Chapter 89: East wing

Chapter 89

“A ritual.” Lucian’s gaze snapped sharply toward Clara.

The single word seemed to thicken the air between them. Clara inhaled slowly, steadying herself under the weight of his attention. He had not spoken, but she did not need him to. She knew that look. Knew the hesitation behind it.

He still did not trust her magic. Not after that reversal disaster. Not after the chaos that had nearly torn everything apart.

Clara forced herself to continue anyway. “But not just any ritual,” she said carefully, choosing each word with precision.

“If the block is ancient — and it feels ancient — then ordinary methods won’t work. We’ll need a catalyst. Something tied to that time. Something that carries the imprint of the memory itself.”

Lucian said nothing. But his eyes moved. They shifted slowly toward the vanity across the room, where one of his shirts hung over the edge of the chair.

Isabella’s scent still clung to the fabric, faint but unmistakable. It lingered in the air like a presence, like a ghost that refused to acknowledge her absence.

The room had not forgotten her. Neither had he. “The bond,” Lucian said at last.

The words came slowly at first, uncertain — but the hesitation vanished as something darker settled into his expression.

“Use the bond,” he continued, his voice hardening, control tightening around every syllable.

“She reacted to something in the past. She seemed to know something I don’t. If I cannot reach my own memories… then I will reach hers.”

His gaze darkened, cold and resolute. “I’ll pull the truth through the bond she’s trying so hard to break.”

Clara’s expression immediately tightened. “No.” The word came sharper than she intended.

“You’ll kill her, Lucian,” she said, her voice low but firm. “The bond is already weakened. It’s unstable. If you force it into a deep-memory extraction while she’s pulling away — while her mind is resisting you — the backlash won’t just hurt her.”

She swallowed. “Her mind will shatter before you see a single fragment of what you’re looking for.”

Silence fell. Lucian turned away from her, moving toward the window. Outside, the moon had begun its slow descent, its pale light thinning across the horizon.

The image rose unbidden. Isabella empty-eyed. Broken. Hollow. The thought struck him harder than he expected.

A sharp, unfamiliar jolt tightened in his chest, something dangerously close to anger or possession coiling beneath his ribs.

He did not want a fragile thing. He did not want a shattered mind or a quiet, obedient shell. He wanted the woman who had stood in front of him, trembling but unyielding, and dared to look him in the eye.

The woman who had called him a monster. His jaw tightened. “Then what?” he demanded.

Before Clara could answer, the door opened. “This house.” Marco’s voice cut into the tension as he stepped inside.

Both of them turned toward him. Marco closed the door behind him before continuing, his expression serious, his eyes moving briefly between them.

Lucian’s gaze sharpened. “Why are you back early?” Marco did not answer immediately. He crossed the room with measured steps, the faint scent of the outside world still clinging to him — polished floors, perfume, iron-rich blood, and the heavy indulgence of power being fed.

“The gala has ended,sire” Marco said at last. Clara’s brows drew together slightly. “Ended? Already?”

Marco gave a small, humorless breath. “Yes. The council members were… well satisfied.”

He loosened the cuff at his wrist as he spoke, as though the memory itself were uncomfortable. “For the first time in centuries, they were served human blood openly. It reminded them of older times — of abundance, of dominance, of what they believe their world used to be before the war.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward Lucian. “They were pleased enough that your absence was forgiven. No one questioned it. In fact, your refusal to stay throughout was interpreted as restraint rather than disrespect.”

Lucian’s expression did not change. Marco continued. “They fed well. They were distracted. And when the council is distracted and content, they stop asking dangerous questions.”

Silence settled again, heavier now, more focused. Then Marco’s gaze shifted slowly around the room. To the walls. To the floor. To the structure itself.

“This house, sire,” he said again, more quietly this time. Lucian’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“What about it?” Marco took another step forward, his tone turning more deliberate.

“The house wasn’t built here because the land was desirable. It wasn’t chosen for strategic positioning or proximity to the city.”

His gaze settled fully on Lucian. “It was built here because something was already here.”

“What do you mean?” Lucain was impatient. Marco hesitated only briefly.

“This land was where your old cabin once stood.” The words seemed to land without sound and yet the air shifted around them.

Lucian frowned. “My old cabin?” There was no recognition in his voice. No memory of that. Nothing.

“I don’t remember any cabin,” he said slowly. “I don’t remember this place at all.” He truly didn’t.

Marco nodded once, as though he had expected that answer. “I don’t know much about its history,” he admitted. “Most records from that period are fragmented, and anything directly connected to your activities before your slumber was deliberately obscured.”

He paused. “But what I do know from my father’s before me was that this used to be your gateway cabin whenever the old castle was being too loud.”

Lucian’s eyes darkened slightly. “A gateway,” he repeated.

Marco inclined his head. “Yes, sire. According what I know, it was a place you used before your slumber. Not your primary residence. Not a stronghold.”

Something in Lucian’s chest tightened unexpectedly. A faint pressure began behind his eyes again not pain yet, but the warning edge of it.

Marco went on. “The cabin was destroyed sometime after you entered your long sleep. Year after year it gets renovated to look like a house ment for a king. But the original stone beneath the east wing is not from the house’s construction.”

Clara’s eyes widened slightly.”It’s older,” she said quietly. Marco nodded. “Much older.”

Lucian’s breathing had slowed without him noticing. Gateway? A place he had used before that fall?

And he remembered nothing. The pressure behind his eyes sharpened suddenly.

For a brief moment, the room tilted — nausea rising fast and sharp, as though his body were reacting to a memory his mind still refused to access. He reached for the edge of the nearby table, fingers tightening against the wood until the wave passed.

Clara stepped forward instinctively.

“Lucian—”

“I’m fine.” The words were quiet but absolute. Slowly, he straightened. “Clara,” he said quietly.

She stepped closer, already knowing what he was about to ask and already fearing it. Even though she was the one who had suggested a ritual, she wasn’t confident with how much magic she had regained.

And afterall, a memory magic ritual was hard to pull off, not to talk about an ancient one. Lucian’s gaze shifted toward the eastern wing, toward the ancient stone buried beneath layers of luxury and time.

His voice was calm when he spoke again. “Prepare the ritual.”

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