Lucien Draven didn't summon her.
He never did.
There were no guards. No orders. No notes or schedules like the ones Silas or Ronan used. Lucien didn't need structure to assert power. He was structure—or the collapse of it, depending on his mood.
So when Lyra found her door cracked open just after dusk, a single black feather resting on the floor just beyond it, she paused.
She didn't flinch. Not anymore. But the sight of it still made something tighten in her chest.
He was calling.
And that was always worse than being dragged.
She picked up the feather. It shimmered faintly in the low light. Long, sleek, and cool between her fingers. She twirled it once, absently, then tucked it into her belt.
And she went.
Lucien's wing of the compound felt nothing like the rest.
No flickering torches. No scent of herbs or sweat or blood. Just silence, cool marble floors, and soft, indigo-hued walls that shimmered faintly when she moved.
It felt like stepping into the throat of a secret.
Moonlight filtered through skylights that spiderwebbed overhead, casting fractured patterns across the polished floor. The air smelled faintly of cloves, night-blooming flowers, and something metallic she couldn't name—like magic, or danger, or the moment before a blade meets skin.
She passed beneath hanging glass lanterns, their glow pulsing like fireflies caught in rhythm. With each step deeper into his world, the tension in her chest grew heavier.
She told herself she wasn't afraid.
But Lucien didn't need fear to win. He only needed attention.
The chamber opened before her—massive, circular, and bathed in shadow.
Walls lined with relics: a violin leaning against a bronze sculpture, runed tomes locked behind glass, blades of strange design hung like art. There were feathers, bones, faded portraits that stared back with hollow eyes.
And at the center of it all—Lucien.
He reclined on a chaise of midnight velvet, his shirt open at the collar, long legs stretched out, a glass of deep red wine balanced lazily between his fingers. His golden eyes flicked toward her, gleaming in the firelight like coins lit from within.
Not surprised.
Not pleased.
Just watching.
"I was starting to think you wouldn't come," he said, voice like smoke and silk.
"I thought about it," she replied, stepping forward.
"And yet, here you are."
"You left my door open," she said. "That's not a request. It's a command."
"No," Lucien said softly. "It's a game."
He stood slowly, every motion unhurried, as if time itself would wait until he decided it could move again.
Lucien moved like water made flesh. Beautiful, mercurial, dangerous only when underestimated. And always underestimated.
He circled her with his hands folded behind his back.
"Tell me, Lyra," he said, voice brushing her like silk, "have you figured out yet which of us is your biggest threat?"
"They all think they are," she said. "But I think you're the only one who doesn't need to prove it."
He chuckled, the sound low and knowing. "Smart girl."
She turned her head slightly, never letting him out of her periphery. "You talk like someone who already knows how it ends."
"I do."
"Then what do you want from me?"
He paused beside her, close enough for her to feel the whisper of his breath along her jaw.
"Everything."
She swallowed, hard.
Lucien stepped in front of her, and for a long moment, neither of them moved. The silence buzzed.
"Sit," he said.
She sat.
Not because she obeyed him.
But because standing made her feel too exposed, too flammable.
The chair was low, angled to face the fire. Velvet. Plush. Ridiculously soft. She hated how it comforted her spine.
Lucien leaned against the nearest table, glass still in hand.
"You're unraveling them," he said casually. "Ronan wants to break you. Kael wants to understand you. Silas wants to save you. Dorian just wants to destroy what he can't own."
Lyra looked at him. "And you?"
Lucien sipped his wine, then set the glass down with precision. "I want to watch."
"Creep."
"Goddess," he corrected. "You make monsters bleed. That's holy work."
She stiffened. Not from fear. From recognition.
Lucien moved closer.
Then, suddenly—he knelt beside her.
Quietly. Fluidly.
He reached out. Didn't touch. Just hovered a hand over her knee.
"May I?"
The question knocked her off-balance harder than anything else he'd said.
She nodded. Slightly.
His fingers brushed her knee. Warm. Deliberate.
He moved slowly, tracing a line upward until his palm rested near the hem of her shift.
"You hate this," he said. "Not the touch. The meaning."
She met his gaze, voice low. "And what does it mean to you?"
Lucien's voice dropped, deep and quiet. "That you let me. That I didn't take."
He stood in one graceful motion and turned his back to her.
The air felt too still after he moved away.
Lyra exhaled. Realized she'd been holding her breath.
He walked to the mantel and picked up something small—something silver that glinted like moonlight.
A dagger.
Short. Etched with obsidian veins and ancient markings.
He held it out to her, hilt-first.
"For you."
She hesitated.
Took it.
Their fingers touched.
And the room tilted.
Not literally.
But something shifted between them—something unseen, but felt in the marrow.
He leaned close once more.
"You think you're playing all of us," he said. "But you forgot the most important rule."
"What's that?"
He smiled.
"You can't manipulate what's already obsessed."
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She stood. Too fast.
"You don't even know me."
Lucien stepped back, gave her space—but his eyes never left hers.
"Oh, Lyra," he murmured. "You're the only thing I've ever wanted to know."
She turned to leave.
But his voice chased her.
"They'll all fall for you. Even the ones who think they won't. But only one of us will survive it."
🖤 Mini-Scene: The Dagger Between Them
Lyra shut her chamber door behind her with more force than she meant to.
The dagger was still in her hand.
She hadn't realized she'd been gripping it the entire walk back. Her palm ached from how tightly she'd held it—how much pressure she'd applied to keep herself grounded. Or maybe to keep from shaking.
She moved to the low table near her bed and set it down with care.
The weapon gleamed under the moonlight trickling through the window. The markings along its spine seemed to pulse faintly, like veins beneath skin. Silver. Obsidian. Ancient.
She should've thrown it across the room.
Should've buried it in the mattress or hurled it into the fire.
Instead… she stared at it.
The handle still smelled faintly of spice and shadow. Like Lucien.
It was a weapon, yes.
But it was also a message.
A promise.
Or a trap.
She sat beside it, hands trembling, and whispered aloud:
"What do you want from me?"
The dagger, of course, didn't answer.
But her heartbeat did.
She slid it beneath her pillow.
Close.
Too close.
And then she lay down with her back to the wall, blade pressed beneath her neck, breath held still in her chest as if bracing for something she hadn't yet named.
Sleep did not come.
But neither did regret.