Close your eyes. The dark of night now shrouds your consciousness… The sharp discomfort fades.

The voice comes, familiar and soft—like a melody half-remembered from a dream you beg never to end. You turn, seeking its source, and the world sharpens: light gleams brighter as shadows stretch deeper.

So tell me, what is it you long to see... A ship…

The Rhodes Island landship rises in the distance—familiar, yet strangely gentler than memory allows.

A sea of flowers…

And suddenly you are lying in the grass, alive with color. Wildflowers sway like waves, the sun spills warmth, the sky sings blue.

His voice again—closer now, warmer—like a spring breeze after frost, like water to parched lips.

This dream is his stage, crafted for you alone: your head pillowed in his lap, his gloved hand twined with yours, the horizon endless with green, singing birds an eternal melody.

Lucian raises your hand in his. Amber eyes glint—sharp, yet softened in a way only you have ever seen.

“...And us,” he murmurs, lifting your hand to his lips. “…Is this all you wish for?”