lucien into his arms.
Blinking through the haze, Lucien's gaze landed on a white-haired man cradling the Empress in the distance, a wooden shard protruding from her chest. Blood soaked her dress, pooling beneath her lifeless form.
"N-no…" Lucien's voice croaked, tears hot on his cheeks, heart beating wildly. His trembling hand reached for her, only to fall limp. "Mo…ther…"
His chest heaved, tears blurring his vision before the world faded to black, pulling his consciousness with it.
…
"…something!"
"…the Prince…"
"…in pain…!"
"…memories… trauma…"
Jumbled voices stirred Lucien awake, his vision kaleidoscopic. His mind felt sluggish, and his body was slick with sweat. He tried to lift a finger, and relief washed over him, knowing he had regained control of Lucien's body. The experience of being reduced to nothing more than a helpless soul traumatized him.
He never wanted to go through that again.
However, a thought crept in: what if the real Lucien's soul was still trapped within, silently suffering the same helplessness?
A bad taste permeated his mouth, compelling him to shove the thoughts aside.
Turning toward the noises beside his bed, he saw the Empress and an elderly man in a white robe engaged in a heated discussion. Nevertheless, a flicker of unexplainable catharsis arose upon realizing the Empress was unharmed.
Sitting upright, Lucien held his head as dizziness struck him. When the stillness descended, he glanced sideways and found everyone present staring at him.
"Luce…" The Empress' face contorted in relief, tears cascading down her cheeks.
She threw herself and wrapped him in a tight embrace. Burying her face in his shoulder, wrenching sobs escaped her.
"My dear… my son…" her voice quivered with emotion.
Lucien felt conflicted, unsure of what to do; he had never encountered a situation like this before. Still, his heart ached to see her crying like that.
Were Lucien's emotions clouding his judgment?
After all, he had no reason to feel such deep sorrow for someone he had just met.
After battling with hesitation, Lucien cradled her in his arms and gently patted her back. "Please don't cry. I'm all right."
Yet, instead of stopping, her tears flowed relentlessly. Sobs filled the room as she tightened her grip on his clothes, her hands trembling. The guilt gnawing at him now twisted into something deeper, heavier.
She… deserved the love of her real son, not the hollow comfort of a stranger in borrowed skin.