A full week had slipped by since the day Lucien collapsed in the garden swing, and life within the Velebrandt estate returned to its steady rhythm. The maids moved with practiced grace through marble halls bathed in sunlight, while the knights patrolled the mansion with quiet discipline. The memories of the odd incident were tucked away—faded like the trailing edge of a dream.
Lucien, now awake in his bedroom, sat propped against a cluster of plush pillows, draped in silk sleepwear, the gold trim reflecting softly in the morning light that filtered through the grand arched windows. His silver hair was unkempt, messily falling around his face as he absentmindedly touched his temples. A familiar soreness clung to his body, not agonizing, but undeniably present—as though he had been under an immense strain his body didn't remember.
"What in the world even happened to me?" he murmured to himself.
