Chapter 20
Lucien
Xan’s arrival is a clear signal that things have escalated in Imperium far more than anyone wants to admit.
His presence carries the weight of consequence, but also, strangely, a sliver of comfort.
Not because the situation is stable—it isn’t.
It’s become volatile, fracturing under the pressure of secrets and fear.
But now, someone else sees. Someone else has sensed what I’ve known for too long about the High Order. The rot beneath the gold. How Aris twists control behind closed doors. Disloyalty disguised as order. Even the willingness to sacrifice our own simply because they no longer fit the narrative.
No. I won’t keep playing their game.
The Order has made its choice. Now I make mine. And the cost weighs heavily.
I watch Xan now, my brother in blood and bond, as he speaks with Cece. He moves with an untamed ease only he possesses—a force of nature shrouded in charm. Loyal beyond measure. Wild in ways I could never be. But beneath it all, he remains one of the best beings I’ve ever known.
There’s something about him that softens the air around others. Xan doesn’t command trust. He earns it effortlessly. Unless, of course, you find yourself on the wrong side of a Warper’s wrath.
Cece is already smiling. I don’t need to hear the words to know what she’s saying—her hands animated, her shoulders relaxed, her laughter light as wind through leaves. She must be telling him about this realm’s food. About my “tragic” response to cauliflower rice, no doubt.
And Xan . . . of course, he is equally captivated by her.
Something twists inside me. Not jealousy. Not fear. Just realization. Of how deeply I’ve let her in. Of how far I’ve already fallen for this mortal woman with fire in her voice and too much light in her for a world like mine. And how dangerous that truth is. For her. And for me. For all of us.
Cece’s living room carries the serene warmth of a well-lived life: blankets draped over mismatched furniture, a stack of books leaning precariously beside the couch, and a single candle flickering on the coffee table, its scent faintly floral and calming.
Xan has taken over the armchair like it’s a throne, one boot resting on the opposite knee, eyes alight with mischief. Cece sits curled on the couch, a mug in her hands, leaning in, completely engrossed in the conversation.
And me? I’m beside her. Too aware of the space between us as Xan sets into a story of his own. Of the way she shifts, how her hair falls forward, every time her fingers tap lightly against her knee.
“So there we were,” Xan says, gesturing wildly, “halfway up the Inner Spire, clinging to rain-slicked obsidian like absolute idiots—because someone,” he points at me, “decided he could Warp through a closed seal with his eyes shut.”
“It was training,” I mutter, feigning offense. “I was developing accuracy under pressure.”
Cece grins behind the rim of her mug. “And? Did it work?”
“Oh, he warped us, all right,” Xan says. “Straight into Elder Marra’s ceremonial chamber. Right in the middle of a binding ritual. Naked. All of them.”
Cece loses it. Full, head-thrown-back laughter that echoes off the walls like music. It’s unfiltered joy, the kind that brightens the world around it.
I watch her, stunned. Not because of the story—I’ve heard Xan embellish it a hundred times—but because of her.
The way she lights up a room without trying. The way she leans into the moment without hesitation, without fear. She belongs here, safe in this warmth. Not in the chaos I’ve pulled her into.
And yet, I can’t imagine my world without her in it anymore.
“Luc was the worst at lying,” Xan continues. “He’d try to charm his way out of trouble with the Elders. Chin up, eyes serious, like he was delivering a battlefield report instead of covering for the fact that we turned the reflection pools into a vortex slide.”
“They were boring,” I say flatly. “And everyone knows stagnant water is a breeding ground for parasites.”
“See?” Xan laughs. “Always had a justification. Even as a youngling, he was insufferably noble.”
Cece is practically wheezing now. “I can’t imagine Luc being anything less than solemn and brooding.”
I smirk, but my heart isn’t in the comeback. I’m too caught in the feeling. The way her eyes sparkle when she looks at me. The way she sees me now—not as a Warper, or a symbol, or a danger. But as me. Just Luc.
I’m no longer afraid of what Aris might take from me.
I’m afraid of how much I need this. How much I need her.
And that truth might undo me more than war ever could.
Cece wipes a tear from the corner of her eye as Xan reclines deeper into the armchair, thoroughly pleased with himself. The candle flickers, casting light across her face, and the air between us settles into something slower. Softer.
She glances at me, still smiling, but her tone shifts. “So . . . what was it really like? Growing up in Pomerium?”
I blink. The question catches me off guard—because no one has ever asked me that.
Xan whistles low. “Careful,” he warns. “You’re asking him to open the vault.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
Cece leans in, undeterred. “I mean it, Luc. What did your life look like before all of this?”
Her eyes search mine with genuine curiosity. I lean back, drawing in a breath as I look toward the window, the faint reflection of the three of us caught in the glass.
“Pomerium,” I say slowly, “is both sanctuary and cage. The capital is built around power. Bloodlines. Legacies. The Order’s control. It’s beautiful—towering spires of living crystal, sky bridges woven with arc light. The stars feel close enough to touch.”
Cece listens so intently I can feel her focus, like something tangible between us.
“But beneath it,” I continue, “there are rules. Expectations. You’re born with a role, and the older you get, the harder it becomes to breathe inside it.”
Xan hums in agreement. “We’re trained early. Mentally. Physically. Skillfully. No real childhood. Just lessons. And survival.”
Cece’s brow furrows. “That sounds . . . lonely.”
I hesitate. “It was.”
She reaches out, resting her hand over mine. The touch is light, but it stills something in me I didn’t know had been shaking. “What about your family?” she asks. “Your parents?”
The silence before I answer says more than I intend.
“My parents were the most revered Warpers in our realm’s history,” I say quietly. “Together, they reshaped our boundaries, altered the edges of time itself. They stood at the peak of the Order. My father once stopped a rupture mid-collapse with his bare hands. My mother could displace the stars.”
I pause.
“She was brilliant. Ruthless, in the way survival demands. She died during the rift invasion while I was still training. After she was gone, my father seemed to lose himself, and I believe he became deliberately reckless in battle. And that was it.”
“So I was born into that legacy. Their blood. Their power. Their burden.”
Xan leans forward, voice softer. “From the moment he could stand, he was told what he’d become. What he must become.”
I look down at my hands, remembering the first time I warped before the Elders—six years old, shaking with fear, and still expected to succeed.
“They say I’ll surpass them both. That I’m the strongest Warper ever born. My destiny isn’t a question. It’s a decree.”
Cece’s voice is gentle. “That’s . . . a lot to carry.”
“It’s everything,” I say. “The rituals. The training. The politics. I’m expected to serve the realm. Every step observed. Every mistake recorded. I’m not allowed to fail. Or falter. Or feel.”
I look at her, because it’s impossible not to. “You asked what it’s like. It’s beautiful. And suffocating. Revered. And entirely lonely.”
Her expression softens. “I’m so sorry.”
“The Order raised me after my parents’ deaths,” I say. Then add, “And Xan.”
“Me?” Xan scoffs. “Please. I was just another orphan who corrupted you. I take full credit for that rebellious streak you pretend not to have.”
I huff out a breath, amused. “Because of you, I learned to question things.”
I offer him a wry smile, but my gaze drifts back to Cece, curled beneath a blanket.
“For all his brooding,” Xan says, “he was a showoff. Once opened a rift mid-duel just to disarm his opponent with style.”
I roll my eyes. “It worked, didn’t it?”
She smiles and leans my way, giving me a light nudge, dissolving the tension. I’d do just about anything to keep that spark in my life.
“See?” Xan grins. “Arrogant prodigy. Even back then. And somehow still convinced he had to earn what he already was.”
Cece’s eyes brighten—then falter. Her fingers, resting near mine, trace slow, absent shapes across the back of my hand. The contact is startlingly intimate.
“You don’t have many who . . . see you, do you?” she asks softly. “Not for who you are. Just what you can do.”
There it is. My truth, laid bare with such disarming grace, it hurts to hear. “No,” I said. “Not until recently.”
Our eyes lock. Her gaze doesn’t flinch. And in it, I see something I haven’t dared let myself believe I could have—understanding.
Xan clears his throat pointedly. “If I stay any longer, I’m going to start gagging on the emotional density in this room.”
Cece smiles and rolls her eyes—but her hand doesn’t move from mine.
And I’m grateful.
Not just for the interruption, but for her.
This world, which should feel foreign to me, is beginning to feel like home.
And it’s entirely because of her.
Exhaustion caught up with her, and Cece excused herself with a quiet smile, retreating to her room. Xan and I make our way to the fire escape, where the city stretches below us.
“I’ve never seen you like this with anyone else.” He studies me, not saying the name from my past. He doesn’t have to. I know exactly who he means. “You love her,” Xan says without hesitation. It isn’t a question.
“I don’t know. I didn’t plan to care this much,” I say, hands braced against the metal railing. “I didn’t even want to.”