Lucian rode through the gates of the palace he had once called home. The years away had changed him—scarred his soul with adventures, heartbreak, and freedom—but here, within these towering stone walls, he was still the second son, the shadow of the throne.
His brother, Damian, stood with two other noblemen, each of them with bows in hand, grinning like boys at play. The once-serious heir to the throne looked looser, rougher—but still the golden prince their father had always favored.
Lucian’s gaze shifted slightly—then stopped.
A woman sat in the grass a few feet away, apart from the men but not forgotten. The sun caught strands of her golden hair, woven into intricate braids and adorned with delicate, glimmering jewels. Her gown, pale as the first blush of dawn, slipped off her shoulders, the fabric light and flowing. She sat with effortless grace, her slender fingers weaving wildflowers into a delicate crown. There was something dreamlike about her, something otherworldly.
She wasn’t paying attention to the men or the courtyard. She was lost in thought, her lips slightly parted, eyes soft as if seeing something far beyond what lay before her.
Lucian felt his heart lurch.
Who was she?
His thoughts shattered when Damian turned, catching sight of him.
“Well, well. Look what the wind dragged home.”
Lucian smirked, but it was distracted. “Brother.”
Damian clasped his shoulder roughly. “I thought you were dead in a gutter somewhere.”
“Not for lack of trying,” Lucian quipped. Then, in a louder voice, called out, “Aveline! Come here.” The woman—Aveline—lifted her head. For the first time, Lucian saw her eyes clearly, a shade of silver-blue. Damian slid an arm around her waist, tugging her against him—not gently. “My wife,” he said, his voice laced with unmistakable pride. Lucian felt the world tilt. Wife. She seems like a soft fragile flower and deep down he feels a strange worry, That this delicate flower would die in the rough hands of his brother.