Chapter 54 Heritage
Heritage
Lucian
I
’m a child again. A seamstress pins royal blue suits to my little body.
My father sits before me, alive. We’re in the castle, a place we rarely visited when I was young—and I never had fittings like this.
“How is this, Your Majesty?” The seamstress steps back, looking to my father.
He glances me up and down with a nod. The body I’m in doesn’t shudder at his stare, nor does he trace the lines of his father’s face, trying to remember the exact wrinkle beneath his left eye or the spot of gray stubble on his chin.
Yet I wish it would.
It’s only when Father looks away, facing the seamstress, that I can see the fullness of him. Between his hands, he clutches a silver staff—the Stone of Light glistening at its tip.
Why is he holding Labyrinth’s staff? Why is he wearing the crown?
It feels like some sort of memory, as I’m unable to even twitch a finger. Desdemona must have used the Memorium.
These were the thousands of memories Cynthia mentioned, locked deep and untouched in my mind.
“It’s dashing,” Father says, and the seamstress bows, cheeks flushed.
A servant escorts me back to my room while Father stays behind. I take each step like a trained soldier, trying to glance around, to get this body to move the way I wish it to, but my head remains fixed forward.
The servant leaves me in my room. It isn’t the chamber I recall from my youth—the one within the manor just beyond the kingdom’s bounds where I was raised. Instead, it’s the same room I stay in now when I visit the kingdom of Ilyria.
Everything I recall about the manor suddenly feels false—fickle, worn around the edges. The memories were implanted, and now, as I see the truth of my youth, it burns holes in the pages of my past.
I walk to the mirror, standing before it.
My heart aches for my reflection, not even four feet tall, yet my blue eyes are wide—full of love.
I must be six. My father’s death is upon us.
The manor in my mind, where I thought I spent my first years with Ramona and Silas, does not exist. In all my memories of this body, I now recall my father living in this castle with me.
It isn’t an added memory, but uncovered—like something that had always been there.
My father’s name is Labyrinth. It is whispered through the halls—King Labyrinth, said in reverence, and sometimes fear, though mostly respect.
I now realize I’ve heard the name my entire life. If I had any control over this body, I would quiver.
The name belongs to my father—my true father, my birth father. The uncle who raised me stole his name.
So who is the Labyrinth I know now?
?
There’s a thread of memories in my mind that wasn’t there before, unraveling.
I stand at the door of my father’s study, cracked open just an inch. It’s late in the evening, the halls nearly desolate. I know I should not be here, and this little body trembles as he stands.
Father is in danger. I am still young and deluded enough to believe I can protect him. There’s a man in the room with him, whom I can scarcely see through the slight crack in the door.
“Is he ready yet?” The man’s voice is cold, cruel, and calm.
My father sighs. “He’s but a boy, Mial—” he cuts himself off. “My lord.”
Footsteps echo on the marble, moving away from where I stand and closer to Father. “What have you done to prepare his strength? Play dress-up?”
“Unless I have a daughter, he’s going to be king. I’m teaching him the traits of a ruler.”
The man tsks. “I don’t need him to rule.”
“With all due respect,” my father says, pausing, “he isn’t your son.”
“He is Icarthus’s.”
I am the son of the Arcanes.
Everything Icarthus told me when he possessed Wendy’s body was true—my parents were the real rulers, and he used them to create me. He inhabited my father’s body until it was of no use to him.
A palm hits the table, loud enough to make my body jump. I inch closer to the door, closing one eye to focus the other.
“I am his father.”
“Partially. Potentially. Who truly knows the semantics of possession?” The footsteps retreat, and I press away from the crack in the door.
I have no control over this body—no control over the images that play out before me. Yet, I’m glad for my younger self and his tenacity. I knew something was wrong and followed my instinct.
Yet, in the end, it did nothing to save my father.
“I’ll check in soon,” Mial says. “For an update.”
The door swings open, and Mial steps out, walking right past me. I’m unsure if it’s the nature of memory or the truth of what happened, as the man glances at me. His eyes glow red, and the child within me shies away in fear.
Mial offers only a smirk.
I suppose my father sees. The chair scrapes against the floor, hissing in my ear.
Father strides across the room to me, picking me up around the waist. He plops me on the chair, then moves behind his desk, standing before it.
He drags his hand across his face—a motion I’ve done many times—with a hand braced on the desk.
“I apologize for listening,” I say, my voice high-pitched. It’s hard to believe I ever sounded like this.
Father lowers himself into his seat. “You did as a ruler would.”
?
The days between milestone memories move quickly. It’s certain: I lived in the palace. I hardly knew Lilac, though I knew she was my cousin.
Most perplexing, I am the true prince of Ilyria.
They refer to my mother as Leiana and my father as Labyrinth. My mother’s death isn’t public knowledge; she was killed by Arcanes, and my father believes it was at Mial’s hands when I was one. They want to avoid causing panic in the kingdom.
I struggle to comprehend the extent of the magic Desdemona used to power the Memorium—a caliber I didn’t think possible. She didn’t just return my memories of her; she must have restored every stolen memory, from every living person.
And for me, it unlocked the truth of my heritage. All the times Leiana and Labyrinth—or whoever they truly are—altered Lilac’s memories, making her believe I was always her brother, they did the same to me.
?
One night, a burning wakes me. This is not a new memory. This is one that has always sat at the back of my mind, vague and blurry.
It is, in some ways, different this time. I don’t remember being in the castle or the burning coming through the scars along my back.
Father was killed by an Arcane, and I was made by them. Icarthus told me I bore the scars because of the Soul Ruby, in the same breath that he told me he possessed my father.
The scars are proof of what I am.
And now, they pull me toward my dying father. If only I could turn away, save myself the horror of seeing him that way.
Perhaps then everything would be different.
Yet my little feet hit the cold marble floor, sweat beading on my forehead. My steps echo loudly as I walk the halls, and why wouldn’t they? This was my home; the guards are here to protect me.
My plan is to find a servant and ask for food—something cold to ease the heat—but I’m taken off course.
My feet, as if on their own, follow the burns to Father’s quarters.
There are no guards at the door. Usually, they would knock for me, tell my father I want to see him, but since they’re not here, I push the door open.
It’s a bit heavy.
My child self doesn’t recognize this door the way I do now. He sees his father’s room, while I see the hall where the false Leiana was killed. These were her and Labyrinth’s quarters—rooms I was never allowed to enter.
“Father?” I step into the room.
I know he’s dead. The body I’m in doesn’t realize, yet.
Nervously, I walk around the bend, the scars along my back pulsing. The heat becomes unbearable, sweat pooling beneath my arms and spilling into my eyes.
I step toward the platform, approaching the bed. He lies there, not beneath the sheets. This body doesn’t understand. He’s worried, not yet scared. He should be.
I walk the five steps up the platform, eyes stinging.
“Father?” I ask. “What are you doing?”
He does not stir.
I step closer, until I’m able to touch him. “Father, wake up.”
I shake him, unable to make much of a disturbance. My hands—like pebbles on his arms, made of boulders—are no match for his strength. Half his face is shielded, pressed against the covers. I place a hand on his cheek, gently moving his head, waiting for his eyes to open.
Half his face is burnt.
I wrap my arms around him, clutching tightly. Somehow, I think he’ll be okay. I believe I’ll get him help, and he’ll wake up. We’ll figure out how to take care of the burns.
It breaks my heart to feel the hope I once had.
“Father?” I cry. He’s not warm, like he usually is. He’s nearly… cold.
I don’t let go.
“Please.” My tears fall onto his cloak, the one he never sleeps in. I decide to stay here until he wakes up, to hug him until he can hug me back.
I don’t let go. Not when a woman enters the room, or when she hooks her hands around my calves and tries to pull. I’m steadfast in my resolve to hold on.
“Stop it!” I shriek as she pulls. “Stop!”
“We have to take your father to the infirmary,” she replies gently.
“Will they mend him?” My words are muffled, my face buried in my father’s suit.
“Yes, darling.”
I let go. This is the help I was waiting for. I see that the other arm, the one Father was lying on, is burnt as well, and I feel the power that hurt him around me. It’s hot and fluid, seeping into the scars on my back as it moves up my spine, into my blood, and straight to my brain.
“He might not be all right,” the woman tells me. I look into her bright blue eyes, and vaguely, my younger self recognizes her.
Aunt Ramona, he thinks.
Leiana, I correct.
They stole my parents’ names—and their throne. I long to move away from her, run out of this room and save my younger self the trauma.
I am of no power in this body.
“But you will be.” Her hand extends to me, and I take it, her fingers colder than my father’s.
?
My new mother puts me in the dungeon, though not in the way she will in the future. For now, I’m a prisoner. I don’t have to watch what she does to the others; I’m only awaiting my sentencing.
I never knew I saw the dungeon so young.
I’m here for a day until finally, she enters the room with a woman who looks more scared than I am.
It’s Queen Melody—much younger than she is in the present day.
Her hands are shaking, her eyes darting—so unlike her usual composure.
Leiana follows behind, ushering her deeper inside the dungeon.
Perhaps Melody fears Leiana will lock her up.
I don’t discredit such fears.
All that woman has done is take from my family, bled us dry. Suddenly, I wish she were still alive.
I would like the chance to kill her, give her the slow and painful demise she so deserves.
Melody exhales deeply when Leiana stops behind her, sliding a key into the lock. It clicks as she opens my cage and offers me a hand. With her help, I rise to my feet, and the three of us exit the dungeon. Once we’re away from the steel, Melody kneels, still holding my hand.
“You might feel”—her voice shakes—“a pinch. But you’re safe.” Then her eyes glow yellow, and I fall into them.
She reweaves my memories like a tapestry.
?
Leiana and Labyrinth have the same meetings with Mial as my father did—though I don’t realize it when I see it. I spy on them as I spied on my father, watching through the hall. This body doesn’t realize it’s playing out an old pattern.
Mial thanks them for their help in killing my parents and wishes them well with their throne.
They’ve agreed to do his bidding, compensating for my father’s failures.
Mial needs me alive and near—for something. This is why Ramona and Silas kept me as their son, rather than discarding me entirely. Why they implanted me and Lilac with different versions of our childhoods—for his gain. They kept me unaware of my parents’ power, and Lilac unaware of theirs.
He can’t get what he wants.
But all my memories show just that, over and over.
When the fake Leiana and Labyrinth catch me watching, they throw me in the dungeon again.
In less than a day’s time, I forget.
?
I blink my eyes open, bark biting sharply into my back. The sun shines into my eyes—daytime. I glance around, searching for my father’s dead body, for Leiana or Melody.
My father is dead. Melody stole my memories. Leiana stole my mother’s name.
Rubbing my eyes, I try to regain my senses. I’m alone in the woods, though voices murmur in the distance, hard to hear. Silently, I walk through the twigs and dirt, nearing the village. At first, I catch only clipped words.
“Arcane.” “Girl.” “Fight.”
The sentences start to piece together.
“An Arcane brought a Lyrian to our land.”
“Traitor.”
I follow from a distance, the glint of steel in their hands shining in the sun. They knock on neighbors’ doors, speaking in low voices I can scarcely hear from the outskirts. Some of the neighbors close their doors, others join.
I move as near as possible, staying behind the trees beside their homes.
“The Arcanes are coming back,” one says.
“Only one is here, as far as we know,” a man with a gruff voice adds. “We can handle one.”
“How could we kill one?” the woman says from inside her house, clutching her door.
“We don’t gotta. If we can get ’em to leave, we can make an example of ’em.”
The woman steps closer to him.
“We can’t have the Arcanes treading on our land again—”
I run in the other direction, searching for Desdemona.