He steps forward as ambient light catches on white porcelain.
The masked figure from the alley.
Up close, he’s tall … lean beneath black robes that seem to drink light. If I had to guess, I would say he’s in his early thirties – only a few years older than I am. The mask covers the right half of his face – smooth white porcelain, featureless except for a single eyehole that reveals nothing but darkness within. But the left side is bare, and it’s that contrast that makes my breath catch.
Sharp cheekbones, almost severe in their definition, cast shadows across pale skin. His jaw is strong, angular, leading to a chin with the faintest cleft. Dark hair falls across his forehead in disheveled waves, black as the void between stars. Where the mask’s edge meets skin, I can see the beginning of scarring – raised tissue, silver-white and twisted, disappearing beneath the porcelain. The scars continue down his neck, vanishing into his collar, a map of violence written on flesh.
His lips are full, expressive in a way the rest of his half-hidden facecan’t be. Right now, they’re pressed into a thin line, tension written in every angle of his visible features.
But his eyes…
Dark. Nearly black, the kind of brown so deep it almost has no colour at all. Framed by thick lashes that should soften his appearance but somehow make him more intense. His eyes are infused with knowledge that shouldn’t fit in a single lifetime, holding depths I don’t understand. They look at me like they’ve been waiting, like they’ve counted every second until this moment.
“You,” I whisper.
“Me.” The faintest hint of amusement touches his voice. “Though I suppose formal introductions are overdue. I am Lucien, Lord of Pluto. Or what remains of it.”
Pluto. The empty throne. The missing representative.
“Your entire kingdom fell over a decade ago.” The words escape before I can stop them.
“Fell, yes.” He steps closer. I breathe in his scent – winter air, and something floral. “Rumours of our complete demise were exaggerated. We survive … after a fashion.”
The way he sayssurvivemakes me think there was a price to pay.
“You’ve been watching me.” I state.
“I have.” No deflection.
“Why?”
His dark eyes study my face.
“Because youmatter, Cyra. More than you know. Beyond what any of them realize.”
My name on his lips sends a ripple through my chest.
“H-How do you know my name?” I ask.
“I know who you are, what your revelation has cost, and what will happen if you don’t win this Conclave.” He moves to stand beside me at the railing, careful to maintain distance. His voice drops. “If you don’t win, you’ll be dead within a week of its conclusion.”
My grip tightens on the railing. “What do you mean?”
“The Houses aren’t just choosing a new ruler. They’re choosing whether to let the past stay buried … or drag it into the light and burn it alive.” Urgency sharpens his tone. “There are factions here that want you eliminated – not because you threaten their ambitions, but because you represent everything they’ve been trying to destroy since your father’s death.”
I swallow hard. “I’mnotmy father.”
“I know.” The certainty in those two words steadies me. “Buttheydon’t. Or they don’t care. To them, you’re a symbol that needs crushing before it inspires others.”
I blink. “Inspires others? What others?”
He turns to face me fully. “Those who believe in bloodline succession. Divine right to rule.” His dark eyes hold mine. “Your mother isn’t missing, Cyra. Nor has she been taken. She’s gathering them – building a faction that wants to see you on the Solar Throne by right of birth.”
I feel as if the oxygen surrounding me has disappeared into the void of space. The metal railing of the balcony bites into my palms as I grip tighter, steadying myself. “Th-that’s impossible … Mother would never…”
“Wouldn’t she?” His voice gentles. “You need the support of people to rule, not just a Conclave vote. Perhaps she thinks if you have a faction behind you, you’ll be safe.”
Somehow, Mother knew I could be exposed if a Conclave was called … maybe Astrid was right, maybe she can see visions of the future. Maybe she saw something and left on purpose, to make good on all the favours she was owed … a faction of supporters…
