Lucien sat at the head of the center table, a position of honor that felt more like a stage. He was flanked by his parents and his six older siblings, but the table extended far beyond them. Dozens of villagers—farmers with calloused hands, weavers in their best Sunday linens, and local tradesmen—sat shoulder-to-shoulder with the D’Roselle family. In this small barony, the line between the lord and his people was blurred by a shared sense of merry-making, a simplicity that Lucien found both touching and dangerously naive.
To any outsider, they were the picture of a thriving, blessed, and—most notably—exceptionally happy-go-lucky family. Being the youngest of seven, Lucien had always been the "baby," the one they all doted on with a fierce, almost suffocating sweetness.
"To Lucien!" Marcis roared, hoisting a tankard of cider that slopped over the rim. "The pride of the D’Roselle name!"
The crowd erupted in a cheer that echoed off the nearby hills. Lucien wore his "angelic" smile, though internally, he was counting the minutes until the farce ended. Beside him, his siblings were a whirlwind of laughter and that characteristic D’Roselle cheerfulness that seemed to run in the blood.
- Bastien (21): The eldest, who was currently leading a group of village youths in a rowdy, off-key drinking song, his face flushed and beaming with pride for his little brother.
- Eloise (21): Bastien's fraternal twin. She was twirling in circles with the village children, her silk skirts fluttering as she laughed, the personification of a girl who had never known a day of worry.
- Caspian (20): The dreamer. He was busy showing off a collection of "lucky stones" to a group of wide-eyed village boys, his enthusiasm making him look younger than he was.
- Felix (19): A ball of pure, hyperactive energy. He was challenging anyone—blacksmith or plowman—to a wrestling match, taking every tumble with a loud, infectious laugh.
- Genevieve (18): She was busy braiding bright yellow flowers into the hair of everyone within reach, moving from person to person with a bouncy step and a kind word for every servant.
- Rosalind (13): The previous "baby" of the family before Lucien was born. She was his constant shadow and took her role as his protector more seriously than anyone. She spent the night hovering over him, trying to sneak extra sweets onto his plate and whispering about all the "royal cakes" he’d get to eat at the Academy.
- Lucien (11): The "hero" and the youngest. He sat perfectly composed, playing the part of the sweet, grateful birthday boy, hiding the dragon soul beneath his ribs.
The D’Roselle siblings were famous for their sunny dispositions; they were a family that lived in a perpetual spring. They were so "happy-go-lucky" it was almost blinding.
"I’m going to miss you so much, Lu-Lu!" Genevieve chirped, popping a strawberry into her mouth. "But imagine all the fun stories you’ll bring back! You'll be the most popular boy in school because you're so nice!"
Lucien tilted his head, his smile widening to show just the right amount of childish joy. "I'll try my best to make lots of friends, Gen."
In the corner of his eye, he saw Sebas. The butler was coordinating the refills of the ale barrels for the thirsty villagers, looking exhausted and pale. He alone knew that this "happy-go-lucky" family was sitting on a powder keg, and Lucien was the one holding the match.
As the music flared—a rustic tune played on fiddles and pipes—Bastien stood up and pulled all the siblings into a giant, messy group hug. "To the seven of us! The luckiest family in the kingdom!"
Lucien felt the warmth of his siblings' bodies—their genuine, untainted happiness radiating like a hearth. They’re so happy because they don’t know, Lucien thought. In the last life, this happiness was extinguished in a single night of fire and blood.
He squeezed Bastien’s arm back, a silent, dark vow forming. Enjoy the sun, everyone. I’ll go to the Academy and handle the filth of the world so you never have to stop being happy-go-lucky.
As the bonfire roared higher, casting long, flickering shadows across the cheering village, the people continued to dance.
Lucien had finally managed to slip away from the deafening roar of the fiddles and the suffocating warmth of his siblings' hugs. He retreated to the edge of the torchlight, leaning against a cool stone wall.
Despite his cold, calculated nature, he couldn't deny his blood. Just like his parents and his siblings, he loved to party. He found himself annoyed—and secretly amused—that he had actually lost himself in the games for a while. He had even tried to swipe a cup of wine a couple of times, but some villager or sibling always seemed to materialize out of thin air to pluck it from his hand with a knowing "Not for you, little angel."
He was grumpy about the sobriety, but a deep, melancholic happiness thrummed in his chest. In his previous life, the faces of his siblings had faded into blurred, bloody memories. Now, he was burning every detail into his mind: the way Bastien’s nose crinkled when he laughed, the specific shade of Genevieve’s hair, and the way Rosalind smelled of honey and dust.
"Young Master."
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Lucien didn't turn. He knew the rhythm of those footsteps. Sebas stepped out of the shadows and stood beside him, his gaze fixed on the laughing D’Roselle family across the square. The butler’s straight posture seemed to sag, and suddenly, he bowed his head low, his voice breaking.
"Young Master... I am so sorry," Sebas whispered, the words trembling. "Because of me... because of my greed and my weakness... everyone died. You suffered such a horrible fate because of my failure. I..."
Hot tears began to track through the dust on the butler's face, dripping onto the collar of his crisp uniform.
Lucien finally turned his head, his expression unreadable. "What are you talking about, Sebas? Such a thing never happened."
Sebas looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and clouded with confusion. "But... the future... Didn't the Young Master say that—"
But Sebas was quick-witted. He looked at Lucien’s face—that old soul in a young body—and saw the way the boy was looking at his family. He realized then that this was Lucien’s way of saying the slate was clean. The apology was accepted, not through words, but through the shared burden of a future that had been unwritten.
"I understand, Young Master," Sebas whispered, wiping his eyes and straightening his back. The guilt didn't vanish, but it transformed into something else: a fierce, desperate loyalty.
"Good," Lucien said, his mask of childhood innocence slowly sliding back into place as Bastien began to shout his name from across the square. "Now, go get me some of that wine. If I'm going to the Academy tomorrow, I deserve at least one sip of the good stuff."
The morning sun broke over the horizon, casting long, mournful shadows across the gravel driveway of the D'Roselle estate. There was no grand carriage waiting for the journey; instead, a sturdy, unassuming wooden cart sat packed to the brim. Its wheels creaked under the weight of Lucien’s luggage, the wood weathered and practical for the long, dusty roads ahead.
The departure was anything but practical.
Adeline and Marcis were a combined force of grief. Adeline had her arms wrapped around Lucien’s waist, her face buried in his small shoulder as she sobbed into his traveling coat. Marcis was no better, his large hands clutching Lucien’s back, his chest heaving with muffled, un-lordly blubbers.
"My little star! My tiny bird!" Adeline wailed. "It’s too soon! The Capital is cold! The people are made of stone!"
"We’ll tell them the letter was a mistake!" Marcis choked out, his eyes bloodshot. "Lu, tell them you’ve changed your mind! Stay here and be our little angel forever!"
Lucien stood trapped between them, a small, bandaged figure being smothered by parental love. He didn't pull away, but the sheer weight of their refusal to let go was threatening to delay the journey by hours.
Finally, Sebas stepped in. The butler’s face was a mask of professional stoicism, though his eyes remained sharp. He moved with a clinical efficiency, gently but firmly prying the Baron’s fingers from Lucien’s coat.
"Madam, Sir," Sebas said, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of tears. "The horses are rested and the sun is rising. If the Young Master does not leave now, we will lose the day’s light. I give you my word as your servant: I will protect him with my life."
He maneuvered his body between the parents and the child, acting as a physical barrier. With a final, respectful bow, he nudged Lucien toward the cart.
Lucien climbed onto the hard wooden bench of the cart. Sebas took the reins, gave a sharp whistle, and the wheels began to turn with a rhythmic crunch-crunch against the stones.
"Goodbye, Lu-Lu! Write to us every day!" Bastien and the others shouted from the veranda, waving frantically. Adeline collapsed into Marcis’s arms, both of them waving white handkerchiefs until they looked like flags of surrender.
As the cart distanced itself, the grand manor began to shrink. The lush green gardens and the familiar sights of his childhood home blurred. Lucien watched the village gate disappear behind a bend in the road, and for a moment, the cold, calculating regressor wavered.
A single, small tear welled in the corner of his eye, followed by another, tracing a hot path down his cheek. He didn't sob; he didn't make a sound. He just stared back at the life he was leaving behind—the life he was destined to destroy and rebuild.
Sebas sat beside him, his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead. He saw the moisture on the boy’s face, but he chose to look away. He ignored it, granting Lucien the only dignity he had left: the right to be a grieving boy for just a few miles, before the monster had to take the reins again.
Lucien took one final, shaky breath, wiping the last of the moisture from his eyes with the back of his hand. The grief didn't vanish, but it was neatly packed away into a dark corner of his mind. When he turned to Sebas, the child was gone. The ancient warrior had returned.
"You suck at fighting," Lucien said flatly.
The transition was so abrupt that Sebas nearly dropped the reins. He blinked, staring at the boy in a state of pure, open-mouthed shock. "Wha—?"
"Your fight with the bald man was disgraceful," Lucien continued, his voice cutting through the rhythmic creak of the cart. "You had several openings. Just because he had a higher Vein than you doesn't mean it was unwinnable. You floundered, Sebas. You moved like a man who expects to lose."
Sebas tightened his grip on the leather straps, his knuckles turning white. He was a trained butler of a noble house, a man who had practiced his sigil for years, yet he was being lectured by an eleven-year-old on a cheap wooden cart.
"Young Master, I was outmatched," Sebas started to defend himself. "The gap in veins—"
"Is a pathetic excuse," Lucien snapped. "During this journey, I will train you to fight properly. We have two months. By the time we reach the Capital, I expect you to be able to kill a man with twice your skill before he even realizes he's in a fight."
Lucien leaned back, staring up at the passing canopy of trees. "There is so much ahead of us. Just because we eliminate Ray Melborne doesn't mean the struggle ends. The world doesn't stop trying to kill you just because you've killed one man."
He looked at his small, bandaged hands, his voice dropping into a somber, gravelly tone that carried the weight of a lifetime. "As Teacher always said: Always be ready for the next one, because life is a struggle. Especially for guys like us, Sebas. We don't have the luxury of being average."
Sebas looked at the boy, feeling the familiar chill of Equilibrium vibrating in the air. He realized then that the "vacation" of the two-month travel was a myth. He wasn't just an escort; he was being drafted into a private army of two.
"What do we do first?" Sebas asked, his voice low and submissive.
Lucien’s lips curled into that sharp, predatory smirk. "First, you’re going to learn how to move without making a sound. And if you fail, I’ll use Equilibrium to make sure you feel every bit of the ground when I break you."