The city burned with light.
Dravengarde’s spires shimmered in gold, every tower draped in silk and banners. The palace courtyard teemed with nobility, soldiers in polished armor, and foreign dignitaries in stiff brocade. Laughter rang like bells, and the scent of roses, wine, and roasted meat swirled through the evening air.
Crown Prince Cassian stood at the altar, cloaked in white and crimson, the golden crest of Drakemore gleaming at his breast. Beside him, Lady Isolde Valcorin bowed her head, calm and luminous in her silver-veined gown.
The High Priest’s voice rose over the crowd.
And then the doors slammed open.
Lucian Drakemore stumbled in, late and already halfway to drunk.
He didn’t walk so much as saunter—slow, deliberate, the smirk already forming. He was half a shadow of the prince he was supposed to be: hair uncombed, cravat askew, wine staining the hem of his sleeve. A hush rippled through the crowd like spilled water.
He gave a crooked bow and offered a belated, “Don’t let me interrupt.”
Cassian didn’t flinch. He barely looked at him.
Lucian kept walking, weaving between seats, trailing whispers in his wake. He winked at the Lady Dorrine, slipped an arm around the shoulder of a blushing ambassador’s daughter, and reached the front just in time to raise a goblet during the ceremonial toast.
“To the blushing bride,” he said, voice slurred but sharp. “And to my perfect brother, who never spills a drop.”
Cassian’s eyes met his then—cold, unblinking.
“Sit down,” the crown prince said through clenched teeth. “Before you shame yourself further.”
Lucian only smiled wider. “Too late for that, I think.”
Elias was there a heartbeat later, catching Lucian by the arm and pulling him aside.
“What the hell are you doing?” Elias hissed, voice low but laced with fury. His commander’s cloak was still damp from the ride—he’d left the outer gates just to find him.
Lucian jerked away. “Why do you care?”
“Because you’re not just you anymore. You’re ours. You think you can just piss on all of this? On them?” He motioned to the assembly, the guests still pretending not to stare.
Lucian’s laugh was hollow. “I’m not anything. I’m not a crown. I’m not a soldier. I’m not even an heir. I’m a drunk with a title. And no one gives a damn until I embarrass the family.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Elias said quietly.
“I’m not doing anything,” Lucian snapped. “That’s the point. I never have.”
From behind them, a calm voice interrupted.
“He’s right,” Lady Isolde said.
Both brothers turned.
She stood just beyond the archway, her veil pulled back, gaze resting on Lucian with no judgment—only clarity.
“You aren’t doing anything,” she said gently. “You’re making sure we all notice.”
Lucian’s mask faltered for the briefest second.
He opened his mouth, then shut it again. Turned away.
And brushed past a young woman in a pale green dress—one of the servants attending the feast.
“Careful,” he muttered, not even looking at her. “You’re standing too close to someone no one likes.”
She said nothing.
Selene didn’t flinch, didn’t defend herself. Just watched him leave, her hands still clasped at her apron.
Not pity.
Something quieter. Steadier. She watched him like someone who remembered something the rest of the world had forgotten.
Hours passed.
The feast carried on, heavy with music and wine. Cassian danced with Isolde, every move perfect. Elias lingered at the edge, hands clasped behind his back. The guests laughed again. The scandal dulled into background chatter.
And Lucian disappeared.
They found him just before midnight, lying among the white roses of the palace garden. His coat was open. His hair tousled. One hand rested on his chest, the other palm-up on the grass, as if he’d simply decided to sleep.
But he wouldn’t wake.
His skin was cool, but not cold. His chest rose, slow and shallow. His pulse flickered like a whisper.
Healers came. Priests murmured. Noblemen whispered of poisons, of curses, of divine punishment. Some claimed he’d staged it all—drunken theatrics turned dark.
Cassian stood in silence as the rumors bloomed around him, jaw locked in quiet rage.
Elias knelt beside his youngest brother and said nothing, not even when the others left.
And Selene—quiet, unnoticed—came when no one else did.
She sat by his bed long after the halls had emptied. No one had asked her to stay. She just did.
The moonlight poured through the high windows. Dust gathered slowly on the sill.
And Selene brushed it away, again and again, a silent promise in every motion.
Lucian lay still, untouched by time.
Forgotten by all but one.
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