The night was cold.
Far colder than Lucian Ravencrest remembered.
He sat alone upon the stone floor of the palace library, his back resting against the heavy wooden leg of a reading table while the towering shelves around him disappeared into darkness. Moonlight slipped through the tall windows high above, falling across the floor in pale silver lines that barely reached where he sat.
For a long time he did not move.
His eyes were open, yet they were not truly looking at the library anymore.
They were lost somewhere far away.
Lost in memories.
Memories that had begun to pull at him the moment he allowed his heart to weaken.
Memories of a time when things had been simpler.
When he had still known how to laugh without forcing it.
When there had still been a reason to smile.
Lucian lowered his head slightly, letting out a quiet breath as the past slowly unfolded within his mind.
Back then…
He had not been alone.
Back then there had been someone who never looked at him with pity.
Someone who had never laughed at him.
Someone who had never whispered behind his back.
His little sister.
Lyra Ravencrest.
The third child of the Ravencrest royal family.
Lucian's younger sister by two years.
Even now, as the memory returned to him, he could picture her clearly as if she were standing right in front of him.
Lyra had inherited her mother's features almost perfectly.
Her eyes were a soft silver-gray, clear and bright like moonlight reflecting upon calm water. Her hair shimmered like pale silver threads beneath the sun, falling down her back in soft waves that always seemed to glow faintly whenever light touched them.
But what Lucian remembered most clearly—
Was her smile.
It was a smile that could brighten the coldest room in the palace.
Even the servants used to say so.
From the moment she had learned to walk, Lyra had been filled with an endless curiosity about the world around her. She ran through the palace halls like a small storm of energy, always chasing something new to learn.
Magic fascinated her more than anything.
While most children her age played with toys and games, Lyra preferred books about spells, spirits, and ancient legends.
She loved stories.
Especially the ones Lucian told her.
Lucian smiled faintly at the memory.
He remembered when she had only been four years old.
Back then she had followed him everywhere.
Whenever Lucian tried to sit quietly and read alone, it never lasted long. Sooner or later he would hear the quick sound of small footsteps racing through the hallway.
Then—
"Brother!"
Lyra would come running toward him as fast as her tiny legs could carry her.
Lucian had often been sitting on the large sofa in the royal study with a book open in his hands when she arrived. She would rush across the room and try to climb onto the seat beside him.
But her legs were still too small.
Her feet would slip against the edge of the sofa, leaving her hanging there awkwardly while she struggled to pull herself up.
Lucian remembered the way she used to glare at him then.
Those silver eyes narrowing slightly while her cheeks puffed out in silent frustration.
She never said anything.
She didn't have to.
Her expression alone seemed to command him.
Brother.
Lift me.
Lucian would sigh dramatically every time.
"…You know you're getting spoiled."
Lyra would simply keep staring.
Waiting.
Lucian always lost that battle.
He would lean forward and lift her easily onto the sofa, setting her beside him.
Sometimes she climbed directly into his lap.
Other times she perched against his shoulder like a tiny bird while he continued reading.
She never understood most of the books he held.
Not really.
But that never stopped her.
Lyra would stare intently at the pages, her small fingers resting on the edges of the paper while her bright eyes followed every line as if the strange symbols and words were secrets she intended to understand someday.
And when Lucian paused his reading—
She would tug on his sleeve.
"Tell me."
Her voice had always been soft but excited.
"Tell me the story."
Lucian would pretend to think about it for a moment before closing the book.
"…Alright."
And then he would begin.
Stories of ancient magicians.
Stories of spirits who lived in forests older than kingdoms.
Stories of dragons sleeping beneath mountains.
Lyra listened to every word as if it were the most important thing in the world.
Sometimes she leaned her head against his shoulder while he spoke.
Sometimes she climbed onto his back and hung there while demanding he continue the story.
Lucian never minded.
Because when she was there—
The whispers of the palace disappeared.
The expectations.
The laughter.
The pity.
None of it existed in those moments.
There was only the two of them.
A brother.
And his little sister who believed every story he told her.
Lucian's smile faded slowly as the memory continued.
Things had stayed like that for years.
Until the day everything began to change.
The day their parents decided to take them somewhere special.
A place spoken of only in rare magical circles.
A place where children with magical talent were tested and guided.
A hidden sanctuary far beyond the cities and royal courts of the continent.
The Village of Sylvarin.
Lucian closed his eyes slowly as the memory sharpened.
By then Lyra had already turned eight years old.
And that day…
That day was the beginning of the distance that would slowly grow between them.