Chapter 90
The east wing felt different long before Lucian reached it. The change was subtle at first, the air getting cooler, heavier, as though it had settled into the walls and refused to move with the rest of the house.
The polished elegance that marked the main halls did not reach this far. The marble floors gave way to older stone, uneven in places, worn smooth by ti rather than design.
The lighting was dimr here, the chandeliers replaced by wall sconces whose flas burned low and steady, casting long, unmoving shadows.
This part of the house had been renovated, yes. But not restored. Not truly changed. The deeper he walked, the more the structure seed to resist the illusion of modern grandeur.
The walls were thicker. The silence was denser. Even the scent of the place was different, earth, old wood, faint traces of smoke and sothing older still, sothing that did not belong to any century that still rembered him.
A pressure began again behind his eyes. Not pain. Recognition. Or the shape of it.
Lucian slowed as he reached the final door at the end of the corridor. Unlike the others, it was not polished mahogany or carved to match the rest of the estate.
This one was reinforced with iron bands darkened by age, its surface marked with shallow scratches that renovation had failed to erase.
His hand brushed briefly on the handle before he pushed the door open. The scent of wax and burning herbs t him imdiately.
Clara was already inside. The room itself had not been modernized at all. The stone walls were bare, rough, the ceiling lower than the rest of the house.
No furniture remained except a long wooden table pushed against the far wall, its surface crowded with bowls of crushed herbs, vials of dark liquid, and fragnts of old parchnt.
Candles were everywhere. Dozens of them lined the floor and walls, their flas forming a wide ring of trembling light that left the corners of the room in shadow.
The air shimred faintly with heat and magic, the atmosphere thick enough that each breath felt slower than the last.
At the center of the floor, a large circle had been drawn in dark ink mixed with sothing thicker. Sothing that caught the light with a dull sheen.
Clara knelt inside it. Her sleeves were rolled back, her fingers stained as she worked carefully along the edge of the design, reinforcing symbols that spiraled outward in precise, ancient patterns.
Under her breath, she murmured a low chant, the words old enough that even the language felt worn at the edges. Lucian stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
The sound seed to seal the room. Clara did not look up imdiately.
"The foundation here is original," she said quietly, her voice woven into the rhythm of her work. "The stone beneath this floor predates the house. It holds mory. Places like this... they don’t forget what they’ve witnessed."
She dipped her fingers into a small bowl and continued tracing the final line of the outer circle.
"This is not just a ritual to recover mories," she went on. "It’s a recall through imprint. The land rembers what your mind refuses to release."
Only then did she lift her gaze to him. Her white eyes moved over his face carefully.
"You’re already reacting to the space," she observed. "That’s good. It ans the connection is still there."
Lucian said nothing. The nausea had not fully faded. It lingered low in his stomach, rising and falling in slow waves, each one accompanied by a faint dizziness — the unsettling sensation of standing sowhere both familiar and completely unknown.
Clara stood, wiping her hands slowly with a cloth. "I’ve anchored the circle to you," she said. "Once you step inside, the ritual will draw on three things — the location, your blood, and whatever mory remains buried in your subconscious."
She hesitated briefly. "This won’t be like ordinary recall, Lucian. If the block was placed deliberately — and I believe it was — then whatever is behind it may resist being seen."
Her expression tightened slightly. "And if it does, the backlash won’t just be ntal."
Lucian’s gaze shifted back to the circle. The symbols seed to move if he looked at them too long.
The nausea rose again, sharper this ti. "Begin," he said.
Clara did not move. "For this to work," she said quietly, "you cannot fight what you see. Even if it doesn’t make sense. Even if it shows you sothing you don’t want to rember."
A brief silence stretched between them. Then Lucian stepped forward.
The mont his foot crossed the edge of the circle, the candle flas bent inward as if pulled by a slow, invisible breath.
The air thickened. Clara watched him carefully, then lifted one hand slightly.
"Wait." Lucian stopped.
Her gaze moved over him once — assessing, calculating — not as a companion now, but as a practitioner standing before sothing powerful and potentially unstable.
"The circle has to read you clearly," she said. "Skin contact with the stone will strengthen the imprint. Shoes will interfere."
Lucian said nothing. He simply stepped back once, removed them, and set them aside near the wall. Clara’s eyes did not leave him.
"And your shirt." There was no hesitation.
The fabric fell away a mont later, revealing pale skin stretched over a body that carried centuries of power and restraint.
Old scars — so faint, so deep — crossed his torso like quiet records of battles no one living rembered. The candlelight moved over him in shifting gold, the shadows along the walls responding subtly, as though the room itself recognized him.
"Good," Clara said softly.
She stepped back, moving carefully outside the circle’s boundary, her movents deliberate so as not to disturb the markings.
"Now lie down. Center of the sigil. On your back."
Lucian obeyed. The stone was colder than he expected. It was not the surface chill of a room left unheated. This cold ca from deeper from the foundation itself.
He positioned himself exactly where the lines converged and nothing happened.
Then the nausea returned, rolling slowly like standing on ground that wasn’t entirely stable. Clara lowered herself outside the circle, sitting cross-legged at its edge.
She placed her palms together, fingers interlocked, then closed her eyes.
When she spoke again, her voice had changed. The words that left her lips were not ant for conversation. They moved in steady rhythm, a language worn smooth by centuries of use, each syllable landing with quiet weight against the stone.
At first, Lucian felt nothing until the floor began to vibrate. It traveled through his back, his shoulders, into the base of his skull. The circle’s ink darkened slightly, the lines seeming to sink into the stone as though being pulled downward.
The candle flas steadied. Every single one of them. The nausea sharpened. Lucian exhaled slowly and closed his eyes.
The vibration deepened. It spread through his body, settling into his bones, his chest, the back of his throat.
Clara’s chanting grew steadier, her hands tightening together as the air inside the room thickened further.
The scent of the herbs intensified. Wax. Smoke. Earth. The temperature dropped.
Lucian’s fingers twitched once against the stone. Then the pressure behind his eyes returned but vanished completely.
The vibration stopped. The chanting disappeared. The cold stone beneath his back was gone too.
Lucian’s eyes flew open. He was no longer lying down. He was seated.
Warm air brushed against his skin, carrying the scent of roasted at, wine, polished wood, and fresh flowers.
Sound surrounded him, quiet conversation, movent, the soft clink of tal against glass.
He looked down. The clothing on his body was heavy, dark, and ancient in design — layered fabric, embroidered edges, the kind worn in an era long erased by war and ti.
His pulse slowed. This was not a vision. Not a dream. Not an illusion distance. The weight of the fabric. The warmth of the room. The pressure of the chair beneath him.
This was mory. And it was happening now.
"Ah," a voice murmured nearby. "The Crown Prince has arrived."
Lucian’s head lifted sharply. "Prince Lucain."
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