Chapter 7: Stillness in the Storm
The blade clashed against his once-soft palms, now hardened by repetition.
Sweat ran down Lucien's spine as he spun, ducked, and blocked—only to be knocked back by the backhanded swipe of a wooden training sword.
Caelum lowered his weapon. "Again."
Lucien forced himself up, legs shaking. "Yes, Father."
They trained at dawn, just after the mists began to lift from the garden fields. Two hours a day. No more, no less. The Duke didn't allow wasted breath or empty compliments.
And Lucien didn't want them anyway.
He had grown leaner. His movements faster. His stamina longer.
But not once had Caelum praised him.
Not with words.
Only with the smallest pauses, the narrowed glint in his eyes when Lucien adapted mid-swing. And that was enough.
---
After training came the storm.
Not of swords—but of mana.
Maeve's training circles had become a daily ritual now.
A quiet corner of the estate, where the air always smelled faintly of herbs and burnt ozone. Where the crow perched overhead and watched everything, judging silently.
Lucien sat cross-legged within the chalk runes, his fingers trembling slightly as he summoned the mana. He no longer forced it. He invited it.
And slowly, it began to answer.
Tiny arcs of storm flickered between his fingertips—unstable, sputtering—but real. His control was crude, but it was there.
Maeve didn't speak. She just sipped her tea and gave the faintest nod.
That nod was worth more than any applause.
---
It was near twilight when the summons came.
A servant bowed low at the entrance of the library, interrupting Lucien's quiet reading.
> "Young master… the Duke requests your presence. In his study. Immediately."
Lucien closed the tome with care, dust trailing from its old spine.
> "Very well."
---
He didn't expect anyone else to be there.
When he entered the Duke's study, the warm glow of firelight met him first. His father stood by the window, tall and still, arms crossed behind his back.
But there were others.
A well-dressed man—polished boots, subtle rings, a calculated smile.
And beside him, a girl.
---
She looked to be around his age. Maybe a little older.
Golden hair framed delicate features, curled just slightly at the ends. Her eyes were a gentle sky-blue, framed by lashes too perfect to be accidental. Her posture was refined, every motion choreographed like a noble's dance.
She wore a cream-colored dress with sapphire accents, elegant but modest.
By all measures… she was beautiful.
And yet—
Lucien's breath hitched.
---
It was faint. A flicker. A ripple of nausea at the edge of his senses.
He didn't know why at first.
But the moment her eyes met his—something recoiled inside him. Not his mind. Not his heart. Something deeper. Older.
A weight dropped into his gut like lead.
The girl smiled politely. "Lord Lucien, it's an honor."
> A flicker—
A corridor drenched in blood.
Screams. Accusations.
"He tried to hurt me!"
"Disgusting bastard—get him!"
Fists. Boots. Fire in his lungs.
And then—
That smile again.
Sweet. Gentle. Beautiful.
"This is for trying to insult my love."
---
Lucien blinked.
The memories slammed into him like cold water.
He stood frozen, staring at her face. It hadn't changed. Not truly.
Just as elegant. Just as perfect.
Just as false.
---
> So this is her…
The girl who ended his life.
The girl who told the lie.
The girl who smiled while they beat him—while no one dared defend him, because the world would always believe the hero's love over the villain's pride.
---
"…Lucien?"
Caelum's voice snapped him back.
Lucien turned, mask slipping back into place, and gave the faintest nod. "My apologies. I was lost in thought."
The Duke's eyes narrowed slightly, but said nothing.
The nobleman spoke, filling the silence.
> "This is my daughter, Lady Amelia of House Thornehart. I thought it wise for the younger generation to be introduced early—after all, the world is changing fast, and our children will shape its next chapter."
Lucien didn't respond immediately.
His hands were calm. His expression blank.
But inside, something had curled in on itself. Cold and wary.
He gave a shallow bow. "Lady Amelia. A pleasure."
She curtsied gracefully. "The pleasure is mine."
---
Lucien sat through the rest of the conversation in practiced silence.
He let them talk politics, trade, upcoming noble gatherings. His father made subtle points about security near the borders. Thornehart gave veiled praises of Lucien's recent discipline.
But the entire time, he felt her eyes on him.
Smiling.
Watching.
Remembering?
---
That night, Lucien couldn't sleep.
He stared at the ceiling of his chamber, but his eyes didn't see stone and shadow.
They saw the banquet hall.
---
It had been gilded in gold and silk, filled with laughter and masks, nobles sipping wine beneath crystal chandeliers. House Vaelor had hosted it to honor the Empire's chosen Hero—a boy of humble origins, awakened with divine light and great promise.
Lucien, drunk on wine and wounded pride, had scoffed.
He made a few cutting remarks. Subtle, but venom-laced. People had chuckled. Some had gone quiet.
And she—Lady Amelia—had watched it all.
She had stood beside the Hero, gazing at him like he was the sun incarnate.
---
The very next day, whispers began.
"Did you hear what Lucien did to her?"
"He cornered her. Said vile things. Touched her."
"She cried all night. The Hero had to comfort her."
The court was always hungry for villains.
And Lucien, the arrogant Duke's son, had fit the role far too well.
---
Then came the crowd.
It started with five.
Then ten.
Then more.
They didn't wear noble clothes that day. They wore simple cloaks, leather belts, clenched fists. Students. Commoners. Even some of the lower nobles.
They dragged him out behind the Academy stables.
One shouted the lie again. Another spat on his crest.
Lucien struggled—yelled that it wasn't true. That he never touched her. Never even spoke to her alone.
No one listened.
---
The first blow struck his ribs.
The second split his lip.
They tore the Vaelor emblem from his jacket.
Blood smeared the dirt. Boots stomped his hands. He heard something crack. Screams—his own—went unanswered.
And then…
She came.
---
Amelia.
Dressed in pale blue, like innocence wrapped in silk.
She stepped forward as the crowd parted for her like water.
Lucien's vision was blurred, but he remembered it—her face was serene. Calm.
She knelt beside him.
Brushed the blood from his cheek.
---
> "This is for trying to insult my love," she whispered.
And smiled.
---
He didn't cry from the pain.
Not until the last moment.
When he realized that even his father couldn't avenge him.
Because the girl had played the world like a harp.
And Lucien Vaelor—firstborn of a Duke, heir to House Vaelor—died there in the dirt, a villain in someone else's story.
---
The day after the banquet, the capital whispered.
House Vaelor remained silent.
Duke Caelum Drayven Vaelor—unshakable, feared, master of a hundred victories—stood in the Imperial Court that morning with clenched fists and blood-red eyes.
But he said nothing.
He had seen the reports. Heard the whispers.
And then he saw her.
Lady Amelia.
Tears in her eyes. Surrounded by sympathy. By believers.
She claimed she had been violated. That Lucien had tried to take what wasn't his. That she barely escaped.
The Hero stood beside her, silent but glowing.
And the Empire listened.
Because who would believe the cruel, arrogant Duke's son—already known for his coldness—over the delicate noble girl and the boy blessed by the gods?
---
Behind closed doors, Caelum roared.
He smashed a marble table in half. Sent two servants fleeing the estate in terror. The walls of his war room cracked beneath the weight of his fury.
But nothing changed.
There was no duel to demand.
No noble house to challenge.
No political move he could make that wouldn't collapse his own foundation.
Because to defend Lucien…
…would be seen as defending a monster.
---
> And so the Duke held his silence.
And buried his son with the world still believing the lie.
He had lost a wife to the flames.
And now… a son to shadows.
---
Lucien sat up from his bed, breathing hard.
The memory still clung to him like ash.
But this time, his heart didn't race.
It burned.
> "Not again," he whispered.
"This time….. I speak for myself