#rambolva

[rabbitinwolvesclothing]

personally maybe I think nerd and hunter have known eatchother since they were kids, maybe since they were 9-10 years old. Hunter probably didnt bully him then maybe they were even cool with eatchother, like they sure as shit weren’t friends but he didn’t bully him yet. I feel like the bullying started when they were around 14 maybe?

[uselessdollwithplan]

I hope we get more info on Leondros and Mathis’s relationship! Not just because I love Mathis but because I’d like to see more of the politics and hierarchy of ebonmire.

of all the countries in Tos’var, ebonmire interest me the most

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

The Weight of His Silence

The manor was too quiet, it came with peace within it, it made the walls feel too close. It was the silence of something emptied out, something waiting for its absence to be noticed. 

The clock in the great hall kept on, oblivious of the things happening in its own home. Each chime was a reminder that time didn't stop for anyone. Not for Dedric, Raphael, Theoford, or Alistar. 

Lucian stood breathing the shadow of the grand staircase, still wearing the gloves. The silk lining clung fainting to his palms, holding the last warmth of the day. There was no blood on them, but he could feel the warm, slickness of it. Gone too quickly, he would say. 

Across the hall, Elijah stood by a column, arms folded, his gaze fixed on the portrait lining the wall. They looked down in gilded judgment: Raphael with his stiff, righteous posture: Dedric with his faint, strained smile, Theo with the cold, dead gaze. Alistars eys staring into the distance forever. They looked the same as they always had — but Lucian could still see the way their faces had shifted in the end. The shock. The fear. The realization. 

“You could take them down, Kitten.” Elijah said, breaking the stillness of the world. His voice was silent, but sharp. He knew to not touch Lucian unless he made the first move. 

Lucian didn't answer right away, sliding down the wall, resting his head on the wall behind him. His eyes looked though the edges of the frame, the brushstrokes that gave life to what was now rotting under the fresh earth. 

“I will,” he said at last. But he didn't move. 

They had buried them quickly just before the sun began to sink. The family cemetery lay past the orchard, under the crooked arms of ancient yews. No ceremony, or praying to the gods. The shovels bit into the soil, and the earth took them without protest. 

Now, in his mind, those mounds of earth seemed to pulse in the dark– not with life, but with the weight of what they contained. 

“You think too much,” Elijah rolled over in bed. murring. 

Lucian's jaw got tight, staring into Elijah's eyes, then his lips, then back to his eyes.. “Maybe not enough.” 

“Enough to doubt.”

Lucian didn't answer, scooting himself closer to Elijah until they touched, the roughness of Elijah's skin was perfect, warm, and smelled like leather. That evening had come, the sun was gone and the night had come. The air was so thick with the heavy smell of overturned soil and the faint sweetness of rain. 

That had yet to fall.

The gardens were going to bloom, so green even in the season, The ivy along the archways would move in the breeze. Hiding the hell that was made by man. 

The sound of blackbirds would sing, the same one from the morning. They would hop along the garden wall before disappearing into the orchard. Lucian would watch it go. 

“What happens now?” he asked finally, his voice so low it was almost lost in the rustle of the leaves.

Elijah's face didn't change, still resting his head on the pillow. “Now you lead.” 

Lucains gaze drifted toward the manor's tall, polished windows, the garden stared back. Looking back at Elijah he could see the reflection of himself in Elijah's eyes. Pale, sharp, and faintly distorted by the color of his eyes. There was no one left between him and the weight of the world. No father. No brothers. No mother. No one can dictate his place in this home. 

It should have felt like freedom. But it lingered like a cut, pulsing. 

The quiet was filling his ears—things unspoken, questions from the servants who had seen too little or too much, whispers in the village that would soon turn into rumors. 

Lucian could feel it pressing into his skull like a gun. A storm building in the distance. And yet all he could do was kiss Elijah one more time. 

[uselessdollwithplan]

I need more Rambol_va fanart mannnnnnnnnn , I can’t be doing all the work:(((

My boy Mathis deserves love!!!

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

The Serpents Smile

cw: family death, pet/master

The courtyard was blooming. It was too warm for the season, unseasonably green, and yet Lucian still wore gloves. Thin, black, lined with silk. He flexed his fingers absently as they walked. Dedric kept pace beside him, his hands behind his back, talking about horses, of all things. 

Lucian barely listened. 

His head still hummed from the dream—or maybe from the conversation with Elijah before sunrise. The way Elijah had leaned in with that crooked, sardonic smile and murmured, “Do you regret coming back?” 

The words still clung to his tongue like honey, or venom. He wasn't sure which. He looked at his brother, nodding along to some story about a stablehand, and wondered—had Dedric ever seen him, really seen him, without looking through their fathers eyes? 

“Youve been quiet lately,” Dedric said, stopping beneath an arch of irony. “Even for you.” 

Lucian turned, his expression unreadable. “Have I?” 

“You have..been quiet lately. Since dinner. Since you came home, really.”  Dedric folded his arms. “I thought maybe being out here again would ease things. You loved these walks. Do you remember?” 

Luicans eyes drifted toward the manor windows, high and polished. He could almost  picture his mother waving from them, like she used to. 

“I remember a lot of things,” Lucian said softly. 

Dedric smiled faintly, as if reassured by the answer. “Good. Then maybe we can—”

A knife came out.

Dedric didn’t even have time to register the movement before the blade was in his throat.

The skin was soft, making way for the cold steel with a wet, tearing resistance. Each muscle, each ligament..felt like release. His voice died before it could even shape a sound—no scream, no cry for help, just a sharp intake of breath that caught in his chest and refused to leave.

His hands twitched uselessly at his sides. Heaving, desperate, his eyes went wide, the whites catching the sunlight in a glassy sheen.

Lucian’s grip on the hilt was steady. The silk-lined gloves caught no blood as he pressed forward until Dedric’s body hit the ivy and bush, hidden in shadow. When he pulled the blade free, the blood came in a hot, pulsing fountain, spraying across the grass, puddling in his own throat.

Dedric’s eyes rolled, his jaw slackening for one last, useless gasp.

The courtyard seemed to hold its breath.

“I’m sorry,” Lucian whispered, though the words were stripped of any true apology. “You were the easiest.”

From the archway, Elijah appeared, his messer still sheathed. He tilted his head toward the manor. “One down.”

Lucian didn’t look back. “Where’s Raphael?”

The study smelled of brandy and ink. Low lamplight threw lazy shadows across shelves and the glint of cut glass. Raphael was slouched in his chair, a half-drained glass of amber liquor in one hand, a book open but unread in the other.

Lucian stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click. His clothes were immaculate—no spot of blood on them—though the weight of the knife in his pocket was a quiet reminder of what had just been done.

“Little brother!” Raphael greeted, half a smirk curling his mouth. “Back from your—walk..? Where’s Dedric?”

A stupid question.

Lucian leaned casually against the door, eyes calm. “He’s not coming.”

Raphael’s smirk faltered. The book slid from his hand. Placing it down. 

Lucian pulled his bow and arrow from his back, loading it and ready to aim. Nothing new..

Raphael drew his sword, its polished edge catching the lamplight like an altar..a prayer to gods that would never hear him.

Lucian said nothing.

Raphael took a step forward, shoulders squared, voice a low growl.

The arrowhead caught the light. The bowstring pulled taut.

Raphael shouted and charged—too late.

The arrow punched clean through his neck with a meaty thunk. His momentum faltered mid-step, eyes wide, the sword clattering from his fingers. He collapsed forward, head smashing against the desk with a dull crack, the skull had cracked open..The glass toppled from his desk, spilling red wine across the carpet—wine and blood pooling together into one dark, sticky stain.

Lucian stared at the body.. Walking close and flipping it over empty heaves slowly disappearing. 

Rubbing his cheek gently, clearing the blood from Raphs mouth. A single hand, grabbing Lucian's wrist. 

“W..” a heave. 

“W..wh..y” 

The hand fell limp.

Elijah stepped in soon after, stepping neatly over the shards, retrieving the arrow with a slow, deliberate twist. “Two.”

Lucian’s eyes lingered on the body, voice almost idle. “A mess.”

Theoford Laerile’s chambers were steeped in shadow, the curtains drawn tight against the night.

The air smelled faintly of old wine, candle wax, and the faint must of velvet that had hung too long in still air. Lucian stood at the bedside. Grasping at his own hands, anger. 

The old man lay across the silken bedding. His breathing was uneven, a faint whistle in his throat, the chest rising and falling with an irritating fragility.

Lucian’s eyes lingered on his face—Theoford’s mouth slack, his eyes twitching beneath closed lids, the same brow that had so often drawn low over a scowl now smoothed into peace.

Peace he didn’t deserve.

The memory of cold dismissals crept up unbidden—His mother’s absence replaced by silence at the dinner table. Her face gone..her warmth that was healing..loving. But every conversation about the family’s future with every son but him. That same voice that could summon warmth for others reduced to a distant yes or no when speaking to Lucian.

His gloved hands found the pillow.

For a moment, he only held it there in his fingers, flexing them slightly against the fabric, feeling the fine embroidery catch against the silk lining. The pillow is like a moment to think, to reminisce. Elijah’s voice from hours earlier curled back into his thoughts. "And that is why you will never leave."

Lucian lowered the pillow onto Theoford's face. A gentle placement, before grabbing the edges hard and removing his oxygen. Theoford’s eyes snapped open—cloudy, confused—and then flared wide in shock as the weight came down over his face. He bucked against it, the frail strength of age clawing desperately at Lucian’s wrists, nails scraping the silk.

“Shh..please dad..you need to be quiet. Be quiet.”

 The muffled sound beneath the pillow was somewhere between a groan and a panicked plea.

Lucian pressed harder, his arms locked straight. Wrapping his arms around his head and cracking his neck until the thrashing weakened. The old man’s fingers twitched once more, then fell slack. Even then, Lucian didn’t lift the pillow. He stayed there, his breath steady. Holding his father in a hug…his eyes fixed on the shadow his body cast across the bed — until the clock on the mantel clicked once, twice more.

Only then did he pull the pillow away, setting it neatly back in place, as though nothing had been touched. From the doorway, Elijah’s voice broke the heavy quiet. “Three.”

The armory smelled of oiled steel and leather, a sharp, metallic warmth that clung to the air. Rows of blades lined the stone walls, each catching the torchlight in a cold shimmer. The room felt hollow, too wide, every sound stretched in the silence.

Alistar stood near the largest rack, a polishing cloth in one hand, working it slowly along the hilt of a longsword. The scrape of cloth on steel echoed in steady rhythm—a craftsman’s habit, unhurried, unthinking. He hadn’t noticed Lucian yet.

“Strange to see you here,” Alistar said without looking up, his voice carrying just enough to fill the armory. “Thought you’d traded steel for… well, whatever it is you do now.”

Lucian’s bow was already in his hand, the arrow nocked and ready — but the string remained still.

Of all of them, Alistar had been the most absent. Not cruel like Raphael, not suffocating like Theoford, not smiling with false sweetness like Dedric. Just… gone. A brother in title only.

Killing him didn’t ignite the same satisfaction. Instead, it scraped somewhere deep in his chest, leaving a splintered ache.

Alistar finally glanced up, his gaze snagging on the bow. The cloth slipped from his hand and drifted to the floor, his brow creasing. “Lucian? What the hell—”

Lucian could have ended it then. One clean release of his fingers, and it would be over. But his grip faltered. Muscles locked. His arm trembled under the weight of a decision that suddenly felt heavier than any blade.

Alistar stepped forward, confusion sharpening into something else — a flicker of realization. “You don’t have to—”

Those words did it. They cut through the hesitation like a blade through silk, unraveling the fragile thread holding Lucian back. Alistar was next in line. If he lived, this purge meant nothing. All the blood before him—wasted.

The string snapped forward.

The arrow struck low, slipping just beneath the ribs. Alistar staggered, his breath catching in a sharp, wet gasp. His hand pressed instinctively to the wound, coming away slick.

“Why?” His voice was quieter now, stripped of command, carrying only disbelief.

Lucian’s reply was just as soft, almost regretful. “Because you’d inherit.”

Alistar’s eyes searched his face, like he could still find a lie to cling to, something to make this untrue. But Lucian’s expression was carved in stone.

He took a step toward him — another mistake.

The second arrow hit center mass, the force driving him back into the rack of swords. The weapons clattered violently, steel on steel ringing through the armory like a final call. His knees buckled, but Lucian was already moving, catching him enough to lower him gently to the cold stone floor.

“My wife..”

“I know..I know..” Lucian began to tear up. Thinking of the life he took from others. Dedric's kids, Alistars wife. It all felt so far gone. Tears dripped into Alistars face.

Alistar’s gaze dimmed, his lips parting like he might speak again — but no words came. The light left his eyes, and with it, the last brother who had never raised a hand against him.

Behind him, Elijah’s boots clicked across the flagstones. He stepped into the mess without hesitation, plucked both arrows free, and glanced only once at Lucian before murmuring, “Four.”

The word lingered in the air, heavy as the smell of blood and oil.

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

Collar

cw: kidnapping, pet/master

It had been a week since the attack. A week since Lucian had vanished from his escort caravan, and a week since his world had been pulled out from under him like a silken rug slick with blood.

Elijah had not taken him far—-just far enough to be unseen. The bandit camp nestled in a forgotten forest, cloaked by gnarled trees and fog like something out of a half told fairy tale. Lucian had imagined worse places to die. But strangely, he hadn't died.

Not yet.

Instead, Elijah had kept him. Kept being the word Lucian turned over in his mind, again and again, as if it might take new shape under scrutiny. He was not imprisoned in chains or locked in a cage. He walked freely through the forested clearing. He was fed, dressed, and spoken to like a man. But still…kept.

Today, Elijah returned from a hunt at dawn. Lucian had watched him from the stump near the fire, chin in hand, as Elijah emerged with two rabbits slung over his shoulders, blood on his fingers and a grin stretched too wide.

“You always stare like that?” Elijah asked, dropping the rabbits near the firepit.

Lucian raised a brow. “Like what?”

“Like you've never seen someone gut dinner.”

“I was waiting to see if you'd trip, sadly no luck.”

Elijah chuckled—low, rough. “Smart ass”

Lucian allowed himself a small smile. But it slipped when he pulled the cheeks of his face up, the collar tight on his throat still, he lost the smile right away, grasping at the collar with hate. He stared at his arm grasping the collar, then Elijah, with a sigh.

Elijah didn't look up. He began skinning the rabbit with a casual flick of his knife. “ You made a deal. You're mine now. Don't be surprised.”

“I agreed to help you kill my family,” Lucian said, voice tight. “That doesn't really mean I'm your pet.”

“You sure?” Elijah glanced up then. Yellow eyes cutting through the morning mist. “You look like one sittin’ there pouting like that.”

Lucians heart leapt in a way he despised. “You're insane.” “Probably,” Elijah agreed. He stood, wiping his hands on his pants, then stepped on close—too close. He reached out, and Lucian froze. Elijah's fingers skimmed his neck, just under the jaw.

“No one touched you like this before. Huh?” he murmured. “Not like they wanted you anyway.”

Lucian swallowed. He hated how easily Elijah read him. Hated more that Elijah wasnt wrong.

“It's a symbol,” Elijah said, leaving heat where his hand had been. “You will wear it under all that noble silk, and I'll know youre mine. Whether were out in the dirt or in those gold halls you came from”

Lucian looked down at the collar again. It gleamed dully in the weak light “You think we'll make it that far?”

Elijah sharpened. “I will make us.”

After dinner that night, going late into the afternoon, Elijah left into the woods again. “Grabbing water,” he said.

Lucian was back to staring at the fire, thinking. Thinking of a way out, curling himself tightly, like he was hiding from something that would hurt him. When Elijah returned, arms and chest were streaked with water and dirt. He tossed a waterskin to Lucian, letting it fall onto the ground.

“You're still sulking.”

“I am not a sulker.”

“Easily could have fooled me.” Elijah sat beside the pseudo ball, not close enough to be touching but close enough for the warmth to brush Lucians skin. “You keep watching that fire like you're still behind palace walls. Still deciding if this is all beneath you.”

Lucian growled and turned. “I'm trying to figure out if this is all real!”

“It is,” Elijah said. “Every part of it, The mud, the clothes, the hunger, the fire. Me.”

Lucian stared at him. Trying to spit out a rebuttal for this.

Elijah leaned into Lucian, tracing the chest now, eyes gleaming in the fire. “You. aren't a prince here. You are nobody's brother. You are just mine.”

Lucian, open mouthed, trying to come up with something, anything. Could only spit out.

“Yes sir.”

Lucian didn't sleep that night.

The collar was too tight, it felt like it was watching him. Every turn, every struggle.

He told himself he was only playing along. That he would wear the mask as long as needed, until his family bled out at his feet and he could stand over them, victorious.

But in the silent moments—-between Elijah's slow breathing and the echo of the campfire cracking—Lucian wondered which mask was real.

He reached for the collar, he could have pulled it off and slept peacefully that night. But he didn't, he didn't throw it away. He didn't run off. Deep down, he knew this is what he needed…wanted.

It had been a week since the attack. A week since Lucian had vanished from his escort caravan, and a week since his world had been pulled out from under him like a silken rug slick with blood.

Elijah had not taken him far—-just far enough to be unseen. The bandit camp nestled in a forgotten forest, cloaked by gnarled trees and fog like something out of a half told fairy tale. Lucian had imagined worse places to die. But strangely, he hadn't died.

Not yet.

Instead, Elijah had kept him. Kept being the word Lucian turned over in his mind, again and again, as if it might take new shape under scrutiny. He was not imprisoned in chains or locked in a cage. He walked freely through the forested clearing. He was fed, dressed, and spoken to like a man. But still…kept.

Today, Elijah returned from a hunt at dawn. Lucian had watched him from the stump near the fire, chin in hand, as Elijah emerged with two rabbits slung over his shoulders, blood on his fingers and a grin stretched too wide.

“You always stare like that?” Elijah asked, dropping the rabbits near the firepit.

Lucian raised a brow. “Like what?”

“Like you've never seen someone gut dinner.”

“I was waiting to see if you'd trip, sadly no luck.”

Elijah chuckled—low, rough. “Smart ass”

Lucian allowed himself a small smile. But it slipped when he pulled the cheeks of his face up, the collar tight on his throat still, he lost the smile right away, grasping at the collar with hate. He stared at his arm grasping the collar, then Elijah, with a sigh.

Elijah didn't look up. He began skinning the rabbit with a casual flick of his knife. “ You made a deal. You're mine now. Don't be surprised.”

“I agreed to help you kill my family,” Lucian said, voice tight. “That doesn't really mean I'm your pet.”

“You sure?” Elijah glanced up then. Yellow eyes cutting through the morning mist. “You look like one sittin’ there pouting like that.”

Lucians heart leapt in a way he despised. “You're insane.” “Probably,” Elijah agreed. He stood, wiping his hands on his pants, then stepped on close—too close. He reached out, and Lucian froze. Elijah's fingers skimmed his neck, just under the jaw.

“No one touched you like this before. Huh?” he murmured. “Not like they wanted you anyway.”

Lucian swallowed. He hated how easily Elijah read him. Hated more that Elijah wasnt wrong.

“It's a symbol,” Elijah said, leaving heat where his hand had been. “You will wear it under all that noble silk, and I'll know youre mine. Whether were out in the dirt or in those gold halls you came from”

Lucian looked down at the collar again. It gleamed dully in the weak light “You think we'll make it that far?”

Elijah sharpened. “I will make us.”

After dinner that night, going late into the afternoon, Elijah left into the woods again. “Grabbing water,” he said.

Lucian was back to staring at the fire, thinking. Thinking of a way out, curling himself tightly, like he was hiding from something that would hurt him. When Elijah returned, arms and chest were streaked with water and dirt. He tossed a waterskin to Lucian, letting it fall onto the ground.

“You're still sulking.”

“I am not a sulker.”

“Easily could have fooled me.” Elijah sat beside the pseudo ball, not close enough to be touching but close enough for the warmth to brush Lucians skin. “You keep watching that fire like you're still behind palace walls. Still deciding if this is all beneath you.”

Lucian growled and turned. “I'm trying to figure out if this is all real!”

“It is,” Elijah said. “Every part of it, The mud, the clothes, the hunger, the fire. Me.”

Lucian stared at him. Trying to spit out a rebuttal for this.

Elijah leaned into Lucian, tracing the chest now, eyes gleaming in the fire. “You. aren't a prince here. You are nobody's brother. You are just mine.”

Lucian, open mouthed, trying to come up with something, anything. Could only spit out.

“Yes sir.”

Lucian didn't sleep that night.

The collar was too tight, it felt like it was watching him. Every turn, every struggle.

He told himself he was only playing along. That he would wear the mask as long as needed, until his family bled out at his feet and he could stand over them, victorious.

But in the silent moments—-between Elijah's slow breathing and the echo of the campfire cracking—Lucian wondered which mask was real.

He reached for the collar, he could have pulled it off and slept peacefully that night. But he didn't, he didn't throw it away. He didn't run off. Deep down, he knew this is what he needed…wanted.

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

The Ghost of Her. 

my Elijah listener Lucian full story...its ment to drop every Wednesday. But because im catching Tumblr up it will drop every day till its caught up.

cw: abuse, mother death, family hate

The garden hasn't bloomed since she died.

Lucian stood barefoot on the frostbitten path where the violets used to grow. The palace kept pretending it was still spring—-servants dusting marble fountains no one looked at, vines twisted into order by trembling hands—-but he knew better.

This garden had withered the day his mothers heart stopped.

He crouched beside the fountain, brushing a withered petal from the stone. It flaked under his touch, brittle like old parchment, and the smell, oh god the smell. It was rotting, the water made his stomach twist, This place had been her home, her sanctuary once. Now it was his graveyard.

There had once been music here. His mother used to hum while pruning the vines, her voice low and rough like river stone. Lucian would sit at her feet, no more than six or seven, pretending to read poetry while really just watching her.

“This ones clever,” she said once, snipping the head off a dying bloom. “Grow sideways when the others grow straight. Doesn't care about the rules.” She pressed it into his hand. “Be like that”

The flower had died days later, crushed in a forgotten book. The weight of her words never left him.

He heard his brother's voice behind him, smug and loud as ever.

“Still playing house with corpses, Lucian?”

Lucian didn't turn. “Better company than you.”

The slap came hard and fast, catching his cheek and spinning him sideway onto the stone titles. He lay there, blinking up at the pale, cloudless sky. His brother—Dedric, the second born, stood over him with a simple sharp as a dagger's edge.

“You have always been so dramatic,” Dedric sneered, adjusting the fur lined collar of his cloak. “Mother would have been so embarrassed”

Lucian didn't rise. Didn't even wince. He let the blood trickle from the corner of his mouth, dark and slow. The cold had numbed him to the strong humiliation years ago.

He waited for Dedric to leave before he moved. The garden was silent again. No birds, no bees. The creak of dead branches swaying like gallows. He stayed on the ground longer than needed. The stone burned cold against his skin, but the rage underneath ran hot. One day.

One day he would dig his finger into Dedric's throat and not stop until the kin split. He'd do it without shaking. Without screaming, he would smile.

And Dedric would finally know what it felt like to be so small.

But not today.

Lucian rose, brushed the blood from his lip with two fingers, and wiped it on the petal strewn fountain rim like a signature.

It was always warm in his memories.

HIs mother smelled like clove. She had hands worn from sword practice and eyes soft with mischief when she looked at him. She didn't smile at the court, only at him. Not even his father could coax it from her.

“You'll be better than all of them,” she had whispered once, holding him close in the dead of night. “Kinder. Smarter. Meaner, if you must be. But never smaller”

He had believed her.

Back then, at least.

The corridors of the palace were colder than the garden.

Lucian walked them like a ghost, unseen and unimportant. Servants passed without bowing. Guards barely glanced his way. His father—King Theoford—only summoned him when someone needed scolding and the others were too busy.

Lucian didn't mind anymore.

Obscurity had become armor.

Until the summons came. Tonight.

A feast in the great hall. All three princes expected. A show of family unity for the foreign envoys. Lucian would sit in silence, smile when told, and bear the weight of their sneers like a proper little shadow. But something in him had cracked wide open in the garden..

Something old. Something he'd buried with her.

That night, he didn't wear red, white, or gold. He wore all black.

The dining hall shimmered with gold and crystal. Candlelight danced in goblets of red wine. His brother laughed. HIs father gave speeches. No one noticed the way Lucians hands clenched in his lap beneath the tablecloth.

His brothers toasted to each other across roasted boar, teeth gleaming. Someone cracked a joke about “ghosts that won't leave the table” and laughter erupted. Lucian didn't move. His cup was full. His plate was untouched. He stared at the silver knife beside the bread, watching how it caught that same candlelight—how easily it could slide right under a rib. “Smile, boy.” his father muttered without looking at him. “You'll ruin the portrait,” Lucian smiled. No one realized how the thing that smiled wasn't him anymore.

But Elijah would have noticed.

He didn't know him yet. But he would meet him soon. And when he did, the fire would start