Lucien Virell woke screaming.
Again.
The dream was always the same:
*A black crown floating in a pool of liquid shadow.*
*A throne of screaming faces.*
*A voice that sounded like his own—but wasn't—whispering: "You were almost enough."*
He lurched upright, sheets soaked with sweat. His bad knee throbbed, the old injury flaring as if freshly made. The chambermaids claimed it was the damp weather.
Lucien knew better.
Something was *wrong.*
---
**The estate had begun whispering.**
Not in words. In signs.
- The crows gathered at dawn, lining the courtyard walls like jurors.
- The wine in his father's cellar turned viscous, black, yet Lord Virell drank it anyway.
- The servants avoided the mirrors now. Their reflections didn't always match.
And the *hum.*
A vibration just beneath hearing, threading through the stones, the air, the very blood in his veins. It grew louder at night.
Lucien pressed his palms to his temples. The physicians said it was phantom pain from his injury.
*Lies.*
He'd seen the way their eyes darted to his shadow—as if it moved a half-second too slow.
---
**The letter arrived at midday.**
Sealed with the Eclipse Sigil.
Lucien broke the wax with trembling fingers. The parchment inside was blank.
Then the words *bled* into existence:
*"The hostage has been accepted. The covenant holds."*
A drop of ink fell from the page, striking his wrist. It burned like ice.
When he wiped it away, his skin remained unmarked.
But the humming in his blood *changed pitch.*
---
**That evening, his father summoned him.**
Lord Virell's study reeked of spoiled wine and something darker—metallic, rotten. The man himself sat slumped in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes glazed.
*"The Daincrest forces mass at our borders,"* he muttered. *"The Church demands tithes we cannot pay. And you—"* His gaze focused, sharpening with sudden clarity. *"You limp like an old man."*
Lucien's jaw tightened. *"The injury hasn't healed."*
*"No."* His father smiled, lips cracking. *"It won't."*
A log shifted in the fireplace. For a moment, the shadows writhed into something *elongated*—a figure with a crown of thorns.
Lucien blinked. It was just fire again.
*"The bastard,"* Lord Virell whispered. *"Do you ever wonder why they took *him*?"*
The question slithered between Lucien's ribs.
*"No,"* he lied.
His father laughed—a wet, choking sound. *"You were always a terrible liar."*
---
**That night, Lucien stood before his mirror.**
The glass was old, warped, the silver backing flaking at the edges. His reflection stared back: broad-shouldered, golden-haired, the perfect Virell heir.
Then—
A flicker.
For less than a heartbeat, his reflection wore a *black crown.*
Lucien recoiled. The glass shattered, shards embedding in his fists. Blood dripped onto the floorboards.
Black as ink.
Black as *his brother's dreams.*
---
**Final Line:**
Some realizations come too late.
Lucien's had just arrived.