Lucien stood in front of the mirror.
It was unremarkable—tall, rectangular, framed in matte silver—but in the reflection stood someone who felt both known and unknowable.
Not because of the hair, though the black strands had begun to fall straighter lately, less ragged, more deliberate.
Not because of the mismatched eyes—gray and gold, dusk and flame.
Not even because of the coat, cut in noble fashion, its black fabric lined subtly with threads of silver. A gift, supposedly. A statement, definitely.
No.
The stranger in the glass felt foreign because he looked calm.
Truly calm.
For the first time in weeks—maybe months—Lucien wasn't bracing for impact. His shoulders weren't tight. His breath wasn't short. His fingers weren't curled in silent readiness.
He wasn't preparing to survive.
He was preparing to present.
The vessel—once loud, then bitter, then quiet—was now… destitute
He was in control
Exactly like the man he was about to meet.
He had heard stories of how Titus had disowned his brothers and taken the spot as heir
The most remarkable thing about it wasn't that Titus disowned his brothers.
It was that the Viscount let him.
That was the part Lucien kept turning over in his head.
Because no matter how clean the victories had been—how well-placed, well-timed, or flawlessly executed—Titus was still a bastard. Not in rumor. In record. His name hadn't been written on parchment when he was born. No crest. No claims. Just a mother discarded, a child tolerated.
And yet... here he was.
The heir of House Ravelin.
Because the Viscount hadn't just allowed it.
He'd made room for it.
He'd watched Titus move. Watched him outmaneuver Callen in the court—bleeding him dry with nothing but ink and consequence. Watched him face Aren in a duel and put him in the ground—not dead, but broken. Publicly. Without mercy, without joy. Just efficiency.
Lucien had read the tone in the reports. You could almost feel the cold approval in every line.
Titus didn't just beat them.
He proved the others were dead weight.
He made it obvious.
And the Viscount didn't cling to bloodline tradition. Didn't prop up weak sons out of pride.
Behind him he heard, a knock. Breaking him out of his thoughts
Titus's voice. Smooth. Formal.
> "They're waiting."
Lucien didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
One last breath.
Then he left the mirror behind.
---
They walked in silence through Rosehall's east wing. Titus led with measured steps—not slow, not rushed. Balanced. Intentional.
The hallways here were different. Wider. More curated. Every inch of wood and stone had been cleaned, polished, prepared. This wasn't where people lived.
This was where power greeted the world.
Lucien noticed everything. The spacing between lanterns. The way the windows were shaped to reflect sunlight that didn't exist. The rhythm of footsteps echoing off stone.
It felt like walking into a story he hadn't been written into.
Yet.
They arrived at the chamber doors—tall, dark, carved from obsidian-stained oak. Two retainers stood at attention, dressed in deep violet and black. They didn't move. Didn't question Lucien.
They already knew who he was.
Titus didn't speak again.
He opened the doors.
And Lucien stepped into the court of the man who could decide his future with a word.
---
The room wasn't large.
But it didn't need to be.
Every inch was intentional.
A long table of polished darkwood stood at the center, surrounded by only six chairs—none occupied. Walls of black stone bore no windows, only banners. Each one stitched with the crimson sigil of House Ravelin—a twin-headed serpent coiled around a broken crown.
At the far end of the room, seated beneath a low-hanging steel chandelier, was him.
Viscount Alaric Ravelin.
He was older than Lucien expected—but not in body. His shoulders were broad. His posture straight. But his face… his face was cut from stone. Silver hair swept back without flaw. Eyes—cold steel blue—watched Lucien with the kind of stillness reserved for kings and killers.
He wore no jewels. No armor. Just a plain gray coat. Gloves. Boots.
And presence.
Lucien bowed—not deeply. Not insultingly shallow.
> "Viscount."
The man did not rise. Not yet. He studied Lucien the way one might study a blade in a locked room—measuring, not admiring.
Then—
> "You're taller than I thought."
Lucien met the gaze. "You're quieter than I expected."
A pause. Then the faintest breath of amusement.
The Viscount stood.
And the room changed.
He didn't need mana. Didn't need flair. Just motion.
He approached with his hands behind his back, steps soundless on stone. Titus stepped aside, but did not leave. This was Lucien's stage—but it was still Ravelin's domain.
> "I've read the reports," the Viscount said. "
Lucien didn't answer.
> "You fought without title. Without allegiance. Without favor. You protected Rosedale's and my bloodline when you had no reason to."
Still, Lucien said nothing.
The Viscount came to a stop three feet from him.
> "Tell me. Was it , mercy… or greed
Lucien's voice was steady. "Survival. And precedent."
The Viscount raised an eyebrow.
> "Elaborate."
Lucien met his eyes without flinching.
> ". I acted because I could. That's all."
Another pause.
Then the Viscount nodded.
> "Good. I've no use for men who act on revenge They make poor soldiers. Worse sons."
He turned, slowly, gesturing to the parchment table along the wall. Runes shimmered across its surface. Quills rested in silver inkwells.
> "You're here because I reward competence. But I do not gift names lightly."
He gestured.
> "Fosterage. Six months. You serve my house. You carry my banner. You succeed—you earn the crest. Adoption. Inheritance protection. Title."
Lucien stepped forward. Picked up the quill.
He didn't look back.
Didn't hesitate.
He signed.
Not as the River Scout.
Not as the stranger in the mirror.
Not as the boy who walked into the ocean.
He signed as Lucien Ravelin.
---
The Viscount watched the ink dry.
Then he extended his hand.
Lucien took it.
> "From this moment," the Viscount said, "you are mine to protect. And mine to command."
Lucien's grip tightened.
---
Titus let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
The Viscount released Lucien's hand.
And for the first time since the meeting began, he smiled.
> "Welcome home, son."
---