Chapter 7- Whispers of the Unseen

Lucien walked through the grand corridors of the mansion, his steps quiet against the polished marble floor. His face remained monotone, like a statue carved from cold marble.

Poised and composed, he carried an effortless authority that unsettled those in his presence.

Servants passed by in silence, their heads bowed in deference. None dared to meet his gaze, their movements careful and measured, as if afraid of drawing his attention. The only sounds that filled the vast hallway were the faint rustle of their uniforms and the distant ticking of a grand clock.

The corridors stretched endlessly ahead, lined with towering pillars and intricate gold moldings that gleamed under the flickering chandelier lights. Shadows danced along the walls, elongated and restless, mimicking the way the servants' figures tensed in his presence. Yet Lucien remained indifferent to it all.

He did not acknowledge the people around him, nor did he pause to glance at their fleeting, nervous movements.

To him, they were nothing more than background noise. Silent figures that lingered at the edges of his world, as distant and inconsequential as unread words on a forgotten page or the fading embers of a fire long abandoned.

Turning at the last hallway, Lucien reached the intricately carved wooden doors of his room.

With a smooth motion, he pushed them open and stepped inside. The room was spacious, adorned with intricate furnishings, its color palette a blend of deep grays and dark blues.

A fireplace crackled softly in the corner, its gentle glow casting a warm light over the bookshelves that stretched along the walls. The room was a study in perfection, each piece of furniture meticulously arranged, with not a single object out of alignment.

Without hesitation, he made his way to a tall, antique dresser near the bed. It was made of dark mahogany, its surface polished to perfection.

Lucien's fingers brushed against the cool metal handle of the top drawer before he reached for the thin, silver chain around his neck.

A small, ornate key dangled from it, gleaming in the firelight. With practiced ease, he unhooked it from the chain and inserted it into the keyhole of the drawer. A faint click echoed as the lock gave way.

Inside, nestled carefully beneath a stack of plain parchment was the mysterious book that had disturbed the fragile equilibrium of his otherwise orderly world.

At first glance, it appeared unremarkable, at least from Lucien's perspective, though those of lower status might find it appealing.

The book was bound in brown leather, its surface adorned with intricate embossed patterns that seemed to depict the celestial dance of stars and the moon.

Lucien reached out and touched the book, once again feeling the strange pull he had experienced the first time he laid eyes on it. As he lifted it, his fingers lingered over the cover before he carefully opened it.

Lines of text began forming on the once-empty pages, dark ink seeping into the paper as if being written by an invisible hand.

No matter how many times he had witnessed this, his eyes still glinted with intrigue.

He had spent countless days exploring the book, attempting to unravel its mysteries, yet he still failed to understand what was truly unfolding before him.

Every so often, the words appeared on their own, revealing only fragments of a story, one paragraph at a time.

This happened whenever an "event" was about to unfold, according to the tale. Their tale.

It seemed as though Lucien was one of the characters within the pages of the book, alongside several others.

He stood still, deep in thought.

"Are these the events set to happen tomorrow?" he murmured to himself, raising an eyebrow.

"Ah… the Elysium hotel… no, it's the day after," he corrected with a nod, as though piecing together a puzzle.

Lucien sank into a sofa with a soft thud, his attention still captive by the book in his hands. He leaned back against the cushions, his body relaxing as a quiet breath escaped him, sinking into the peaceful stillness of the room.

The soft glow of the fireplace illuminated his face, making his golden eyes gleam with an almost ethereal vibrancy, enhancing his already otherworldly appearance, like a rare gem catching the last rays of the setting sun.

"Seems like there isn't much to expect in the upcoming days," Lucien remarked, his tone calm as he absently tapped a finger on his temple, the motion slow and rhythmic.

His finger stilled for a moment before flipping back a page. His gaze skimmed the text, the words stirring the memory of the earlier incident in the living room.

He scoffed softly, a quiet "tsk" escaping his lips.

The tantrum Jane had thrown was utterly absurd, and Lucien couldn't believe he had been forced to intervene. Yet, he had, for it was one of the events outlined in the book.

Anyone with a functioning mind could easily decipher the scene unfolding before him, even without having to read what was meant to happen.

It was amusing how timid and weak Noah was. He was the exact type of person Lucien despised the most: hesitant, unsure, and pathetically preoccupied with how others perceived him.

His gaze swept over the page, where the inked words lay like an intricate tapestry, their strokes sharp and precise. The text contrasted strikingly against the smooth, white paper, untouched by time, its surface immaculate.

Noah's heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing like the sound of a drum. The spot where Jane had dug her nails into, still throbbed, the sensation lingering as if her grip was still embedded there, piercing deep into him.

His eyes fixed on the patterned carpet beneath his feet, eyes tracing the intricate design as he listened to the tension-filled exchange between Jane and Lucien. He did his best to remain as still and quiet as possible, hoping to blend into the background, unnoticed.

"And you…"

Noah's body jerked at the sudden shift in Lucien's tone, his voice now aimed directly at him. His heart, already a thunderous drumbeat, seemed to intensify, each thump growing louder, more frantic, as if it could escape his chest at any moment...

Lucien's fingers paused on the edge of the page. He stared at the words, momentarily bewildered.

"…He's afraid that I'll hate him?" Lucien inquired, his tone edged with curiosity.

"Pfft"

A low chuckle escaped his lips, his shoulders shaking slightly in amusement.

"What a useless thing to worry about," he murmured, a trace of mockery in his tone. "How pathetic."

Yet, despite his words, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the text.

This book was utterly captivating, a riddle that refused to be solved. It peeled back the layers of reality, exposing what lay hidden beneath the surface. Each word felt like a revelation, drawing him deeper into a mystery that seemed to have no end.

Lucien traced the spine of the book with his fingertips, his mind drifting back to the day he had first discovered it, just three days before Noah's arrival.

At the time, the notion of a lost cousin seemed utterly absurd, a scenario so far-fetched it almost felt laughable.

Yet, that was exactly how it had unfolded, as if the universe had thrown him a curveball he never anticipated. The memory lingered, unsettling and vivid, like the edge of a dream that clings to the mind long after waking.

It was a cold night.

Lucien walked through the dimly lit alleyways of Ashenvale, the air thick with a mixture of dampness and the faint scent of decay.

The narrow streets were lined with crumbling buildings, their once-vibrant colors now faded and peeling. The flickering light from the distant lanterns cast long shadows across the worn cobblestones, offering little comfort to the souls that trudged through the streets.

Ashenvale was a neighborhood of hardship, where survival came at the expense of dignity, and its residents bore the marks of a life lived on the edge.

Their existence stood in stark contrast to Lucien's. He couldn't shake the feeling of disconnect, as though he were an outsider walking through a world that seemed utterly foreign, despite having passed through these streets countless times before.

His form was cloaked in shadow, the dark hooded fabric obscuring most of his features. With each heavy step, his boots struck the puddles, sending ripples across the quiet street. Their rhythmic pounding echoed softly, glimpses of wet leather flashing beneath the cloak.

He paid no mind to the thick air, heavy with the scent of damp wood and rotting garbage, nor to the uneven ground, littered with trash and stagnant puddles.

The streets were eerily empty, the hour well past midnight, though the occasional drunken figure stumbled by, their incoherent mutterings drifting through the silence.

Lucien's pace remained steady; he didn't falter, nor did he stray from his path. He knew exactly where he was headed, each step purposeful and deliberate.

At last, he arrived in front of a small, decrepit shop tucked between two abandoned buildings. A faded wooden sign creaked above the entrance, its letters barely legible.

"The Crow's Quill."

Lucien pushed the door open, the bell above it jingling softly.

Inside, the shop was dimly lit, filled with an assortment of peculiar trinkets. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with boxes, rusted artifacts, and strange glass containers filled with substances of questionable origin. The scent of aged paper and incense lingered in the air.

A man emerged from behind the counter, his beady eyes lighting up when he saw Lucien.

"Ah… if it isn't Sir Vane," the shopkeeper grinned, his gold tooth gleaming in the dim light as he welcomed Lucien.

The door clicked softly behind, sealing out the world. The quiet of the shop pressed in, as if it held secrets just waiting to be discovered.