Lucian Pov
"A long time ago, they walked among us.
Gods and demons, I mean. They weren't just stories and myth engraved by the
old. They were real. And they were never the kind of beings you could categorize
neatly into good and evil. We either worshipped them or feared them, depending
on which side of the coin you were born on. It didn't matter where you came
from—the gods might bless you with great privileges, but they could just as easily
tear it all away. The demons? They thrived on chaos, on breaking the rules, but
even they had a twisted code they followed. When they weren't creating, they
were destroying. When they weren't blessing, they were cursing. They were
locked in an endless competition to prove who was the greater force—who had
more power, who had more influence. It was a constant battle, and we, the humans,
were caught in the middle, like leaves tossed in a storm, battered by forces we
couldn't understand or control.
But one day, they realized something. They had been so focused on proving
themselves superior, on winning the war they fought, that they had been blind to
what they were doing to the world. They were destroying each other, yes, but
they were also undoing the very world they had nurtured. Their actions were
destroying the foundations of reality itself. They were undoing their own legacies.
And so, they made a pact. A truce. The gods turned their eyes to the heavens,
retreating into the sanctity of their realm, far from the mess they had created
on Earth. The demons immersed into the shadows, slipping into the cracks where
their power could grow in secret, out of the reach from the eyes of the gods. The
two sides, once so entwined in conflict, decided to stop meddling with each other.
They swore to leave the humans alone and let the world heal, let it find its own
way. But even as they made that pact, they knew they had already set in motion
a change that could never be undone.
We, the humans, were left with the ruins of their playground. Their influence was
still felt in every corner of our existence—every sky we looked up to, every dark
corner we feared. We were their children, their creations. But they had left us
to survive on our own.
But gods and demons don't leave quietly. Even as they stepped back, they left us
with their gifts—or curses, depending on who you ask. They left us with powers
that changed everything. Awakening. Humans capable of feats once thought
impossible, feats that blurred the line between the divine and the demonic. The
gods called it faith. The demons called it survival. And we? We called it evolution.
But evolution, like all things, has a cost. For every power gained, there's a price
to be paid. Not everyone can carry such burdens without being crushed by them.
For some, these powers became a sickness. For others, they are a chance for
revenge. But no matter how you look at it, power is never free. The gifts we were
given? They weren't just tools to be used—they were reminders that the gods
and demons had never truly left us. They were still shaping our world, still deciding
who would rise and who would fall."
That's the story I told the kids. I watched their faces as they listened, eyes wide
with awe, some afraid, some fascinated. "And what happened next?" one of them
asked, leaning forward. I smiled, watching the storm clouds gather outside, the
distant rumble of thunder reminding me of something I couldn't put into words.
The girl who asked the question… she was the one who had given it life. She, like
the rest of us, would have to choose. Whether she embraced the gifts, or cursed
them. Whether she chose to fight or survive, whether she chose to evolve, or let
the world crush her.
I paused before answering, the weight of her question sinking in. "That's up to
you," I said, my voice soft, but there was an edge to it. Because the truth is,
they'd have to choose for themselves. And once that choice was made, there would
be no going back.
The rain was starting to fall as I left the kids behind, their eager faces still
lingering in my mind. The world outside seemed heavy, as if the sky itself was
reacting to the weight of the stories I had just shared. The quiet rhythm of the
downpour grounded me, the sound of it tapping against the windows a reminder of
how little control we had over the forces that shaped us.
But unlike the children, I was no longer a part of that world of wonder and
innocence. My reality had moulded long ago. And now, I had to face the cold, hard
facts of the life I had built—the life that had come with its own burdens and its
own price.
As I made my way out of the orphanage, the tension in the air tightened,
something gnawing at me from within. I pushed it away, focusing on the task at
hand. Another interview, another round of questions designed to poke at the
carefully constructed walls around me. Another day in the life of Lucian Blackwell,
businessman, philanthropist, and enigma.
As soon as I left for my office, the familiar hum of the city outside the windows
greeted me. The hustle of Caelum, always busy, always buzzing, almost felt
distant here, as I focused on the quiet buzz of my office. The same sterile walls,
the same cold, efficient lighting, but the weight of the city still hung in the air.
As soon as I stepped into my office, she was already there—Emma Carlise, the
tenacious reporter from The Caelum Times. She stood as I entered, offering a
practiced smile, the kind that masked nerves or ambition—or both.
"Mr. Blackwell," she began, extending a hand. Her grip was firm, confident. "Thank
you for making the time."
I nodded, gesturing toward the seat opposite my desk. "Let's get to it," I said,
keeping my tone neutral. I wasn't here for pleasantries.
The room settled into a charged silence as she arranged her notepad and recorder.
The muted hum of the city beyond the windows framed the moment, a stark
reminder of the world outside my sanctuary.
Emma leaned forward slightly; pen poised. "Let's start with a simple one. You've
built a reputation as a man of vision, Mr. Blackwell, but also as a mystery. People
are curious—what drives you to invest so much in Caelum's slums, even when you've
risen far above them?"
I leaned back in my chair, my fingers steepled. "Because I know what it's like to
have nothing," I replied, keeping my tone calm. But my eyes flicked to her bag
again. Was it too large for just her notes and recorder? My mind itched with
possibilities. A concealed blade? A hidden device?
"Caelum's slums shaped me," I continued, forcing my attention back to her. "They
taught me how to survive, how to see opportunity where others saw despair."
Her pen scratched against the paper, the sound grating in the quiet room. Was
she writing too much? I couldn't tell. She glanced up, her expression poised and
professional, but something about it felt too rehearsed.
"So, it's personal for you," she said. "But surely, a man of your resources has other
priorities. What keeps you going back?"
I shifted slightly in my chair, my eyes darting to the window behind her. The
drapes were down, but shadows moved faintly outside. Just pedestrians, I told
myself. Just the wind.
"Empathy," I said after a pause, though the word felt hollow on my tongue. "It's
not something you outgrow."
Her gaze lingered on me, her pen poised mid-air, as if she were trying to dissect
my answer. I fought the urge to glance at the door. Did I lock it when we came
in?
Her expression softened, but only briefly. "Empathy can't be your only reason,"
she pressed. "There are rumours, of course—whispers of something more...
personal. People wonder if there's a truth behind your success, the one you're not
sharing."
My jaw tightened, though I kept my face neutral. Was she fishing for something
she already knew? My mind flickered to possibilities: a recording device hidden in
her bag, a hidden accomplice outside. The walls felt closer now.
"People always wonder," I said, carefully measured. "It's human nature to question
what they don't understand."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, picking up on the sharpness in my tone. I leaned
forward, hoping to cut the conversation short.
"And is there anything you'd like to clarify for them?" she asked, her words too
casual to be innocent.
"No," I said, my voice flat. My gaze didn't waver from hers, though my pulse
quickened. "Speculation is inevitable. It's also irrelevant. My work speaks for
itself."
Emma paused, her pen lowering as if she knew she'd hit a wall. "Fair enough, Mr.
Blackwell. Let's move on."
The interview wrapped up with a polite handshake, though my thoughts lingered
on Emma Carlise long after she left. Her parting smile was too deliberate, her bag
still too suspicious.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, staring out at the glittering
skyline of Caelum. From this height, the city seemed like a constellation brought
to life, with cars weaving through the streets like glowing veins. It should have
been a calming view, but tonight, my mind was restless.
Emma's words replayed in my head, not because they were profound, but because
I couldn't shake the feeling that she was playing a part in someone else's game.
Her presence nagged at the part of me that always looked for hidden knives.
I turned away from the view, slipping on my coat. The sound of my footsteps
echoed in the spacious office as I made my way to the private elevator. The lights
dimmed automatically behind me, sensors responding to my departure.
The ride down was silent, my reflection staring back at me from the polished
metal walls of the elevator. As the doors opened into the underground garage, my
car—a sleek black sedan—waited, engine purring quietly. My driver nodded in
greeting, and I slipped into the back seat.
"Home," I said, leaning back as the car pulled smoothly out into the night.
The chaos of the city streets seemed distant through the tinted windows. The
neon lights of Caelum blurred into streaks of colour as we drove, but my mind was
already elsewhere—on the warmth waiting for me at home.
Lilith.
By the time we reached the gates of my apartment building, the noise of the
world outside felt like a distant memory. I stepped out into the quiet of the
private driveway and made my way inside, the elevator whisking me to the
penthouse.
The soft glow of light from under the door told me she was awake.
And for now, that was all that mattered.
The quiet click of the front door echoed through the dimly lit apartment as I
stepped inside. The faint aroma of freshly brewed tea greeted me, mingling with
the soft glow of warm-toned lamps scattered across the living room.
Lilith was sitting on the couch, her legs tucked under her, scrolling through
something on her tablet. She looked up at the sound of the door closing, her smile
breaking through the stillness like sunlight piercing a cloud.
"You're home late," she teased, setting the tablet down.
"Got caught up at work," I replied, shrugging off my coat and hanging it on the
wall hook. I loosened my tie as I made my way toward her.
She raised an eyebrow, her expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. "Work
or your 'other work'?"
I paused, caught off guard by the question, though her tone was light. "What
makes you think there's an 'other work'?"
Lilith smirked, patting the seat beside her. "You forget I know you, Lucian. Better
than you think."
I hesitated, then sat down, letting the plush cushions steal some of the day's
weight off my shoulders. "Just…an interview. Nothing groundbreaking."
"Mm-hmm," she hummed, not pressing further but clearly unconvinced. She leaned
forward to pour a cup of tea from the pot on the coffee table. "I hope you didn't
let them get under your skin."
I took the cup she handed me, the steam curling into the air between us. "I don't
let anyone get under my skin."
"That's not true," she countered softly, her voice tinged with gentle defiance.
"You just don't let them see it."
I took a sip of the tea, letting the warmth spread through me. Lilith was always
perceptive, a trait that both comforted and unsettled me. She had a way of
cutting through the layers I wore like armour.
"Lucian," she said after a moment, her hand resting on mine. "You know you don't
have to do this alone, right? Whatever it is that's saying you…you can let me in."
I met her gaze, and for a second, the walls I'd spent years building felt fragile.
But I couldn't let them fall. Not yet.
"I know," I said, my voice steady but distant.
Lilith didn't push. She simply leaned against my side, her presence grounding me
in a way that words couldn't.
For a moment, I allowed myself to breathe, the noise of the world fading into the
background. The city lights blurred through the window, and in the quiet of our
home, I found a fleeting peace.
"By the way," she said, breaking the silence, "I made lasagna. Your favourite. And
before you ask—it's not burnt this time."
I chuckled; the sound lighter than I expected. "No guarantees until I taste it."
She swatted my arm playfully, her laughter filling the room. And in that moment,
despite the storm of thoughts raging in my mind, everything felt…right.
As Lilith's laughter lingered in the room, I felt a fleeting warmth settle over me—
a fragile illusion of normalcy in a life that was anything but.
She leaned into my shoulder, her presence steady and grounding, yet my thoughts
wandered beyond the confines of our apartment. The memories of the day, the
questions that pried too close to the truth, entangled my mind.
I looked at her, memorizing the curve of her smile, the way her hair fell against
her cheek. These moments—our moments—felt like they belonged to a different
world, one untouched by shadows.
But shadows always find their way in.
Lilith yawned, curling up closer to me. "Don't stay up too late," she murmured, her
voice fading into the stillness as she drifted into slumber.
I nodded, watching as her breathing evened out, her trust in me unwavering.
But as I sat there, the city lights casting faint patterns on the walls, I knew sleep
wouldn't come for me... Not tonight.