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 chest had turned into yet 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.
But… why did he save him?
Was it because there had been too many witnesses 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 of a fine actor.
Dismissing the thought, Lucien scanned the surroundings. The opulence felt alien to him. Rococo furniture gleamed under sunlight pouring through arched windows—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 locked.
"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—?"
"Her Majesty the Empress is entering!" a voice announced, 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.
A whirlwind of emotions swelled inside him, though Lucien couldn't grasp the cause. Then something warm slid down his cheeks.
He wiped at it; damp stained his palm.
Tears.
Lucien's brow furrowed. Why am I crying?
Before he could make sense of the situation, warmth spread through him as she embraced him.
"My son…" she whispered between sobs, fingers clutching him tightly.
Lucien nestled his face against her shoulder. A lump formed in his throat; his tears fell unabated. Why do I feel so sad?
Then 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 despairing cry rang out before a blinding light burst into his eyes, obliterating everything in white.
…
"Lucien?" The previous voice echoed softly in the void.
He opened his eyes, and color surged into a sea of smiling faces. Jubilant cheers filled the air as he sat atop a luxurious open carriage, drawn by four majestic horses—a grand parade.
Confusion veiled his mind at the abrupt shift in reality, yet the scene stirred a strange sense of déjà vu.
"Lucien?" the voice called again.
He turned to find the Empress sitting beside him, smiling tenderly—only for horses slammed and hurled them onto the cobblestone. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth as he tumbled, pain flaring with each impact. The world dissolved into a chaotic blur, drowning in frantic voices.
Sprawled on the ground and trembling, his vision flickered like scattered fireflies, the sounds muffled and distant. Warm liquid seeped onto his clothes and skin.
Gritting through the pain, Lucien forced himself upright—and froze.
The Empress lay before him.
A wooden shard protruded from her chest. Blood soaked her gown, pooling across the stones and bathing him in crimson.
Lucien's breath caught in his throat. His trembling hand reached toward her. "Mother…?"
Then the world faded to black.
…
"…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 glanced sideways. The Empress and an elderly man in a white robe engaged in a heated discussion. Even so, a flicker of unexplainable catharsis arose upon realizing the Empress was unharmed.
With all of the unfamiliar emotions swirling inside him, could it be that the real Lucien's emotions were clouding his judgment?
After all, he had no reason to feel such deep sorrow for someone he had just met.
Or perhaps… the real Lucien still lived within this body?
If that were the case, then it would explain why Lucien's ability remained, even though he had taken over his body.
Shaking off the thoughts, Lucien pushed himself upright, only to clutch his head as dizziness struck.
"Luce…"
The Empress' voice drew his attention. Her face contorted in relief, tears cascading down her cheeks.
She threw herself forward 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.
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.
"His Majesty the Emperor is entering!" a voice reverberated into the room, grabbing everyone's attention.
A middle-aged man with short white hair and crimson eyes entered Lucien's chamber, prompting everyone present to bow or curtsey respectfully. He wore clothing that screamed of his high social standing.
The Emperor's gaze lingered on the weeping Empress and Lucien, then shifted to the physician. "How is my son?"
"His Highness has been stabilized. However, as a result of the traumatic event, Prince Lucien appears to have suffered memory loss."
The emperor flinched, concern etched on his features. His crimson eyes flickered toward Lucien before returning to the elderly man. "Can you devise a solution?"
The Physician shook his head apologetically. "I fear such a feat is beyond my capability. While blood manipulation can, indeed, hasten the healing process, memories reside in the mind, not the blood, and cannot be mended by physical means."
"…I see," the Emperor murmured thoughtfully, his hands clenched tightly.
The man approached and sat beside the Empress. He offered Lucien a warm smile and gently stroked his hair. "Don't worry. Everything will be all right. Your memory will return."
With the last sob, the Empress released him and wiped away her tears. Rising to her feet, she faced the Emperor with an indifferent demeanor. "Lucien must rest. Please, return."
Silence fell.
The Emperor said nothing and stared at his wife with an indescribable expression. The atmosphere grew dramatically heavy and suffocating with tension as their eyes remained locked.
Around them, people exchanged nervous glances. Of course, they weren't foolish enough to miss the simmering rage beneath the surface. Though Lucien didn't know the inside story, he could tell it was far from trivial.
After what felt like an eternity, the Emperor eventually broke the silence with a long, heavy sigh. Standing before her and holding her gaze, he spoke in an icy tone. "My wife is right, Lucien must rest."
The Emperor glanced at Lucien once more before marching toward the entrance. Those present instinctively bowed as he passed.
The Empress let out a sharp breath and whirled to the elderly butler. "Sanchez, please prepare a basin of warm water for my son's bath."
"As you wish, Your Majesty. Is there anything else you require?"
While the Empress conversed with Sanchez and the Physician, his mind drifted back to the glimpse he had seen. Given the severity of the Empress's wound, she was unquestionably dead on the spot.
Yet here she stood, alive and well. So it couldn't have been a recollection of Lucien's memories. That left only one conclusion: it was a vision of the future—just like the vision he saw during the assassination.
If that was the case, it aligned perfectly with the plot: just like her son, the Empress died before the story began.
Lucien clutched his head as an unbearable headache surged through him. As if being thrown into a novel and fated to be killed by his half-brother wasn't bad enough, now he also had to contend with the soul of the real Lucien.
Whether Tristan ended his life or his body was overtaken, it seemed he was destined to perish either way, huh?