Prophetic Echo
1067 Words
Lucian woke with a gasp.
The stone beneath him was cold, but his skin burned. His breath came in short bursts, chest rising and falling as if he’d been running for hours. The dream still clung to him—images flickering behind his eyes like shards of stained-glass.
Eden’s voice. Her fingers on parchment. The golden thread between two eyes—one black, one blue.
He had seen it all.
He had felt it.
The scroll. The prophecy. The portals. The survivors of the plagues, fleeing through the gates. Eden in the east. Himself in the west. Their powers pouring into the stone, into the sky, into the very bones of Aer. The third portal—long thought destroyed—sparking to life between them, drawn by the force of their bond.
And then—nothing.
The vision had ended the moment she read the final line. As if her voice had pulled him from sleep.
Lucian sat up, pressing his palms to his temples. “What is happening to me…”
He had never dreamed like this before. Not with such clarity. Not with such pain.
He could still feel her—her confusion, her resolve, the way her breath caught when the scroll tore.
They were connected.
Not by choice. Not by fate.
By design.
The Gemini Pair.
Balancers.
He had been trained to kill her. Raised to believe she was the end of their world. But now he wasn’t sure if she was the end—or the only way to survive it.
And Marie… she would see it. She would sense the shift in him. She already had.
She would not let him go easily.
Nor would his father.
Lucian stood, brushing ash from his cloak. The dream had left him shaken, but not broken. Not yet.
He had a role to play. A lie to maintain. A war to prepare for.
But deep beneath it all, something else stirred.
Not guilt.
Not fear.
Hope.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
______________________________________________________
The dream still clung to him like smoke.
Lucian moved through the obsidian halls of his father’s keep, boots echoing against cold stone. The torches lining the corridor flickered low, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts. The stronghold was always dim, even in daylight. The darkness here
wasn’t just aesthetic—it was cultural. Ritual. Revered.
But tonight, it felt heavier.
He turned a corner—and nearly collided with her.
“Lucian,” Marie said, voice sharp, steady. “You’re up early.”
He didn’t answer. Just stepped past her, jaw tight.
She followed.
“You’re bleeding,” she noted, eyes flicking to the dried cut on his cheek. “Again.”
Lucian didn’t stop walking. “It’s nothing.”
Marie kept pace. “You’ve been different since the mission.”
He paused. Just enough to let her feel the weight of his silence. Then: “Valik was a coward. He ran.”
“And you didn’t finish the job.”
Lucian turned to face her. “I was ambushed.”
Marie’s eyes narrowed. “By a servant.”
He didn’t blink. “It happens.”
She studied him. “You’re lying.”
Lucian didn’t deny it. He didn’t need to. Marie already knew. She always knew.
But she wouldn’t press—not yet.
Because despite everything, she still loved him.
And she would still kill him if Viktor asked.
Lucian saw it in her eyes—the war between want and duty. She was the head of the Shadorian army, Viktor’s most loyal weapon. She had been forged in his shadow, sharpened by his approval. And Lucian… Lucian was the one thing she wanted that she could never truly have.
He didn’t love her. Never had.
But she had hoped.
And now, she hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
Lucian turned away. “I need answers.”
“About what?”
“About the stories,” he said. “The ones our father tells. The ones carved into the walls of the Hall of Origin. The ones that don’t match what I saw.”
Marie’s voice dropped. “You’re chasing ghosts.”
“No,” he said. “I’m chasing the truth.”
She stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Be careful, Lucian. Some truths don’t want to be found.”
He looked past her, toward the sealed doors of the archive chamber. “Then they shouldn’t have left a trail.”
Marie didn’t move. “If you go down this path, you may not come back.”
Lucian met her gaze. “Then don’t follow me.”
And with that, he pushed open the doors and disappeared into the dark.
Marie did not follow him.
She stood in the corridor long after Lucian disappeared into the archive chamber, her breath steady, her hands clenched at her sides.
She had seen the shift in him. The hesitation. The hunger for truth.
And she knew what it meant.
Viktor would hear of it. Not from her. Not yet. She would not be the one to cast the first stone. But when he did find out—and he always did—he would ask her to watch Lucian. To report. To act.
And if Lucian crossed the line?
Capture him. Or kill him.
Marie had trained for that order her entire life. She had killed for less. For Viktor, she would do anything.
Even that.
She told herself she was ready. That she could do it if it came to it. That her loyalty to the king outweighed the ache she still carried for the boy who never looked at her the way she looked at him.
But she hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
She hoped Lucian would stay in line. That whatever he was chasing in the dark would lead him back to them—not away.
Because if he turned…
Viktor would not hesitate. Ravannah’s hold on him was too deep, too complete. The king no longer ruled with vision or mercy. He ruled with fear. With whispers. With shadows.
And Lucian—his heir in name only—was a threat to that power.
A threat Viktor would gladly erase.
Marie turned away from the archive doors, her face unreadable. Her footsteps echoed down the corridor, measured and cold.
She would not follow him.
But she would be watching.
- Writer
