[Rynthall Estate—Midnight—Lucein’s Chamber]
For a heartbeat, silence strangled the room.
The words hung in the air like a blade suspended by a single thread.
"Lord Silas... is on his way to the Empire."
Callen’s breathless announcement shattered the stillness, and Lucien’s knees nearly gave out beneath him. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts, hands trembling as though he were holding lightning in his palms.
"Silas..." The name left him in a whisper, half disbelief, half prayer. His brown eyes filled with tears that glimmered under the lamplight.
Thoeram’s face hardened, but his voice cracked despite himself. "Are you certain of this, Callen? Do not speak false hope to my child."
Callen shook his head quickly, his chest still heaving from the rush to bring the message. "It came from the border outpost. A scout saw his banner—black and silver, torn but still flying. They said he rides with a handful of men, moving fast toward the capital."
Lucien clutched the bedpost, the world spinning around him. Black and silver... his banner. His banner. He’s alive.
His lips trembled as he whispered, "He promised. He promised he’d return."
Thoeram moved forward, steadying Lucien’s shoulders. "Then hold on to that, my son. The gods have not abandoned you."
But even as relief surged, fear coiled tightly in Lucien’s chest. What state would Silas be in? Was he hurt? Was he the same man who left, or had war carved away pieces of him that Lucien would never get back?
Elysia stirred softly in her sleep, curling closer to her mother’s side. Lucien looked down at her, brushing a gentle hand through her hair. "He’s coming home, Elysia... your papa is coming home."
Thoeram’s eyes softened, his weathered hand resting briefly on Lucien’s head as if blessing him. "Then tomorrow will be a different day."
Callen allowed himself a rare smile, the tension in his shoulders easing. "He will soon cross the border. Once he meets with the Emperor, he’ll return here, my lord."
Lucien’s throat tightened, and he managed a small nod, though his heart was beating too wildly for words. Soon. Soon he’ll be here. The thought was both salvation and torment, each second stretching unbearably.
He looked down at Elysia sleeping soundly against him, her tiny chest rising and falling with untroubled breaths. He brushed a kiss over her crown, whispering, "Papa is coming back." The words trembled, as though he still couldn’t believe them.
Thoeram straightened, his voice steadier than the storm of emotion in the room. "Rest tonight, Lucien. You’ll need strength for tomorrow."
But Lucien knew he wouldn’t sleep. How could he, when every shadow against the window might be a rider bearing Silas’s banner, when every beat of his heart seemed to cry faster, come faster?
Callen excused himself with a bow, leaving the chamber cloaked in quiet. The crackle of the hearth filled the silence, and Lucien sat motionless, staring at the flames as though they held the answers to the thousand fears gnawing at him.
Thoeram finally left as well, giving his son one last look before closing the door gently behind him.
Alone, Lucien pressed his forehead against the window’s cold glass, eyes searching the endless dark. The moon hung heavy in the sky, silver and watchful.
***
[Rynthall Estate—The Next Day]
The next morning, the mansion was anything but peaceful.
Maids darted back and forth like panicked sparrows, balancing trays of polished silverware and steaming linens. Footmen hauled vases larger than themselves into every hall, while cooks yelled over one another in the kitchens about whether Lord Silas preferred his pheasant roasted or stewed.
"Why are the curtains still closed? Open them! No, not that window—you’ll let the draft in!" one steward barked.
"Does this carpet look war-ready or homecoming-ready?" another fretted, tugging at the corner of a rug until two servants nearly tripped over it.
Thoeram, normally the calmest soul in the estate, was red in the face as he snapped, "If one more vase tips over, I will personally see to it that you are polishing chamber pots for the next year!"
Lucien stood in the middle of the storm, utterly stiff, his hair already combed three times by two different maids, his tunic adjusted so tightly he felt he could barely breathe. He hadn’t eaten a single bite of the breakfast that had been shoved in front of him.
Callen muttered under his breath as he scribbled notes on a clipboard, "It’s not the Emperor, it’s not the gods, it’s Lord Silas. And yet, everyone is acting as though heaven itself is descending."
"Shut up, Callen," Lucien hissed, though his own hands were trembling. He straightened his cuffs again for the hundredth time. "It’s been years. If the chairs aren’t aligned or the drapes don’t look right—"
Callen raised an eyebrow. "What? He’ll turn around and march back to the frontlines?"
Lucien glared, but his lips twitched in spite of himself.
Amid all the chaos, a small voice piped up from the corridor.
"Mama?"
Everyone froze. Heads turned as Elyse toddled in, her black curls bouncing, eyes wide with curiosity. She clutched her stuffed bunny to her chest and blinked at the strange frenzy around her.
Lucien crouched instantly, scooping her up. "Elysia, you should be resting—"
She tilted her head, confusion written across her little face. "Papa is coming?"
Lucien’s heart melted. "Yes, sweetheart. Papa is coming."
For a long second, Elysia’s little face was unreadable. Then she nodded—once, twice—before suddenly clutching Lucien’s cloak with both fists. Her small jaw tightened, her red eyes glimmering like embers.
"...Mama is only mine."
Lucien froze. Callen, who was just casually sipping water in the corner, choked and smacked his chest as if he’d swallowed wrong. He gawked at her, then at Lucien, and muttered under his breath,
"Saints preserve us... Lord Silas is going to have a harder battle at home than at the border."
Lucien groaned, dragging a palm down his face. "Elysia..." he started, trying to reason with her, but she puffed up her cheeks and shook her head furiously, like a little dragon declaring war.
And then—
SLAM!
The entire house rattled as Marcel nearly ripped the hinges off the door. His eyes were wild, his chest heaving.
"He’s here—!"
The room erupted into chaos.
Chairs screeched back, maids squealed, and footmen tripped over each other. Callen’s wine goblet crashed to the floor, spilling red across the carpet. One of the cooks burst into the hall still holding a ladle, shouting, "Do we serve the roast now?!"
Everyone bolted toward the entrance like a herd of startled geese.
Lucien’s pulse skyrocketed. His hand instinctively pressed against his chest, fingers trembling near his heart. His cheeks burned, pink blooming across pale skin.
Silas.
He swallowed hard, throat tight, and forced his legs to move. Step after step, he followed the whirlwind of servants and family, every thump of his heart echoing louder, faster—until it drowned everything else.
At the threshold of the estate, under the golden wash of afternoon light, Lucien stopped—breathless, flushed, and trembling.
His husband was home.
The gates groaned as they opened, the sound swallowing the manic chatter of servants and guards. The air itself seemed to hush, heavy with expectation.
And then—he appeared.
Lord Silas.
Tall, broad-shouldered, his dark cloak billowing like a storm cloud at his back. Sunlight caught the streak of silver in his hair, his presence sharp and commanding, a force that bent the air around him.
The entire courtyard fell into silence. Maids pressed trembling hands to their mouths, guards stiffened like statues, and Marcel muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.
Lucien’s breath hitched. His fingers tightened against his chest, as if holding his heart still. The world blurred for a moment—everything but that figure.
Silas’s eyes swept the crowd, piercing, unyielding... until they landed on him.
Lucien’s face flushed deeper, his lips parting but no words came.
For a heartbeat, Silas froze too. The hardened lines of his face softened ever so slightly, as though he’d forgotten how to breathe.
Silas swung down from his horse in one fluid motion, the heavy thud of his boots echoing against the stone courtyard. The moment his feet touched the ground, the knights followed, dismounting in unison.
And then—like thunder—the entire estate erupted:
"WELCOME BACK, LORD SILAS!!!"
Their voices boomed, echoing off the mansion walls, rattling windows, and startling the birds from the nearby trees.
But Silas didn’t respond. He didn’t even glance at them. His gaze was fixed—anchored, chained—only to Lucien.
Lucien’s lip trembled. His chest rose and fell unevenly, and before he could stop himself, before he could summon that practiced composure... hot tears spilled over.
"Waaaahhhhhh—!" Lucien’s wail broke the solemn air like a child’s cry, shocking everyone into silence. His whole body shook, his voice cracking as he pointed an accusing finger at Silas. "Y-You... Y-You bastard!!! Why... Why are you so laaaaate?!"
The servants nearly fainted.
Marcel’s was about to brust in tear too but controlled.
Callen smiled. Theoran was suprised.
Silas—whose battlefield composure never wavered before kings or death itself—panicked. His entire face shifted from stoic steel to frantic softness in a blink. He dashed forward, practically tripping over his own steps, and swept Lucien into his arms.
"I-I am sorry!" Silas stammered, his voice breaking, his hands trembling as they clutched Lucien’s waist as though he might vanish. "I’m sorry, my love. I’m sorry for coming late... I’m so, so sorry." His forehead pressed desperately to Lucien’s shoulder. "Forgive me—please, forgive me."
Lucien sniffled loudly, his tears soaking into Silas’s cloak. His whole body was trembling with relief, with pent-up grief—and with drama.
Then, through hiccupped sobs, Lucien suddenly shouted:
"Waaaahhhhhh! I swear... I swear if you had arrived even one day later... I-I WOULD HAVE ELOPED—ELOPED TO AN ISLAND WITH SOME OTHER ALPHAAAA!!!"
The courtyard froze.
Every knight’s eyes went wide.
The maids hid behind their aprons, giggling into their hands.
But Silas... Silas just stared at his mate for a long, silent moment. His lips parted, his jaw tight—and then, to everyone’s absolute shock—he chuckled. Deep, low, and dangerous.
He pulled Lucien tighter against him, his lips brushing against Lucien’s damp temple as he growled softly, possessive and unwavering:
"And I would have still looked for you."
He tilted Lucien’s chin up, their eyes locking, his next words slow and deliberate:
"And when I found you..." his voice dropped, velvet-dark and absolute, "...I would have ended that idiot Alpha with my own hands."
The knights shuddered. The servants blanched.
And that’s how two soul reuinted again.