The world snapped back into focus with a jolt that was more ntal than physical. One mont, there was the screaming chaos of the transition. The next, there was only silence and still, cold air.
Lucian blinked, his boots settling on a smooth, featureless floor. Marc stood beside him, his posture tense, his eyes already scanning their surroundings. They were in a vast, dim space. The air humd with a low, pervasive energy that felt both ancient and deeply wrong.
And there he was.
Alistair stood waiting for them, as if he’d been expecting their arrival at this exact spot. A small, almost disappointed smile played on his lips.
"Lucian," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness. His eyes, so like Lucian’s own, swept over him, scrutinizing, probing. A frown creased his brow. "You did not awaken."
He took a step closer, his head tilting in genuine curiosity. "After all that power I sent to you... you forced it away. Pushed it into your brother instead." He glanced at Marc, a flicker of appraisal in his gaze before returning to Lucian. "I have to wonder... are you truly my son? A true Aethel would have seized that power, not given it away. That was a... human thing to do."
Lucian didn’t flinch. He didn’t rise to the bait. The ti for doubts and questions was over. With a soft, tallic whisper, he drew his blade. The matte-black katana seed to drink the faint light in the room. He pointed the tip directly at his father’s heart.
"Where is Lucy?" His voice was low, flat, and left no room for anything else.
Alistair’s smile returned, wider this ti, tinged with amusent. "You’ll see her in due ti. She’s preparing for her role. Our role." He spread his hands, a casual, open gesture. "So. This is it? After all this ti, you finally track down. You stand before the father you thought was dead, the architect of your suffering... and you want to... what? Take it up with your old man?"
"You don’t get to call yourself that," Marc said, his voice calm but layered with that eerie, dual-toned power. He hadn’t transford, but the threat was there, simring under the surface.
"I am what I am," Alistair replied, his gaze still locked on Lucian. "And I did what was necessary. I made you what you are. Strong. Resilient. You should be thanking ."
"Thank you?" Lucian’s knuckles were white on the hilt of his sword. "For killing our mother? For tearing our family apart? For using us like pieces on a board?"
"A necessary sacrifice on a difficult path," Alistair said, his tone shifting from amused to lecturing. "You see the small picture, Lucian. Your pain, your loss. I see the grand design. A universe corrupted by lesser beings, a legacy wiped out by jealousy and fear. I am going to fix it. And I need my family to do it."
"We’re not your tools," Lucian snarled.
"Everyone is a tool for sothing," Alistair countered softly. "The question is, what are you a tool for? Your own limited sense of vengeance? Or for the restoration of everything that was stolen from us?"
He took another step forward, ignoring the blade pointed at him. "Join , Lucian. Not as a weapon, but as a son. Help wake the rest of the way up. Together, with Lucy and Marc, we can be whole again. We can bring our people back. We can make a universe worthy of our bloodline."
For a single, fleeting second, the image flashed in Lucian’s mind—a family, whole and powerful, the void of his loss filled. It was a poisonous, seductive thought.
He crushed it.
"The only thing I’m going to bring back is my sister," Lucian said. "Now. Where. Is. She?"
Alistair’s face fell. The last vestige of paternal pretense lted away, leaving only cold, ruthless determination. "You disappoint . I had hoped for more vision. Very well."
He didn’t gesture or call out. He simply said, "Lucy."
A section of the wall behind him shimred and beca transparent. There, suspended in a cylinder of softly glowing energy, was Lucy. Her feet didn’t touch the ground. Her silver hair floated around her head like a halo. Her eyes were open, but they were pure, blank white, devoid of any thought or recognition. The intricate, glowing sigils on her skin pulsed in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, synchronized with the thrumming core of energy that dominated the chamber behind her.
"She’s perfect, isn’t she?" Alistair said, his voice full of genuine pride. "The key, fully forged and ready to turn."
"What did you do to her?" Marc demanded, his own power beginning to leak out, causing the air around him to warp.
"I cleared away the clutter," Alistair said simply. "The doubt. The fear. The pointless attachnts. Now, her will is purely my will. Her power, my direction."
He looked back at Lucian, a final, cold offer in his eyes. "This is your last chance. Stand down. Accept your place at my side. Or I will have her remove you."
Lucian’s heart hamred against his ribs. This was the nightmare scenario. Fighting his father was one thing. Fighting his brainwashed sister was another.
He t Marc’s eyes for a split second. A silent understanding passed between them. There was no choice. They had to get to her.
Lucian shifted his stance, the point of his sword now aiming past Alistair, toward the cylinder holding Lucy.
"We’re taking her back," Lucian said, his voice leaving no room for argunt.
Alistair sighed, a sound of profound weariness. "So be it."
He didn’t move to attack them himself. Instead, he turned slightly towards Lucy’s chamber.
"My dear," he said, his voice gentle, as if speaking to a sleeping child. "Your brothers are here. They’ve co to disrupt our work. They need to be... pacified."
The blank white eyes of Lucy shifted. They moved from staring at nothing, to focusing directly on Lucian and Marc.
A low hum filled the room, several octaves deeper than before. The sigils on her skin blazed with violent light.
She raised one hand.
And the world around Lucian and Marc erupted into a storm of raw, violet chaos.
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