Chapter LXII
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"We don't want to hurt you," the woman's voice came layered, two tones speaking at once. "We'll bring you in by force, whether you want it or not."
"Let's see about that."
Lucien rushed forward, his left hand still shaped into the dense weight of a hammer.
"Stubborn. I see." The woman dodged his strike by bending her spine at an angle no human body should manage, then pushed up off her hands, legs snapping into a kick that launched Lucien straight into the air.
"No need for this," she called, almost regretful — and one of her sons leapt up to meet him mid-flight, his arm reshaping into the thick mass of a gorilla's forelimb, driving Lucien back down into the cobblestones with a strike that shattered the thick paving blocks beneath him.
Lucien exhaled, spitting blood and the broken fragments of a tooth onto the stone.
"You can't take us. Better you stop now," the other son said.
"I admit it. You're strong." Lucien pushed himself upright.
"You've gotten weak," the two boys said together, voices perfectly layered.
"Why now," Lucien asked, eyes fixed on all three of them.
"You'll have to ask yourself that."
"I see." He let his hands shift back to normal and sat down where he stood. "It's time, then."
"Take me," he said.
The woman's forehead flattened into a plate of polished metal, and she drove it into his skull. The world went dark in one clean motion.
Whispers drifted through him as consciousness returned.
He woke seated on a white, gleaming floor, centered in a vast circular chamber. Tiered seats rose on all sides, filled with figures murmuring to one another in low, overlapping voices. At the center sat an old man, hair hanging long enough to hide most of his face, crooked fingers pointed toward Lucien.
The whispering stopped.
Lucien gathered himself and stood.
"You've gotten quite old," he said suddenly, into the silence.
The chattering resumed instantly, ripples of conversation passing between the seats.
"Not this again." Lucien pressed his palms against his face, frustrated.
"Grigon the Thirteenth, are you not?" A dark-skinned woman in white robes spoke from the upper tier. "You go by Lucien now."
"Forgot I went by that," he said, smirking despite himself.
More whispering. Heads turning toward one another.
"Can someone say something?" Lucien snapped.
"Grigon the Thirteenth." The old man's voice finally broke through, low and ancient — the sound alone telling Lucien more about how long he'd lived than any words could. "Long time it has been, my rebellious son."
"Still remember me, Father. I'm glad." There was no warmth in it.
"What do you want," Lucien said. "Last I remember, I cut ties with all of you."
"Speak well, Grigon the Thirteenth," another voice cut in from the upper rows — a sharp correction, dressing him down for tone.
The old man raised a single crooked finger, pointed at Lucien.
"Your house calls on you, in its time of need. Yield to House Ouroboros."
"No."
He turned to leave.
Two more figures stepped into his path — faceless guards, hands edged sharp as steel.
"I heard you've found a fondness for humans," the old man said.
Lucien's eyes narrowed.
Silence settled across the white chamber.
"The Grigon I knew viewed mortals as passing shadows," the old man continued. "Yet now you walk among them. Live beside them. Protect them."
Lucien scoffed. "Don't we all?"
The old man's crooked fingers tightened against the arm of his seat. "Then you understand what is at stake."
The whispers returned, threading through the tiers.
House Ouroboros.
The House that hid and devoured kingdoms. That buried empires beneath the passing of ages. The House that endured.
The House that always endured.
"The cycle nears its turning once more," the woman in white robes said. "It's time for rebirth."
Lucien's expression hardened.
"No."
Several heads lifted at once.
"No?" one of them echoed, incredulous.
"I left centuries ago."
"And your first son, ask him."
A man with goat horns curling above a human-bearded face leaned forward, eyes burning.
"Your siblings are dead."
"What—" The word caught Lucien off guard for a moment.
Then a smile crept across his face anyway.
"What's so funny, Grigon?" the goat-horned figure demanded, furious.
"How do I spell it out for the lot of you," Lucien said. "Not my problem."
"There is no leaving the Game," another voice answered, drifting down from the higher seats.
"The pieces may abandon the board."
"The board does not abandon the pieces."
The old man slowly lifted his head.
For the first time, Lucien saw his eyes.
Ancient. Endless. The kind of eyes that felt like looking down into the bottom of a well that had watched civilizations rise and collapse without ever once blinking.
"You bear my blood, Grigon the Thirteenth." A pause that stretched far too long. "Ancient blood. And whether you wish it or not—"
The voice deepened, rolling through the chamber like something physical.
"We are under attack. The mages and the Allthing's soldiers have found a way to tear us apart from the mortals we hide among. It is only a matter of time before they reach us next."
Lucien said nothing.
Then he laughed. Tired. Bitter.
"So you want to hide."
He looked up at all of them.
"Last I checked, I was the one who cut myself out of your circle. This is on all of you."
The faceless guards stepped forward.
The old man shook his head once. "No."
"You've forgotten that everyone in this city shares the same fate."
For the first time since arriving, Lucien's composure cracked. His eyes widened — not in surprise, but in recognition, a piece of something he'd long buried finally clicking into place.
"You haven't forgotten, have you," the woman beside the old man said quietly.
The Faceless.
That was what they had once been called — back when they first descended into the mortal realm and took human partners, spreading their blood through generations of ordinary families.
Most inherited nothing. Or so everyone had believed. Their true nature stayed buried beneath lifetime after lifetime of human living, sleeping quietly inside bloodlines that never knew what they carried.
Especially in Duskfall.
Lucien's expression shifted. Not shock.
Recognition.
A memory returning to him like an old wound reopening from the inside.
His eyes narrowed.
Anyone could be a target.
Even his brother.
"Time is insufficient," the old man said. "Make up your mind."
"Our fate is in your hands."
The whispering rose again as he finished, rolling through the chamber like wind through dry grass.
Duskfall — The Capital
"This is heavy." Rowan grunted, lifting the last sack onto the cart.
"That all of it?" Lucien asked.
"Yeah. Thanks, brother." Rowan flashed a thumbs-up, breath fogging slightly in the morning chill.
The horse snorted and pulled the cart forward as the rider dismounted to handle the goods.
"You've been pale," Rowan said, studying him. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing ale can't solve," Lucien said, forcing something close to a smile.
Rowan clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Then let's solve it tonight."
That night the tavern was loud and warm, ale spilling over the rims of overfilled mugs, a fiddle going somewhere near the back. Rowan drank his fill, mug after mug. Lucien hadn't touched his at all.
"You haven't even touched yours," Rowan said, already a few drinks past sober.
"You've had enough." Lucien pushed the spare mug further from his brother's reach.
"Less about me." Rowan straightened, blinking hard, forcing focus. "Tell me what's wrong."
"A cart with a rider will arrive at your place tonight," Lucien said.
"What?"
"Take your family. Leave this country."
"Why — what's happening?" Rowan asked, the drunken haze clearing fast.
"You've always talked about leaving this place. Here's your chance."
"Why now, Lucien?"
"Just listen to me for once." His voice had gone hard.
Rowan stood, gripping his brother's arm. "What did you get yourself into, brother? Gambling debt? Someone after you?" His eyes searched Lucien's face, genuinely afraid now.
"Talk to me. We'll find a way to fix it. Together."
"It's not something you can fix, Rowan." Lucien's hand closed over his brother's wrist. "Not this time."
"Then what is it—"
A scream cut through the noise outside.
The tavern door burst open. A man fell through it, collapsing flat onto the floorboards, blood already pooling fast from a wound in his back.
"What the hell—" A patron near the bar shot to his feet.
More screaming, closer now, rolling in from the street.
Lucien grabbed Rowan by the collar. "We move. Now."
The city outside had already become something unrecognizable.
Golden Cloaks moved through the streets in formation, weapons raised — rods that ignited with a sickening hum and discharged beams of light that tore bodies cleanly in half on contact.
"Run!" someone screamed, sprinting — and was caught mid-stride by a blast that split him at the waist.
A boy knelt over his mother's body in the street, screaming her name, her head already gone, fragments of bone and brain scattered across the cobblestones around them.
A shadow fell over him.
The Cloak's hand shook on the trigger of his weapon, the rod trembling visibly.
"I can't," he muttered.
"Here, you twat." Another Cloak shoved him aside and raised his own weapon instead.
"Mom—"
The boy's voice cut off mid-word, swallowed by the blast.
Smoke and fire rose from the heart of the capital. Outside the walls, figures watched from a safe distance — Golden Cloaks standing in formation, armed and ready, a handful of mages clustered near a man seated at the front of them all.
"Evolution is a funny thing, really," the man said, watching the city burn with mild interest.
A knight stepped forward and saluted.
"Captain. More are gathering at the castle gates. Trying to flee through the eastern road."
"Make sure none survive," the man said.
"This is genocide." A young mage stepped forward — Martha, her voice shaking, but not backing down.
"What an ugly word for it," the man said.
An older mage hurried forward and pulled her back by the shoulder. "Forgive her, Lord Ozym."
"This is evolution," Ozym said, and laughed — the elite knight who would one day be lord, the one whose ability was immortality itself.
"We're sending them a message," he said, watching the flames climb higher into the night sky.
✦
— To Be Continued —