Take Me Home

The gates of the factory had been chaos—crimson alarms still blared behind Lucien as he stumbled through the outer sector, Crick's small body in his arms. The factory's red glow pulsed like a heartbeat in the night, casting long shadows on the empty street as if the world itself mourned with him. He didn't say a word. Not to the crowd. Not to the guards. Not to the chaos of people shouting orders behind him.

He simply walked.

His feet led him—on instinct, on pain, on something in between—through cracked alleys, down neglected paths, until the city lights gave way to the dense, moonless woods at the city's edge.

Here, under the open eye of the stars, he dropped to his knees.

Crick's body was lighter than it should have been, as if the world was eager to let it go. But Lucien wouldn't. He laid him down slowly, reverently, hands trembling not from fear, but from restraint. He had not screamed when Crick was stabbed. He had not cried when Zivah vanished. He had not collapsed when everything he knew came undone.

But now, in the silence of the woods, where only wind and trees bore witness, his heart broke open.

He screamed.

It tore out of him—deep, primal, broken.

Then, silence again.

Lucien sat there, the chill of the earth seeping through his jeans, staring into the night. The bottle of alcohol he'd stuffed into his waistband during the warehouse chaos clinked as he uncorked it with his teeth. He poured half over Crick's chest—now dressed in ash-stained rags—and raised the other half to his lips.

"You know," Lucien murmured, voice hoarse. "I've never had a young one."

The words weren't dramatic. They weren't even loud. They were real.

"It's always been me. Facing the world. Taking the hits. Running when I had to. Surviving. And then… you." He sniffed, rubbing his nose with his sleeve. "Even if you didn't see it, I cherished you. I needed you."

He dug with bare hands. The ground was damp, cold. Unforgiving. Every clump of soil scraped his fingers raw. But Lucien didn't stop. Not when blood began to drip from his nails. Not when his breath came in ragged gasps. He dug because there was no other way.

The grave was shallow. It wasn't enough. But it was all he could give.

He lowered Crick in gently.

"You were just thirteen," he said, voice cracking. "Too young for all this. Too young for... for everything."

He stared down at the still face, once so full of laughter and innocence, now frozen in silence.

"You're dead... and normally, I'd want to die too," Lucien said, wiping his eyes. "But maybe... that's the very reason I have to live."

He rose to his feet, pulled the last of the bottle to his lips, then hurled it against a tree. It shattered, the sound sharp and final.

"There's a saying," he said into the wind, "that when you don't feel like doing something, that's the best time to do it."

Lucien crouched one last time, tracing his fingers through the dirt above the small grave. Then, he whispered, "Sleep well, little brother."

A silence passed.

And then, something stirred within him.

The power given to him by the spirit—the Resentment of Lucien Adrek—swelled like fire behind his ribs. He gasped, clutching his chest as unfamiliar energy wrapped around his soul. Visions blinked in and out behind his eyes—memories not his own.

Faces. Screams. A child crying. Blood on marble floors. A woman's voice calling out. The whisper of gold. The chant of a house falling to ruin.

He fell to his knees, sweat running down his face. Then—silence. The energy settled.

And for the first time… he felt cold.

Cold, but clear.

He stood up and looked down at his hands. Then at the grave.

"The Lucien I once knew… the Lucien you once knew… the Lucien the world once knew…"

He exhaled. Long and slow.

"Is now gone."

The words didn't sound like grief. They sounded like truth.

"I rise now," he said, brushing the dirt off his jeans, "not as the boy who ran, not as the coward who watched others die."

He looked toward the dark stretch of forest, face hardened under the pale light filtering through the trees.

"I rise… as Lucien Adrek. Son of the Wing of Gold. Walker of Purpose. And I swear—"

He bowed his head once.

"—I will make this life matter."

As he walked away, he didn't cry. The woods behind him swallowed the makeshift grave. The factory lights were no longer visible. And the stars above blinked—perhaps in approval.

The world would soon come to know a new Lucien.

But only he would remember the one who gave him the strength to become it.

The moon carved gentle silver strokes through the forest canopy, dappling the leaves with a quiet radiance. Mist from the damp soil curled around tree roots like slumbering spirits. The woods were silent—but not empty.

A man stood still beneath the trees, no older than twenty-five, his long coat fluttering slightly with the breeze. His hair was silver with tinges of midnight blue, and his eyes—sharp, amber, always alert—scanned the forest like they'd memorized every corner of the planet. His boots bore the dust of long roads; his knuckles, the bruises of too many questions unanswered.

He paused near the edge of a hollow, pressing a hand to his chest.

"You're not dead. I know it," he whispered. "You can't be."

His voice was low, but resolute.

He had gone from sector to sector, tracing the ashes of destruction. A burned-down hideout. A shattered trigger warehouse. Whispers of a pale boy carrying a body through the storm. All pointed to one name:

Lucien Adrek.

And Chrome—House Adrek's personal retainer, trained from birth to serve only one—had only one mission: find him.

Chrome knelt, brushing aside a leaf, revealing the faded imprint of a boot.

"Close," he murmured. "Very close."

He stood, then moved through the woods with purposeful silence.

But Lucien had already heard him.

Lucien crouched behind the gnarled trunk of a twisted cedar, Crick's grave not far behind. He hadn't buried the sorrow—but he had buried the fear. He had buried the self-pity.

Now, he hunted every footstep like a beast in waiting.

As the stranger moved closer, Lucien pounced, his arm wrapping tight around the man's neck, his weight driving them into the dirt. With a force born not from skill, but desperation, he growled:

"Who are you?"

The man did not resist. He didn't gasp. He smiled.

"You found me, young master," he said gently.

Lucien blinked. "What?"

"My name is Chrome," the man coughed slightly, still pinned. "I am your personal attendant. I was trained under the oath of the Wing of Gold to serve the heir of House Adrek. That's you."

Lucien stared down at him, eyes narrowing.

He didn't release his grip.

"I will ask again," Lucien said, his voice cold and unreadable. "Are you my person?"

Chrome smiled again. "Yes."

Lucien held him a second longer… then released his grip and stepped back. Chrome sat up, brushing dirt from his coat without complaint.

Lucien's mind churned. He didn't trust anyone—not yet. But something about the man's words triggered a flicker. He looked again at Chrome's clothes—House Adrek's insignia, subtly woven in gold thread along the collar. Not visible to strangers, but unmistakable to one who once carried the bloodline.

Lucien exhaled through his nose.

In his world—his old world—power came from resistance. From struggling alone. From clawing upwards.

But here, in Grey, power was tied to lineage. Affiliation. Legacy.

If he wanted to get stronger—truly stronger—he would need access. Access meant status. Status meant recognition. And recognition meant… House Adrek.

He needed an identity. And Chrome—whatever his motives—offered that.

"Then take me home," Lucien said, eyes steeled. "To House Adrek."

Chrome nodded once. "Of course."

The wind shifted. The leaves whispered like old spirits. The same breeze that once carried grief now carried resolve.

They turned and began walking, their boots crunching softly over roots and gravel.

Behind them, the grave of Crick sat in quiet dignity. Before them, the road back to House Adrek, and to a thousand unfolding secrets, stretched into the night.

And in Lucien's pocket, the old pocket watch ticked again.