Lucien’s smile never wavered as he exited the temple, his golden eyes glimmering in the soft glow of the evening light. The gentle murmur of the temple staff's praise echoed in his ears, their words of gratitude for his calm wisdom and perfect judgment ringing hollow. He offered them his usual dimpled smile and a few kind words before making his way out of the grand hall, every step measured, every breath controlled.

It wasn’t until he was well beyond the temple walls, deep into the surrounding forest where no one dared to follow, that his mask began to crack.

The secluded grove was empty, save for the chirping of insects and the distant rustle of leaves. Lucien’s hands clenched into fists as his calm, collected facade shattered. His breathing quickened, and his jaw tightened, eyes darkening as the familiar rage bubbled up inside him.

“Pathetic,” he hissed to the empty air, pacing back and forth. His usually serene features twisted into a sneer, the softness in his expression replaced by something far more dangerous. “Compassion. Mercy. I should have cut them down where they stood.”

He had been forced to show mercy to a group of heretics—again. His better judgment told him to eliminate them, to rid the temple of their filth, but the image of the “perfect priest” had to be upheld. He had smiled, spoken of forgiveness, and allowed them to live. But the anger now coursing through his veins made him feel sick.

“They think I’m weak.” His voice was a growl, dripping with venom. He grabbed a branch from a nearby tree, snapping it cleanly in two, his golden eyes burning with barely controlled fury. “All of them, praising me like I’m some saint. If only they knew how easily I could tear them apart.”

Lucien slammed his fist into the trunk of a tree, the sharp crack echoing in the silence. He stood there for a moment, his breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to reign in the storm inside him.

“They’re nothing,” he spat, wiping the blood from his knuckles with a frustrated swipe.