Chapter 90: Crown prince.

Chapter 90

The east wing felt different long before Lucian reached it. The change was subtle at first, the air getting cooler, heavier, as though it had settled into the walls and refused to move with the rest of the house.

The polished elegance that marked the main halls did not reach this far. The marble floors gave way to older stone, uneven in places, worn smooth by time rather than design.

The lighting was dimmer here, the chandeliers replaced by wall sconces whose flames burned low and steady, casting long, unmoving shadows.

This part of the house had been renovated, yes. But not restored. Not truly changed. The deeper he walked, the more the structure seemed to resist the illusion of modern grandeur.

The walls were thicker. The silence was denser. Even the scent of the place was different, earth, old wood, faint traces of smoke and something older still, something that did not belong to any century that still remembered him.

A pressure began again behind his eyes. Not pain. Recognition. Or the shape of it.

Lucian slowed as he reached the final door at the end of the corridor. Unlike the others, it was not polished mahogany or carved to match the rest of the estate.

This one was reinforced with iron bands darkened by age, its surface marked with shallow scratches that renovation had failed to erase.

His hand brushed briefly on the handle before he pushed the door open. The scent of wax and burning herbs met him immediately.

Clara was already inside. The room itself had not been modernized at all. The stone walls were bare, rough, the ceiling lower than the rest of the house.

No furniture remained except a long wooden table pushed against the far wall, its surface crowded with bowls of crushed herbs, vials of dark liquid, and fragments of old parchment.

Candles were everywhere. Dozens of them lined the floor and walls, their flames forming a wide ring of trembling light that left the corners of the room in shadow.

The air shimmered faintly with heat and magic, the atmosphere thick enough that each breath felt slower than the last.

At the center of the floor, a large circle had been drawn in dark ink mixed with something thicker. Something that caught the light with a dull sheen.

Clara knelt inside it. Her sleeves were rolled back, her fingers stained as she worked carefully along the edge of the design, reinforcing symbols that spiraled outward in precise, ancient patterns.

Under her breath, she murmured a low chant, the words old enough that even the language felt worn at the edges. Lucian stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

The sound seemed to seal the room. Clara did not look up immediately.

“The foundation here is original,” she said quietly, her voice woven into the rhythm of her work. “The stone beneath this floor predates the house. It holds memory. Places like this… they don’t forget what they’ve witnessed.”

She dipped her fingers into a small bowl and continued tracing the final line of the outer circle.

“This is not just a ritual to recover memories,” she went on. “It’s a recall through imprint. The land remembers what your mind refuses to release.”

Only then did she lift her gaze to him. Her white eyes moved over his face carefully.

“You’re already reacting to the space,” she observed. “That’s good. It means the connection is still there.”

Lucian said nothing. The nausea had not fully faded. It lingered low in his stomach, rising and falling in slow waves, each one accompanied by a faint dizziness — the unsettling sensation of standing somewhere both familiar and completely unknown.

Clara stood, wiping her hands slowly with a cloth. “I’ve anchored the circle to you,” she said. “Once you step inside, the ritual will draw on three things — the location, your blood, and whatever memory remains buried in your subconscious.”

She hesitated briefly. “This won’t be like ordinary recall, Lucian. If the block was placed deliberately — and I believe it was — then whatever is behind it may resist being seen.”

Her expression tightened slightly. “And if it does, the backlash won’t just be mental.”

Lucian’s gaze shifted back to the circle. The symbols seemed to move if he looked at them too long.

The nausea rose again, sharper this time. “Begin,” he said.

Clara did not move. “For this to work,” she said quietly, “you cannot fight what you see. Even if it doesn’t make sense. Even if it shows you something you don’t want to remember.”

A brief silence stretched between them. Then Lucian stepped forward.

The moment his foot crossed the edge of the circle, the candle flames bent inward as if pulled by a slow, invisible breath.

The air thickened. Clara watched him carefully, then lifted one hand slightly.

“Wait.” Lucian stopped.

Her gaze moved over him once — assessing, calculating — not as a companion now, but as a practitioner standing before something powerful and potentially unstable.

“The circle has to read you clearly,” she said. “Skin contact with the stone will strengthen the imprint. Shoes will interfere.”

Lucian said nothing. He simply stepped back once, removed them, and set them aside near the wall. Clara’s eyes did not leave him.

“And your shirt.” There was no hesitation.

The fabric fell away a moment later, revealing pale skin stretched over a body that carried centuries of power and restraint.

Old scars — some faint, some deep — crossed his torso like quiet records of battles no one living remembered. The candlelight moved over him in shifting gold, the shadows along the walls responding subtly, as though the room itself recognized him.

“Good,” Clara said softly.

She stepped back, moving carefully outside the circle’s boundary, her movements deliberate so as not to disturb the markings.

“Now lie down. Center of the sigil. On your back.”

Lucian obeyed. The stone was colder than he expected. It was not the surface chill of a room left unheated. This cold came from deeper from the foundation itself.

He positioned himself exactly where the lines converged and nothing happened.

Then the nausea returned, rolling slowly like standing on ground that wasn’t entirely stable. Clara lowered herself outside the circle, sitting cross-legged at its edge.

She placed her palms together, fingers interlocked, then closed her eyes.

When she spoke again, her voice had changed. The words that left her lips were not meant for conversation. They moved in steady rhythm, a language worn smooth by centuries of use, each syllable landing with quiet weight against the stone.

At first, Lucian felt nothing until the floor began to vibrate. It traveled through his back, his shoulders, into the base of his skull. The circle’s ink darkened slightly, the lines seeming to sink into the stone as though being pulled downward.

The candle flames steadied. Every single one of them. The nausea sharpened. Lucian exhaled slowly and closed his eyes.

The vibration deepened. It spread through his body, settling into his bones, his chest, the back of his throat.

Clara’s chanting grew steadier, her hands tightening together as the air inside the room thickened further.

The scent of the herbs intensified. Wax. Smoke. Earth. The temperature dropped.

Lucian’s fingers twitched once against the stone. Then the pressure behind his eyes returned but vanished completely.

The vibration stopped. The chanting disappeared. The cold stone beneath his back was gone too.

Lucian’s eyes flew open. He was no longer lying down. He was seated.

Warm air brushed against his skin, carrying the scent of roasted meat, wine, polished wood, and fresh flowers.

Sound surrounded him, quiet conversation, movement, the soft clink of metal against glass.

He looked down. The clothing on his body was heavy, dark, and ancient in design — layered fabric, embroidered edges, the kind worn in an era long erased by war and time.

His pulse slowed. This was not a vision. Not a dream. Not an illusion distance. The weight of the fabric. The warmth of the room. The pressure of the chair beneath him.

This was memory. And it was happening now.

“Ah,” a voice murmured nearby. “The Crown Prince has arrived.”

Lucian’s head lifted sharply. “Prince Lucain.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep