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.
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.
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.
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
some yumeshipping of my dogsona Bowser and Elijah from Rambol_VA's bandit series
cw: captivity, abuse, neglect. content does go away after the first half
The holding cells beneath the bandit camp were heavy with the stench of sweat, rot, and unwashed bodies. The air was thick and stagnant, clinging to Elijah’s skin as he moved through the dimly lit corridor. The flickering lanterns cast long, uneven shadows that danced across the rusted bars and cracked stone floor. Somewhere in the distance, a man cursed, a chain rattled, and a bird flapped against a broken window. This place smelled of forgotten things—things left to decay in the dark.
Elijah didn’t like being in there. The cold, the grime, the hopelessness that seeped from every corner. But he had reasons to be.
His boots echoed softly as he followed Garrick, the grizzled bandit captain whose voice was rough as gravel and sharp as a blade. Garrick’s words buzzed past Elijah’s ears like white noise—complaints about lost trade, foolish hires, and promises broken. Elijah barely registered them. His senses were turned to something else, something lurking beneath the usual stink of this place.
Then it hit him: a sour, pungent scent.
Elijah stopped before a cell tucked away at the end of the hall, partly hidden behind a tattered burlap curtain that hung limply from a rusted nail. The air felt thicker here, heavier, warmer—as if the rot was alive.
“What’s in here?” Elijah asked, voice low.
Garrick snorted, eyes flickering to the cell like it held something burned. “That one’s trouble. Wolves raised him… tch. Found him wandering the edge of the forest three weeks back. Bit two of our men already, and that’s after we got him locked up. Tried to sell him. No one wants him.” His lip curled. “He’s more beast than boy.”
Elijah pushed the curtain aside and crouched to peer inside.
There, curled up in a bed of rotting straw and ragged blankets, was a boy—or at least, the shape of one. His skin was pale, smeared with dirt and dried blood, raw and scratched where he’d obviously fought to survive. His limbs weren’t lean. He looked like he had weight before, clearly losing much of it now. Folded up like a predator, ready to spring or flee. His hair was tangled and matted, streaked with grime, bits of leaves, sticks, and burrs knotted into thick strands.
The most striking thing was the ears—dog-like, drooping, swollen with crusted buildup that gleamed sickly in the faint light. His left ear twitched in pain, and Elijah could smell the sharp tang of yeast and infection. The boy’s sharp, canine eyes met his—wide and wild. Full of suspicion and hurt.
Elijah’s heart clenched at the sight.
A thick, bristled tail was curled tightly against his legs, tucked low in a posture of fear.
He’d seen neglect before. He had been neglected. He’d seen cruelty inflicted by both men and nature. But this—this was something else. This boy had been abandoned in the wild, left to rot. Raised by wolves who had no idea how to love a human.
“Poor bastard…”
Garrick spat. “Tried cleaning him once. Bit my finger near clean off.”
Elijah ignored the warning. He slid his hand slowly through the bars.
The boy snarled, lips curling back to bare sharp teeth, claws scraping against the stone floor. His muscles coiled tight. Ready to strike.
But Elijah’s skin was thick. A bite would barely graze him.
Instead of pulling back, Elijah laid his palm flat just above the boy’s head and began to stroke the tangled hair gently. The tension in the boy’s wild body slowly began to unravel. Muscles relaxing. Eyes blinking in disbelief.
The boy shifted forward, pressing his forehead against the cold iron bars—and Elijah’s palm.
“You’re not a monster,” Elijah whispered. “You’re just hurt. I’m taking you.”
The boy gave a flick of his tail.
The journey back to Elijah’s quarters was silent except for the soft padding of bare feet against stone. Bowser—the name Elijah had given him on impulse—moved awkwardly, preferring the balance and speed of four limbs, but trying to follow on two.
Elijah let him into the cramped room he called home. The air smelled faintly of worn leather, oil, and meat smoke. It was far from a palace, but it was safe. Elijah made a small bed on the floor for Bowser, placing a threadbare blanket in a pile. Bowser circled and circled before finally settling, curled tightly with tail wrapped protectively. His ears twitched with every sound—the creak of wood, the distant howl of wolves, Elijah’s steady breathing.
Elijah reached down and let his fingers trail through Bowser’s tangled hair, feeling the coarse strands between his fingers. Part of it was assessing the work ahead. But mostly, he was petting him.
“You’re safe now, boy.”
Bowser’s eyes fluttered closed. His tail thumped faintly.
The next morning, Elijah prepared a basin of warm water, mixing in herbs he’d traded for to soothe infection and dry skin. Bowser’s ears throbbed, swollen and painful. When Elijah got close, Bowser growled—a soft warning—but he allowed himself to be lifted into the water. The boy’s body trembled at first, muscles tense, eyes wild and wide.
“You’re not drowning,” Elijah murmured, running his hands gently over the tangled hair, careful to avoid the sore spots. Bowser whimpered low, then slowly relaxed.
The process took hours—washing away filth, scrubbing grime from skin and hair, working carefully around swollen ears. Elijah worked patiently, whispering reassurances.
When it was over, Bowser shivered, steam rising from his skin. He curled on the wooden floor, vulnerable and silent—but not afraid.
Elijah pulled an old, oversized sweater from a pile of clothes. Bowser’s ears twitched. He eyed the strange garment with suspicion. Elijah kept his voice low and even.
“This is a sweater. Soft. Not sure if you’ll like much else.”
Bowser sniffed but didn’t run. Tentatively, Elijah slipped the sweater over his head, tugging on the long sleeves that swallowed his hands. Elijah placed out a pair of knee-high socks from the pile. They weren’t his—more than likely a long-lost partner’s he’d taken late in the night.
Bowser shuffled awkwardly. The clothes felt foreign and restrictive. But he didn’t whine. Didn’t growl. Elijah watched him adjust to the new sensation of fabric on skin—the gentle squeeze of the socks, the weight of the sleeves.
“You look ridiculous,” Elijah said with a small grin. “But better than nothing.”
Bowser’s eyes, sharp and wary, flicked between Elijah and the new clothes. Trying to make sense of this strange ritual.
“You’re mine now,” Elijah said, fastening a worn leather collar around Bowser’s neck. The bell jingled. Bowser froze. His ears flicked slightly. But Elijah’s hands were steady, patient.
Bowser leaned into the touch, trusting.
The first word Bowser ever said was “more.”
He was crouched at Elijah’s feet, knees bent awkwardly, eyes wide and glinting with hunger as Elijah tore off another piece of dried meat and held it out. Elijah hadn’t expected anything different—Bowser had gone weeks communicating only in gestures, grunts, and barks. But this time, the sound came out ragged and cracked from under his breath.
“...M’rr.”
Elijah raised his brow. “More?”
Bowser’s ear twitched. A slow, unsure nod.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was definitely something. Proof of concept.
From there, the learning was slow—like taming fire with bare hands. Bowser didn’t take to books or paper, didn’t sit for lessons. Elijah taught him through repetition, reward, and association. He spoke deliberately, slowly, holding up items. “This is a bone,” he’d say, pointing. Then again:
“Bone. Say it, pup.”
“...Boh,” Bowser muttered.
Elijah sighed. “Close enough,” he said, tossing the bone to the ground. Bowser pounced after it.
They sat by the fire most nights after that. Elijah on a crate with a knife in his hand, sharpening it. Bowser perched on his lap in socks and sweater, watching. Every word was a victory.
“Hand,” Elijah would say, holding out his own.
Bowser mirrored him. “Hh… hhan.” He looked down at his own hand, turning it over like he’d never seen it before. Elijah didn’t sigh this time. Just watched him. Eighteen years and the boy hadn’t known the name of his own hand.
Some words came easier than others.
“Hurt.” That one Bowser picked up fast. When Elijah knelt to clean the crust from his ears, Bowser would whine and whisper the word like a warning.
“Safe.” Elijah said it with the same tone he used to calm horses—low and even. “Safe. You are safe.”
Bowser would echo it, quiet and shaky. “Suhhf.”
Each time, the words came out crooked, sharp in his throat. He used them only when he needed something badly—food, warmth, closeness, attention.
“Cold.”
“Drink.”
“Elijah.”
That one caught him off guard the first time he heard it.
“You know my name, huh?”
Bowser blinked, understanding the cadence of the sentence. He nodded. “El’ja.”
Elijah chuckled, stopping the food he was cooking. “Yeah. That’s right. You’re not dumb. You’re just feral.”
Bowser didn’t know what that meant, but he liked the way Elijah said it—not cruel, not mocking. Just truth.
There were hard days. Days Bowser growled through every sound, refused to speak at all. Still sniffed plates even when told what was in them. Still hid under the bed from thunder. Still only walked on two legs when Elijah insisted. But with each word, he took on more shape.
“Stay.”
“Come.”
“Mine.”
That one, especially. Elijah repeated it with emphasis when Bowser clung too tightly to his arm, tail wagging.
“Mine.”
Bowser echoed it, beaming—as if the word itself was a collar.
At night, Bowser curled at Elijah’s feet, tail flicking softly in dreams. Elijah often reached down, running fingers through untangled hair, whispering, “Good boy.”
Bowser stirred faintly, pressing his face into Elijah’s ankle. “El’jah,” he mumbled, barely a word.
“I’m right here,” Elijah whispered, rubbing behind one warm ear.
There was nothing else to say. Just the quiet between them. The fire’s glow. And a soft, wordless trust that didn’t need translating.
The study spelled faintly of ink and burned wax. Elijah had cracked the window earlier, but the air still felt heavy, stale with words they hadn't spoken.
“Kitten, you think silence will make this all go away?” Elijah's voice was loud in this silence. Rough around the edges. “The bodies are buried, Lucian. The kingdom didn't just..forget that.”
Lucian stood by the desk, hands pressed on the polished wood. His reflection in the surface—pale..tight-lipped, restrained. “You act like I wanted this,” he muttered.
“You DID want this,” Elijah shot back. “Dont start lying to yourself now that it's all said and done.”
Lucian's jaw got tight. “You don't get to tell me what I want.”
Elijah moved closer, boots clicking. Elijah grabbed him by the throat. Gripping tightly.
“I dragged you through blood for YOUR cause. For your name. Do not pretend you weren't the victim of your own goddamn plan, boy.”
Lucian looked up sheepishly. But his eyes were flashing. “And you loved it. Don't act like you didn't. Every single..” he gasped for air..”scream–you were smiling.”
That seemed to get under his skin. He laughed…short, and ugly. “So what if I did, boy. At least i dont play innocent while the ink on YOUR fathers death warrent is still fucking drying.”
Lucian's composure cracked. “He was my father.”
“And you killed him anyway.” Elijah didn't let go. Tighter and tighter. Pulling Kitten closer, until their breath was the same air.
“Stop pretending you're something purer than what you made me.”
The room held the sound of that sentence like it might shatter under its own weight.
Lucian's breath was tight and shallow, running low on air. “You think I..wanted to be like this?” His voice started to break..tired. “You think I dreamed of turning into something like you?”
Elijah's expression flickered, something wounded ghosting through before it hardened again. “You're not me,” he said, quieter now. “You're worse.”
The body fell, letting Lucian collapse.
Gagging..he caught his breath. His hand twitched toward the collar at his throat—that damned thing that still hung there, the bell long gone but the memory, loud. “Then maybe you should stop pretending you own what you don't understand”
“Dont start,” Elijah warned, tone sharp.
But Lucian didn't stop. Standing slowly. “You act like you built me. Like I didn't already know how to survive men like you before I ever even met you.”
Then that door opened.
Elijah grabbed Lucian's arm, pulling him close. Hand on his knife.
The hand print is still red..and bruising.
Csepel stood in the doorway, he wasn't travel stained anymore..but he was wide eyed, his hand on the latch still. He looked at the scene—the closeness, the tension, words that had not yet been done cutting.
“Elijah,” he said first, like he wasn't sure which one of them to address. Then, carefully, “Lucian” Lucian stepped back, freeing his arm. His voice came steady but the crack beneath it was audible. “Csepel. You really shouldn't be here.”
“I had to see you,” Csepel's gaze flicked between them, landing finally on Elijah. “The capitals talking. About the Laerile massacre. About you.”
Lucian's throat went dry. Elijah, however, smiled–slow and deliberate. “Then I suppose we should make sure the rumors are worth telling.”
Lucian eyes darted away, back to the desk, the maps, the ink-stained paper of a future already collapsing in on itself,
“Maybe they should,” he murmured.
And for the first time science the blood had dried, Elijah had nothing clever to say.
The air inside the manor had a different weight now—not the press of the weather, but the heaviness of things left unsaid. Windows let in a flat, pale light that did nothing to warm the rooms. It hung over everything like a held breath
Lucian hadn't moved from his chair. The fire had burned down to faint coals, orange sparks hitting the grate. His hands were dry, starting to crack, a memory of what had happened seemed to sit under the cracks.
Behind him, Elijah poured another drink. The sound—the small glug, the clink of the glass—was too loud for the quiet. He didn't hand one to Lucian. He drank and looked, the gesture more assessment than comfort.
“You let him get too close,” Elijah at last said, voice calm and flat. “You always do”
Lucian's gaze lifted, tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. “Csepel was a friend.”
Elijah's laugh was a quiet thing that lacked humor. “No. He was a mirror. You get addicted to looking at reflections that tell you you're not a monster. That is dangerous.”
Lucian rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You think everyone lies but you.”
“I don't lie,” Elijah said, stepping around the low table. His boots made soft noise on the wood; the movement of him through the room felt like threat and comfort at once. “I tell you what you already know and won't admit” ‘
He stopped in front of the chair, close enough that Lucian could feel the show of him fall across his knees. The coals picked out the gold in Elijah's eyes, turning them liquid and bright.
“Do you think Suzerine will fold their hands and wait? Csepel came with questions. He leaves with answers and a direction. If you hesitate now, the story will be written for you by men with ledger books and sharper thoughts.”
Lucian's jaw throbbed. Holding back tears. “So you want me to kill him? Remove the only witness who could be useful?”
Elijah's face was unreadable for a beat, then he leaned in–the smirk that came was small, precise. “I just want you to remember why you picked this. If you cannot hold the role you took, then everything we did has meant nothing. If Csepel is useful, you use him. If he's a risk, remove him. But don't let the privilege of decision slip from you because your hand trembles.”
The words landed like iron. Lucian's fingers closed around the arms of the chair until it felt like the fabric was creaking.
“I thought–” he began, then stopped. The confession was a small thing, almost private. “I thought that perhaps he could remind me of something softer. Of what I lost before I learned to hate.:
Elijah's eyes sharpened. “And if he reminds you of who you were, not who you must be, what then? You'd let nostalgia carve a route back to being small and ignored. You think that will protect you? It will drown you.”
Lucian swallowed. The room felt smaller, as if the walls leaned in to listen to his decision.
Outside, somewhere in the servants wing, a shutter clicked. Small, ordinary sounds made enormous now.
“What do you want from me?” he asked finally, voice rough.
Elijah's face looked softened just a fraction—a quick, dangerous kindness. “I want you to lead. Use whatever tools you must. Use him, break him, charm him—whatever keeps the house in your name. And remember; once you pick a story, you must tell it without wincing.”
Lucian sat with that like a stone. He thought of Dedric crumpling into ivy, of Raphael's wine mixing with his blood. Of Theoford's fingers clawing at the silk. Alistair's surprised eyes. He thought of the portraits in the hall, of the way the ancestors looked down like judges who had been proven wrong.
Slowly, he let his hands unclench. He looked up at Elijah, and for the first time the tiredness in his face made room for something else—a sharpness, a thin-hard resolve.
“Prepare a room for him,” Lucian said. “Send a rider to Suzerine under the pretense of condolence; bring a servant to escort Csepel into the study in the morning. I'll speak with him first, quietly. Well see what he knows. Well see where his loyalties truly lie..”
Elijah cocked his head, both pleased and amused. “yYou want to play diplomacy with a knife tucked in your sleeve.”:He paused, then added, “Fine. But if he slips, you cut him clean. No hesitation.”
Lucian nodded. “No hesitation.”
They agreed with the barest of touches—a world made of small cruelties and sharper promises. Elijah left to arrange what needed arranging. Lucian stayed, starting at his hands until the room blurred at the edges.
Later, alone, he rose and moved through the quiet house like a man learning the geography of his own guilt. He walked past the portraits and paused before his mothers, which hung smaller than he remembered. Her painted eyes seemed softer than the rest, and for a fraction of a second he wanted to find some apology that could be given in the daylight.
He found instead a scrap of paper in the study—a note one of their servants had dropped in their hurry: “Rider to Suzerain at first light. Csepel arrived. He is staying nearby.”
Lucian folded the paper once and slid it into his pocket. It rested there, thin and warm against his palm.
When Elijah returned, arrangements made and orders given, he found Lucian at the small family cemetery beyond the orchard. Four fresh mounds he had watched with the careful distance of someone burying less than himself.
Elijah stood at the edge of the yews and did not speak. He only watched Lucian lower his hand to touch the soil—not with sorrow, not yet. But with the slow recognition of consequence.
“Tomorrow,” Lucian said, voice small and clear in the hush, "I'll tell him the truth I want him to hear.”
Elijah's jaw titled. “And if he refuses it?”
Lucian considered the line of low graves, the way dirt settled in the dips of newly turned earth. “Then we will write the version that benefits us.”
They turned back to the manor together, two silhouettes cutting through the pale light;one steady, the other trying to be. The house waited, full of bones and stories. Outside, the province moved—messengers and crowd and rumours ready to knock and remake the world.
sorry for any spelling mistakes, this was written when i had killer headaches. Please forgive me haha
The rain had let go, leaving the dark clouds remaining, the weather had been steady and patient, the hard water lines from the rain had left silver streaks on the windows. Lucian stood by the heath in the study, watching the light catch on the glass of brandy in his hand. The silence between him and Elijah was something alive—filling every corner, every soft creak of the old manor. Neither spoke until the knock came.
It was not a timid knock.
Measured. Controlled.
It was a nobleman's rhythm.
Elijah's gold eyes shot to the door, the smallest smirk was hitting the sides of his mouth. “Are you expecting anyone, boy?”
Lucian didn't answer. His chest felt tight—a strange, anticipatory ache he couldn't name. He set his glass down with a silent click, tugged at his cuffs, and crossed the room as if to face a ghost.
When the door opened the smell of wet earth came with it.
Csepel stood framed in the threshold, the storm's dirt colored his nice clothes. A servant stood at his side, the bright purple hair, the black suit..holding his cloak along his forearm.
“Ah.” Lucian, Csepel and Bartholomew stared back. “Csepel.”
The man gave a short bow, formal only in gesture. “My condolences,” His gaze looked across Lucian, seeing Elijah lounging along the mantle, “And…to you as well, I suppose.”
Elijah smiled without warmth. “How kind of Suzerine to mourn strangers.”
“Ahah, servant boy..this isn't Suzerine,” Csepel replied smoothly, unbothered by his words. “It's me.”
The three of them gathered around the long table–the same table where Theoford once read his letters. It was now bare, save for the faint ring of where brandy had been spilled the night before.
Csepel removed his gloves with practiced ease, laying them neatly on the wood table. “You didn't send word,” he said quietly. “Not even after–” His eyes gazed at all the empty chairs. “After it all happened.”
Lucian's jaw flexed. “There was nothing to send.”
“No?” Csepel's voice was soft, almost kind. “Word spreads fast when blood stains noble soil, Lucian. The whole province is whispering. Some think it was thieves. Others…” His eyes focused on Elijah, steady and knowing. “Others think it was an..inside matter.”
Elijah met his look without flinching. “And what do you think?”
“I think,” Csepel said, leaning back in his chair, “That you've always enjoyed breaking things that didn't belong to you.”
Lucian's hand curled into a fist under the table. “That is quite enough.”
Csepel's tone softened instantly, like a flame being drawn down. “I did not come to accuse you. I came to make sure you're still breathing”
He smiled faintly, though there was no humor in it. “It would be a shame if Suzerine lost its prettiest spy.”
Elijah gave a low laugh “How touching. He does care.”
Lucian side nothing. His mind was stormy—memories of Csepel's confession, of the tension that lingered between them before all of his. Of how easy it would've been to run then, instead of now.
Csepels eyes flicked toward Lucian's hands. “Look at you,” he murmured. “Afraid of the hands that have done what they have done.”
Elijah's smirk went away. “Watch your tone.”
But Lucian…didn't stop him. He only looked down at his hands..the feeling of the silk over the skin, a barrier between him and the world–”Perhaps..I am.”
Csepel exhaled through his nose. “Then maybe..there is still something left of you..”
He stood, looking at Bartholomew. Who..only looked down the table at Lucian. He could feel the glare..tears formed into his eyes. He stood, letting his heeled boot hit the marble, walking away. Not looking at anyone.
Csepel looked to Elijah for answers now. “I will be staying in town for a few days. Suzerine will want answers soon, and you should figure out what story you are going to tell.”
Elijah's eyes lifted. “And what if we don't.”
“Then someone will tell it for you.” Bartholomew had spoken with finality. His gaze was dark and knowing. “And you know that won't end well for either of you.”
They left before Elijah could respond. Boots echoing down the corridor until the sound was swallowed by manors silence once again.
Elijah stood, looking out the window for a long moment, staring at the hard lines of the old rain. Lucian's seat remained empty, a spot where breathing got hard.
Finally, Elijah spoke to himself. “Lucian puts too much trust on him.” Elijah swallowed slowly…feeling every drop of saliva go down his throat. “Maybe..or maybe he's the only one left who remembers what he used to be.”
Elijah looked at the reflection in the glass, faint…and his features sharp. “And that's the problem.”
