I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
patréon/emperordragon
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Lucas's Perspective
The food on the table had long since gone cold, its warmth a mory that had faded like the final notes of a song. Yet, the echo of Susan's words still hung thick in the air between us, lingering like smoke from an old fire that refused to go out. The chandelier above cast a dim, amber glow over the table, its light soft and flickering, as if unsure whether to comfort or expose us. We sat there—two people bound by blood but divided by years of silence—slowly, cautiously, beginning to dismantle the distance one painful mory at a ti.
Across from , Susan held her wine glass delicately, the last sip swirling around like a storm refusing to settle. She didn't drink it. Instead, she placed the glass back down with a kind of thoughtful precision, as if grounding herself in the act. Her eyes were distant again—not cold this ti, just heavy with sothing quieter. Regret, maybe. Or sothing close to it.
"When I got pregnant with you," she began, her voice smooth but laced with sothing brittle, "your grandfather told to get rid of you."
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't flinch. She didn't even sound surprised by her own confession. It was like she had practiced saying it a thousand tis in her head, but this was the first ti she'd actually spoken the words out loud.
"He never said the words directly," she added, her gaze fixed sowhere over my shoulder. "But the ssage was there. Clear as day."
I didn't speak. I didn't move. So truths are like sharp glass—you don't pick them up unless you're ready to bleed a little.
Susan took in a slow breath, and this ti, she looked straight at . Her eyes didn't waver.
"When I refused… when I chose to keep you," she said softly, "he stopped seeing as his daughter. At least, not the version of he was proud of. I beca damaged. A problem to be hidden. A Disappointnt. From that mont on, I was no longer his perfect little girl. Just a reminder of everything he hated."
She paused, and in the quiet, I could almost hear the crumbling of sothing ancient. A wall, maybe. Or a myth.
"And after that," she continued, her voice quieter now, "I was little more than an afterthought. Just like Jenny."
I nodded slowly, pieces of the puzzle finally falling into place. It didn't make it right. It didn't erase the years or soften the hard edges of abandonnt. But it helped make sense of it. Why she left at the orphanage. Why she stayed away. Why I never heard a single word from her until all the damage had already been done.
Susan leaned forward, her elbows resting gently on the edge of the table. She folded her hands together and looked down for a mont, like she was trying to gather the rest of her thoughts before they slipped away.
"After that," she said, "Jenny and I only had each other in this house. I tried to be everything she needed. I really did. But I was young. I was angry. I didn't know how to be a mother, not really. And part of … a part I don't like admitting exists… was relieved that you weren't here. That you didn't grow up in this house."
She let the words hang there, raw and unvarnished.
"I told myself I was protecting you," she said. "That the orphanage would be kinder to you than this family could ever be. That you'd have a better shot without us. But if I'm being honest, I was lying to myself. I didn't save you, Lucas. I abandoned you. And I convinced myself it was rcy."
There was nothing I could say in that mont, and maybe that wasn't the point. Maybe she didn't need absolution—just acknowledgnt.
I let the silence stretch for a mont, giving the truth room to breathe.
Then, finally, I spoke.
"If it makes you feel any better," I said carefully, "I didn't have a bad ti in the orphanage. Richard… he was the best father I could've asked for. He wasn't perfect. He was tough, sure—strict, even—but always fair. Always honest. Strong, in that quiet way that doesn't need to prove itself. He believed in doing the right thing, even when it cost him. Especially when it cost him. He never turned his back on anyone who needed him."
Susan's lips curled into a small, tentative smile. It didn't erase the sadness in her eyes, but it softened it.
"Will you tell more about him?" she asked gently. "And about your childhood?"
I nodded, pushing my plate aside and leaning forward slightly, feeling the weight of my mories settle into my chest.
"He raised like I was his own," I said. "Never once made feel like I didn't belong. We didn't have much, but he gave everything that mattered. He used to take on hunting trips when I got old enough ."
Susan exhaled slowly. "Your grandfather was a hunter too," she said. "For all his… many flaws, he was a great shot. Had an entire study filled with trophies—antlers, pelts, mounted heads. I used to hate walking past them as a kid. After he died, I had them all moved into storage. Couldn't stand the way those glass eyes followed through the hall."
I gave a short nod. "Richard never kept trophies. He said killing for pride was just another kind of cowardice. Hunting, to him, was about balance. Responsibility. Culling invasive predators, managing populations, protecting fragile ecosystems. He said if you were going to take a life, you better respect it."
For the first ti that night, Susan's smile looked real. Whole. Not tinged with sadness or shadowed by regret.
"He sounds like a great man," she said.
"He was," I replied. I looked down at my plate—empty now, but still holding the shape of a shared al. "In a way… he still is. Everything I am… started with him."
And just like that, sothing shifted in the room. It wasn't a grand revelation or a dramatic tear-filled reunion. But sothing softened. Sothing changed.
We sat there, not quite as mother and son, not in the traditional sense—but as two people trying to rebuild a bridge that neither of us had ever really crossed. Maybe it would never be whole. Maybe there would always be cracks in the foundation. But for once, I didn't feel like a stranger in this house.
Not entirely.
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