Four years.
Four long years.
Lucian had spent four years building a life of his own—one without chains, without expectations.
He had laughed with his comrades, bled beside them in battle, and forged bonds with those who saw him not as a prince but as a soldier.
And yet, deep down, he knew…
It was all borrowed time.
Because no matter how far he ran, his past never stopped chasing him.
And now, the past was coming to him.
The announcement came from the Duke himself.
“The Crown Prince, Novel Al Pestelio, is coming.”
The camp erupted with excitement.
Soldiers cheered, voices filled with admiration for their future king.
Praises poured like a flood.
“The Crown Prince himself is visiting!”“I can’t believe it! He’s going to lead us one day.”“I’ve heard he’s as strong as the King himself.”
For everyone else, it was a joyous occasion.
For Lucian…
It was a nightmare.
His stomach twisted violently. His fingers trembled. His skin felt cold, yet he was suffocating.
That name.
That name.
A name he had once spoken with love and admiration.
A name that had once made him feel safe.
Now, it felt like poison.
Why now?
Why, after all these years?
Is he coming to kill me?
Does he want forgiveness?
No…
He probably doesn’t even remember me.
Does he?
Lucian clenched his fists until his nails dug into his skin, leaving crescent-shaped wounds.
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It doesn’t matter.I don’t care.I stopped caring a long time ago.
Then why…
Why does it feel like my ribs are caving in?
That night, Lucian sat in his tent, staring at his own hands.
A storm raged inside his mind.
His breathing quickened. His chest tightened.
Memories, sharp as daggers, ripped through him.
The moment his father looked at him with hatred. The moment his mother turned her back. The moment his brother walked away.
A name discarded. A boy abandoned.
A forgotten existence.
His breath hitched.
Then—
The screaming started
James was passing by when he heard it.
A sound so raw, so inhuman, it made the hairs on his arms rise.
He froze.
His heart pounded.
That voice.
Lucian’s voice.
"HELP!"
James burst into the tent.
His breath caught in his throat.
Lucian was on the ground, convulsing.
His limbs twisted unnaturally. His fingers clawed at his head, nails digging into his scalp like he was trying to tear something out of his skull.
His eyes—wild, unfocused, drowning in terror.
His chest rose and fell too quickly, too sharply.
Like a drowning man gasping for air.
“Lucian!” James shouted, rushing forward.
Lucian didn’t hear him.
Because Lucian wasn’t there anymore.
Inside his mind
Lucian was ten years old again.
He stood in the grand halls of the palace.
Alone.
His father’s voice thundered around him.
“You are NOT my son.”
His mother’s figure stood in the shadows.
Her back turned to him.
He reached out. “Mother…?”
She took a step away.
The distance grew.
The palace walls collapsed around him, turning into endless darkness.
He was falling.
Falling deeper.
Falling into something he couldn’t escape.
Then—
Suddenly, he wasn’t ten anymore.
He was twelve, lying on the cold floor of the Southern Palace.
A noble’s son stood above him, laughing.
The pain. The blood. The loneliness.
“Just die already. No one will care.”
He was thirteen.
He sat in his room, staring at the moon.
He hadn’t eaten in days.
The maids had stopped bringing food.
His body was weak.
His heart was weaker.
He was fifteen.
Standing in the arena, sword in hand.
Facing his brother.
The crowd’s whispers were daggers to his back.
“Isn’t that the forgotten prince?”“Shouldn’t he be dead?”
The sword cut through his cheek.
His mask fell away.
And then the whole world knew.
The Voice Whisper’s
The air in his mind shifted.
Lucian froze.