They say that when one peers into the abyss, it stares back. But those are the words of poets and philosophers—romanticized warnings that fall short of the truth.
For Lucard, the abyss did not simply stare back.
It saw him. All of him.
It reached for him.
In the chasm of his sleep, beneath layers of silence so profound that time itself seemed halted, Lucard stood in a place that was not a place—an endless void, not cold, not warm, but aware.
From the infinite dark, something emerged. No—revealed itself.
A being.
Enormous. Timeless. Wreathed in shadows so pure they bled into the folds of space.
Its cosmic-purple eyes gleamed like dying stars. They bore into Lucard's soul with a terrible calm—eyes that saw all things: past and future, sin and salvation, truth and illusion. They did not simply look.
They judged.
The entity had no clear form, but it was man-shaped, like a mockery of gods. Its body was vast and unreadable, a silhouette forged from voidstuff, shifting constantly as though it refused to be known. Only one thing remained constant—its hand.
That hand reached down from above, immense and graceful, like it could crush continents if it ever closed. In its palm, a single bright soul hovered gently.
It glowed with such painful purity that Lucard's eyes should have burned. But he could not look away.
'Was that… mine?'
Something inside him screamed.
He tried to move, but not even his heartbeat answered. His very existence knelt in instinctual submission. He had not been paralyzed by fear.
He had been commanded.
Without order, no action.
Without permission, no defiance.
Only his thoughts stirred, flitting like moths in a locked jar.
The being moved again.
Its mouth opened—slowly, impossibly wide, as if stretching across dimensions—and then came a sound that was not sound.
It was not a voice. It was the memory of voices that predated creation.
It was not language. It was meaning unformed.
Lucard heard nothing. And yet his soul trembled with the pressure of it. Words without syllables, ideas too immense to clothe in mortal tongue. It felt like a truth so vast, his consciousness rejected it outright.
Then—
A flash. Not of light. But of consuming darkness.
And everything vanished.
---
Lucard awoke.
He lay in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. The silence of early dawn clung to the room, thick and unmoving. He drew a breath—but even that felt borrowed.
His fingers twitched.
Back... here.
There was something foreign in his chest, as though a part of him had been stretched across eternity and only just returned. His soul felt travel-worn—as though he had wandered to the edge of the world and stumbled home again.
A dream?
He wanted to believe that. But dreams did not leave echoes in your bones.
And this one had a name-less presence—something that seemed to whisper still in the walls of his mind.
---
He rose.
The sky outside was still dark, though the faintest edge of dawn kissed the world. It was the hour where shadows reigned, where sleep still clung to men like dust.
But Lucard felt well-rested.
Better than he had in days.
A side-effect of Diona's nightly enchantments, no doubt. Her magic soothed his body—quieted the bruises Frederick left, calmed the ache in his spine from endless toil. But it had never once spared him from the dreams.
He moved with practiced grace, barefoot and soundless. The room was cloaked in darkness; he didn't bother lighting a lamp. Mirrors were absent, removed long ago—he did not wish to be reminded of the face that bore a lineage he hated.
To Lucard, darkness had become comfort.
Ignorance wasn't bliss—it was armor.
---
SWOOOOOSH.
The cold water crashed against his bare body like winter rain.
Lucard stood beneath the stream, unmoving.
The water slid over his frame—thin, yes, but not frail. There was strength etched into the lean lines of his form, sculpted not by intention, but survival. His muscles, though sharp and minimal, were perfectly balanced—like an elven prince drawn from a forgotten legend.
His skin held the pale flush of moonlight, almost unnatural in its flawlessness.
He hated that, too.
Even in his so-called lesser form, he bore the kind of beauty that invited desire and envy alike. It made people look. It made them want.
As the water traced his spine, he remembered the dream again.
'That soul… in the being's palm…
Was it mine?' Or was it something waiting for me?
No answers came.
It wasn't illumination. There had been no divine call. When nobles neared their awakening, they often spoke of radiant dreams—visions sent by the Olympian gods, voices of light guiding them toward their rightful path.
But what Lucard had seen… had no light.
Only judgement and void.
---
Towel draped over his shoulders, he returned to his room wearing nothing but a bathrobe. He clicked on the small lamp beside his bed, one he'd cobbled together from scrap and spare mech parts. Its glow was weak, but warm.
And there, beside his mask, lay two envelopes.
One brown—plain and stamped with the seal of the Grimon estate.
The other black—thicker, elegantly embossed, and sealed with Diona's personal sigil.
Lucard's brows drew tight, discomfort creasing his otherwise serene features.
He could accept the brown one—assignments, errands, updates. But the black one…?
It unsettled him.
Even after nearly a year under her roof, Lucard still couldn't grasp why Diona was kind to him. Nobles did not offer kindness without a purpose.
Perhaps she wants something from me.
Or perhaps I'm being prepared… for disposal.
He wouldn't put it past them.
His distrust of the nobility was absolute. Not just hatred—revulsion. A pride too strong to bow to them. In his eyes, they were blood-drenched peacocks—bastards blinded by legacy and power.
And still, Diona's light kept reaching for him.
Why?
---
Unbeknownst to Lucard, he was not alone.
From the darkness above, hidden behind a narrow ventilation slit, someone watched.
A single eye—with a orange-golden iris—gleamed faintly in the dark.
Its gaze fixated on him. On the curves of his pale body, on the quiet grace of his movements.
The small lamp provided just enough light to reveal the outline of his form—but not his face. Still, that was enough. More than enough for the watcher to tremble with a hunger both forbidden and electric.
---
Later, within the stone and marble elegance of Diona Grimon's private office, Lucard stood silently before her.
Her back was turned, reading something. But the moment she glanced at him, she exhaled softly—tension tightening in her shoulders.
"You've been attacked again," she said.
Lucard said nothing.
With a wordless gesture, a green-golden light surrounded him. Warmth filled his body. The pain dulled. He stood straighter.
"Thank you, Your Grace. But you didn't need to waste your energy to someone like—"
"Enough with that mindset."
Her voice was sharp, but not cruel. "Just acknowledge it."
Lucard bowed his head.
A pause. Then, Diona moved around her desk and handed him a file.
"Moving on," she said, tone brisk. "I already know what business brings you here."
Behind her cool professionalism was something else. A quiet intent.
She wanted him to spread his wings.
And she was more than willing to break rules, pull strings, and tip the balance to make it happen.
Whether Lucard understood that or not—
Her eyes never wavered.