Later That Week – The Pavilion of Moonlight
The soft golden light shimmered across the secluded pavilion, enchanted with layers of concealment runes. A favored spot by nobles, rarely disturbed—especially when veiled by magic.
Lucille awaited him there.
Prince Lucan of Sabrah, noble and kind, unaware of the storm behind her eyes. He had long visited the temple, drawn to Lucille's beauty and grace. Today, however, she was different—her aura magnetic, her gaze deeper, her presence overwhelming.
"Lucan," she said, her voice silk over stone. "Would you stay a little longer?"
He blinked, a little surprised, but smiled. "Of course."
Lucille stepped closer, brushing her fingers over his arm, guiding him through the barrier and into the moonlit pavilion.
Within, time seemed slower. The world outside could not touch them here.
She leaned in, her breath brushing his ear.
> "I had a dream," she whispered, "and you were there. Touching me… like I was yours."
Lucan turned to face her, caught in her spell. "Lucille—"
She silenced him with a kiss—gentle at first, then burning with intensity. His arms pulled her close, his noble restraint wavering. Her fingers traced his collarbone, then slid beneath his tunic.
Lucan gasped softly. "This isn't… I mean—"
But her smile undid him.
Lucille whispered, "Don't think. Just feel."
He surrendered. Their kisses deepened, breaths quickened, and beneath the spell-laced pavilion, desire met vengeance. What he saw as love, Lucille knew was legacy.
Later, they lay tangled in silence. Lucan's hand draped over her waist. He slept, peaceful.
Lucille stared at the ceiling, eyes wide open.
> "You will give me children," she thought. "And they will carry my flame. One day… the blood of the Moonwell and the dark fire of Carello will rise. And the Council will fall to what they never saw coming."
She turned her face away from him and whispered into the night.
> "This is how we begin again, Father. One child… one seed at a time."
The Legacy of Lucille
The truth struck Lucille like a divine whisper carried on the wind.
Lucan… was Brienne's firstborn. The rightful heir to the Sabrah bloodline.
The same Brienne who once betrayed her mother, Corrine.
Lucille stood by the temple gardens that evening, the moon casting silver light across her figure. She smiled—a slow, knowing smile.
> "How poetic," she murmured. "The blood I lost… I will recover through theirs."
And so, with every meeting, every embrace, Lucille bound Lucan tighter to her. What began as seduction grew into obsession. Passion, lust, need. They were inseparable.
---
Years Later – A Queen of Ashes and Shadows
By the time she was twenty-eight, Lucille had married Lucan, bore him four children, and lived as a noble consort within Sabrah. Her beauty was revered, her presence both graceful and feared.
But when Lucan died mysteriously, whispers filled the court. Poison, assassination, blood ritual—none could be proven. Yet all eyes turned to Lucille.
Brienne, mourning her son, exiled Lucille from Sabrah. Her name was blackened, her legacy scorched from the noble records.
But Lucille did not mourn. She watched Sabrah fade behind her and whispered, "You gave me what I needed."
---
The Second Husband – Dierus Moonwell
It was Dierus Moonwell, Lucan's cousin, who found her abandoned on the outskirts of the Moonwell province. He was handsome, wild-spirited, and impulsive—dangerously drawn to her.
He offered his hand. And Lucille, once again, smiled like a queen playing chess.
They married quickly, and Dierus became obsessed. His affection was overwhelming, impulsive, unrestrained. Lucille gave him everything he desired—a queen who burned with equal fire.
> "He worships me," she thought. "And he will give me more heirs to continue the flame."
Within eight years, Lucille bore six more children. Every year, another child—all touched by her legacy, all bearing whispers of the Black Flame deep within.
To outsiders, she was a tragic noble widow, a devoted wife, and a fertile blessing to the Moonwell clan.
But behind the veil, Lucille watched each child with purpose.
> "You are my army," she would whisper to them in the cradle. "Your blood is Carello. You are born not to serve… but to conquer."
And in secret, she trained them. Not with swords—but with patience. With ancient words. With knowledge passed down from Corrine and Lucifer. With hatred remembered in silence.