Chapter 5: The Strings of Fate

The atmosphere in the grand hall felt like a storm on the verge of breaking. Lucian could hear the faint rustle of silk as noblewomen shifted uncomfortably, their whispering voices barely above the sound of their own breathing. The men in the crowd, draped in their finely tailored coats, bore expressions that ranged from intrigue to unease.

At the center of it all stood Lucian, caught between the venomous jealousy of Seraphine, the cryptic menace of his uncle Varian, and the undeniable presence of his fairies, whose beauty and power had turned the noble court into an audience to an unfolding spectacle.

He knew he had to tread carefully.

Seraphine's fingers curled into the fabric of her gown, her nails digging into the crimson silk. The sharp gleam in her eyes told him everything—she was barely restraining herself.

"You don't get to act smug, fairy," she said, her voice deceptively calm as she turned her cold gaze toward Nyx. "A summoned creature, no matter how powerful, is nothing more than an extension of its master. You—" she jabbed a finger at Nyx, "—have no authority here."

Nyx only smiled, her fangs peeking out as her crimson eyes gleamed with amusement. "Oh, darling," she purred, "you seem to misunderstand something." She took a languid step forward, shadows curling around her like ink spreading in water. "I don't need authority. I only need him." She turned and placed a hand on Lucian's shoulder, her fingers cool against his skin. "And unlike you… he wants me."

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the crowd.

Lucian felt Seraphine's fury like a blade against his skin. The air in the hall seemed to shrink, suffocated by the sheer intensity of her emotions.

"You overstep." Seraphine's voice was now a whisper of ice, lethal in its restraint. "And overstepping leads to consequences."

Before Lucian could interject, Varian chuckled. The sound slithered through the air like the slow scrape of a dagger being drawn from its sheath.

"Now, now," Varian murmured, stepping forward, his heavy boots echoing against the marble floor. "It would be quite… unwise to let personal grievances cloud what is truly important." His gaze flicked to Lucian, and suddenly, the humor in his voice faded, replaced by something unreadable. "You should be more concerned about the consequences of your power, nephew."

Lucian tensed. There it was again—that unspoken something beneath Varian's words. A secret dangling just beyond his grasp.

"What are you talking about?" Lucian asked, his voice steady despite the unease crawling up his spine.

Varian smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "The Ashford bloodline is not as… straightforward as you may think."

A cold gust of wind swept through the hall, though there were no open windows.

Lucian's breath hitched.

The nobles stirred, clearly unnerved.

Even his father, Duke Reynard, shifted in his seat. That alone was enough to send a bolt of apprehension through Lucian's chest. His father was a man who rarely showed emotion, much less discomfort.

Lucian glanced toward Seraphine. For the first time that night, he saw something other than jealousy in her expression. It was subtle, but it was there.

Fear.

She knew something.

Varian continued, his voice silk-smooth yet weighted with unspoken knowledge. "You think the power you wield is a gift. That summoning three fairies is a miracle." He let out a quiet chuckle. "But miracles often come with a price, don't they?"

Lucian's hands curled into fists.

"What are you implying?"

Varian tilted his head, as if considering something, before taking a deliberate step closer. "I suppose there's no harm in letting you peek behind the veil." His hand rose, fingers forming a slow, deliberate gesture—a spell.

Lucian barely had time to react.

The moment Varian's fingers completed their motion, a pulse of dark energy exploded through the room. The chandeliers flickered violently. The torches lining the hall dimmed, their flames shrinking, twisting unnaturally as if recoiling from an unseen force.

And then—

Pain.

Lucian staggered, a sharp, searing pain clawing at his chest. It wasn't physical—it was deeper. As if something inside him was being wrenched open.

Sylphira gasped. Lys's playful smirk disappeared. Nyx's expression twisted into something unreadable.

The nobles flinched as an unnatural wind howled through the chamber.

And then they saw it.

A mark.

Glowing, ancient, and sinister—etched into Lucian's chest like a brand of fate.

The Ashford Crest.

But twisted.

Warped.

Dark veins of unknown magic pulsed through its intricate design, spreading like cracks across a surface that was never meant to break.

Lucian's breath hitched.

He had never seen this before.

But somehow, some way—

It had always been there.

Varian's lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile.

"Ah," he mused, tilting his head in mock curiosity. "So it's true."

Lucian clutched his chest, the searing heat of the mark burrowing into his skin. His mind raced.

What the hell was this?

"Welcome to the truth, nephew," Varian murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "You are no ordinary summoner." He paused, his sharp eyes gleaming. "You are an Ashford. And that—" he gestured to the mark, "—is the legacy of your bloodline."

Lucian forced himself to breathe through the pain, his gaze snapping toward his father. "Father," he gritted out, his voice demanding, pleading. "You knew about this?"

Duke Reynard's expression remained impassive, but something flickered in his gaze. Regret? Guilt?

Seraphine's voice, trembling yet laced with a bitter sort of knowledge, cut through the silence.

"You were never meant to summon fairies, Lucian."

Lucian's blood ran cold.

He turned to her, his heart pounding. "What?"

Seraphine's lips parted, her expression unreadable. But before she could speak—

A sudden crack split the air.

The crest on Lucian's chest pulsed violently.

And then—

The shadows in the hall shifted.

The nobles gasped, some stumbling back as dark tendrils of something began to unfurl from the edges of the chamber. The chandeliers flickered, casting jagged shadows across the floor.

Lucian's breath hitched. He could feel something awakening—something that had been waiting.

And then a voice, dark and ancient, whispered from the abyss.

"You are not the first, boy… but you will be the last."

Lucian's vision blurred. His heart pounded.

And in that moment, he realized—

This was no longer about his summons.

This was about his very existence.

And the truth of what it meant to be an Ashford....