Michael moved through the mansion like a shadow, his eyes fixed on the retreating back of his older brother. He stayed on the upper balcony, looking down into the grand foyer as Lucian prepared to leave.
Something was wrong. It wasn't just the lack of a shouting match or the absence of the heavy, cloying scent of high-grade gin. It was the silence.
In Michael's memory, Lucian had always been a loud presence, heavy footsteps, the clatter of dropped bottles, and the abrasive sound of his breathing.
Now, Lucian moved with the weightless, eerie grace of a ghost. He didn't make a sound against the marble. Michael felt a cold shiver crawl up his spine.
"Is that really him?" Michael whispered to himself, his hand tightening on the obsidian railing.
"I feel that... he doesn't even feel like he's breathing the same air as the rest of us."
For Lucian, the simple act of putting on a coat was an ordeal. This body was a wreck, a vessel hollowed out by years of toxins and neglect.
Every step he took toward the main entrance felt as though he were wading through thick, freezing sludge. His heart felt heavy in his chest, not with emotion, but with the sheer effort of keeping the blood moving.
As he reached the hallway intersection, he stopped.
"..."
Marquis Thorne stood there, his arms crossed, his expression a mask of granite. He looked down at Lucian, noting the pale skin, the slight tremor in his hands, and the dullness in his eyes.
"And where do you think you're going?" the Marquis asked. "The nearest bar? Or perhaps you've found a new way to embarrass this family before the ink on Silas's appointment is even dry."
Lucian looked up. He didn't feel the sting of the insult. He didn't feel the need to defend his honor. He just felt lethargic.
"I'm going for a walk," Lucian whispered, his voice dry. "The air in here is... stale."
"A walk," the Marquis repeated, his voice dripping with skepticism. "Don't think I won't have you dragged back here the moment you step foot in a tavern, Lucian. I have no more patience for your recovery stunts."
Lucian didn't reply. He simply nodded, a small, tired movement and continued past his father. The Marquis watched him go, his eyes narrowed.
There was no anger in Lucian's exit. There was only a profound, unsettling indifference.
Once inside the silent, electric vehicle, Hans handed Lucian a small, encrypted data-slate.
"The liquidation is progressing faster than expected, Young Master," Hans reported, his voice low. "The trash has already fetched enough to fill a private account that even the Marquis's accountants cannot touch. You are now a very wealthy man in your own right."
Lucian glanced at the numbers on the screen. It was enough to buy a small island or a quiet estate in the neutral zones. It was enough to buy peace.
"Good," Lucian murmured. "Take me to the park near the Sector 7 heights. The quiet one."
"Young Master, that area is—"
"Quiet," Lucian finished for him.
When they arrived, the park was nearly empty, a green oasis surrounded by the shimmering glass of the city. Lucian stepped out, the cool wind whipping at his coat.
"Leave me, Hans," Lucian commanded.
"I cannot do that, Young Master," Hans protested, stepping forward. "The Marquis's orders were—"
"I am not going to a bar, Hans. I just want to sit." Lucian looked at the butler, his golden-flecked eyes reflecting the pale sky. "Go. Come back in an hour."
Hans hesitated, searching Lucian's face for a lie. Finding none, he bowed deeply. "One hour. Please... do nothing reckless, Young Master."
Lucian walked slowly, his breath hitching as his weak muscles protested the movement. He listened to the distant song of birds and the soft, rhythmic rustle of leaves in the artificial breeze.
Eventually, he found it, a wooden bench hidden in plain sight, tucked behind a cluster of weeping mana-willows.
He sat down.
For the first time in this life, he looked up.
He had spent a hundred lives looking for an exit. He had died in fires, in wars, by his own hand, and by the hands of those he loved. He had been a monster, a hero, a slave, and a king.
And yet, the sky was always the same. Whether it was the red sky of the apocalypse or the clear blue of this high-tech world, it was the only thing that didn't demand something from him.
He sat there for thirty minutes, motionless. He didn't check his phone. He didn't plan his next move. He just watched the clouds drift, his mind as empty as the air above him.
He didn't realize he wasn't alone.
***
Hidden behind the trunk of a massive oak tree twenty yards away, Marquis Thorne stood in silence.
He had followed the car in a nondescript vehicle, driven by a suspicion that Lucian was meeting someone a conspirator, a drug dealer, or a mistress.
But as the minutes ticked by, the Marquis's confusion only grew.
He watched his son, the boy he had called a tyrant, the man he had called trash, just staring. Lucian didn't look like a man plotting a comeback. He didn't look like a man grieving a lost engagement. He looked like a man who had been walking for a thousand miles and had finally found a place to sit down.
The Marquis stayed in the shadows, his brow furrowed. For the first time in Nineteen years, he looked at his eldest son and realized he had no idea who he was looking at.
"He's just... looking at the sky," the Marquis whispered to himself, the coldness in his heart replaced by a strange, creeping unease.
Lucian remained on the bench, unaware of the eyes on him, content to simply exist in the quiet before the world inevitably started making noise again.