Chapter 3: Meeting the Mother and Choosing a Shadow
After the naming ceremony, the great hall fell silent. His father, Malzareth, had already turned away, his cold gaze the only parting gift. Nobles filed out with mocking smiles or disinterested glances, and soon, only Lucen and his nanny remained.
The nanny knelt down, her tone gentle and reassuring. "Don't worry, my prince. Now… let's go to see Lady Cristiyana. Let's go to your mother."
Mother. The word felt like a fragile promise, almost a memory from another lifetime.
She lifted him in her arms and carried him through quiet, winding halls, past forgotten doorways and shuttered windows. They arrived at a part of the palace that seemed untouched by time—a wing steeped in shadows and dust.
At the entrance, a maid waited, bowing low. "Welcome, Countess Liyla, and our little prince," she said softly.
Lucen blinked in surprise. Countess? My nanny is a countess?
The maid smiled as if reading his thoughts. "Come in, little prince. The lady waits."
They stepped inside, and there, in the center of the vast hall, stood a young woman so radiant that Lucen forgot to breathe. Her hair was a shimmering blue cascade, her eyes the color of the summer sky. She was so beautiful that she seemed to outshine the very gods he had known in his past life.
At the sight of him, tears welled in her eyes. She rushed forward and swept him into her arms. "Oh, my baby," she sobbed, her embrace fierce and trembling. "I'm so sorry… so sorry I couldn't protect you from anything. Sorry for everything."
Lucen felt her warmth, her sorrow, her love. He clung to her, feeling the soft tremor of her heartbeat against his cheek. This… this was his mother. His real mother. In his previous life, he had been an orphan—no family, no warmth to call his own. The word mother had always been a distant echo, an ache he tried to ignore. But now… here it was, alive and breathing.
Drawing back just enough to meet his eyes, she cupped his small face and smiled through her tears. "I am your mother, Lucen. I am Cristiyana de Vermithorne."
Around them, servants watched with tender eyes, their hands pressed over their hearts. Some murmured quiet blessings, others wiped away tears. It was a moment of light in the deep shadows of this house—a testament to Cristiyana's quiet strength.
Cristiyana looked up at the nanny, her voice still shaking. "What name did they give him?" she asked.
The nanny bowed her head. "It is Lucen, madam."
For a heartbeat, Cristiyana's expression was unreadable. Then she threw her head back and laughed—bright and clear, like bells ringing in a storm.
"Ha ha ha! Fool Vermithorne… the meaning of Lucen is not meant to be shadow, but the contrast between light and shadow—embodying a prince of depth. That's the meaning!" she said, laughter still dancing in her voice. "Ha ha ha! I bet Malzareth is also laughing soundly now!"
The nanny smiled faintly. "I also think he might be, madam."
Lucen frowned, confusion flickering in his red eyes. "Malz… who? Laughing? My father…? I… I can't process this… ah, my brain…"
Cristiyana smiled down at him, pressing a gentle kiss to his brow. "Oh, my Lucen," she murmured. "You are not a child of shadow alone. You're going to become the ruler of that shadow… and bring light to it."
For a moment, the weight of her words seemed to echo in the hushed hall, and then she rose, taking Lucen's small hand in hers.
Cristiyana's gaze was firm, protective—a mother's vow. "Come, Lucen. Let's go now to meet your daddy," she said, her voice a promise of safety and truth.
She led him through the creaking door at the far end of the abandoned castle. Beyond lay a tunnel—ancient stone walls stretching into darkness, their surfaces etched with runes and the weight of centuries. The air was cool and damp, the faint scent of earth and magic stirring around them.
They walked in silence, the flickering torchlight casting dancing shadows. Lucen clung to his mother's hand, his heart thundering with every step. In that quiet, he couldn't help but marvel—the word mother was no longer a fantasy. In this life, he had a family. He had her.
At the end of the tunnel, a heavy wooden door loomed. Cristiyana pushed it open, and warm light spilled out—a room like a hidden sanctuary, filled with rich tapestries and golden lanterns. Tables were laden with food and gifts—fruits, sweet cakes, shimmering trinkets. Soft music hummed from somewhere unseen, weaving a spell of comfort and welcome.
In the center of it all stood a round table, polished to a mirror sheen. And beside it stood a man—tall and imposing, his black robes trimmed in red, his silver-streaked hair catching the flickering lamplight.
For a moment, Lucen's mind went blank. The heck… that's my father? His expression was completely different from before—no coldness, no distance. Instead, there was a warmth in his eyes that Lucen had never imagined possible.
Two other boys, older than him—perhaps seven or ten years old—watched from beside the table. Their hair was the same inky black as Lucen's, their crimson eyes mirroring his own. His brothers. Lucen blinked, feeling as if he had stepped into a dream he didn't remember dreaming.
Before he could make sense of it, the tall man moved. Malzareth Vermithorne crossed the room in three strides and swept them both into his arms—Cristiyana and Lucen together, held close in an embrace that was fierce and sudden.
Lucen's mind reeled at the shift. Oh, I get it… I must be dead again, he thought, a wry, almost amused resignation threading through the confusion. This has to be another life… or maybe just another ending.
But the warmth of that embrace was real—strong and unwavering, like the iron of the Vermithorne bloodline itself.
For now, Lucen let himself lean into it, feeling the shadows and the light wrap around him like a promise. give me reviw