Lucien Vale had never expected to witness his last sunrise this early. At twenty-three, life was supposed to stretch endlessly ahead—yet here he was, watching golden beams trickle through hospital blinds, softly illuminating a room he'd grown painfully accustomed to.
The room was sterile, washed in shades of white, grays, and muted blues. Machines hummed a rhythmic lullaby, synchronized with the steady beep of the heart monitor beside him. Lucien, thin and pale from prolonged illness, lay propped against pristine pillows. His dark hair had grown too long, cascading messily around his face. Eyes, deep gray speckled with flecks of emerald, remained sharp and vivid, defying the frailty of his body.
He shifted slightly, the IV line tugging gently at his arm, reminding him of his tether to life. Lucien had grown used to such limitations. He had spent years confined—if not physically, then certainly by the constant fatigue that defined his existence. Yet, he'd always found escape within books and worlds imagined vividly in his mind.
On the bedside table lay his worn journal, open to a half-written passage. Lucien reached out, fingers trembling with effort, and pulled the journal into his lap. The pen rested nearby, ready but untouched. He'd started writing something profound, something heroic—but the words had halted midway. He skimmed the lines he'd last penned:
"In the shadow of the dying moon, the last king stood alone..."
Lucien sighed, feeling the unfinished sentence ache like an unfulfilled promise.
"Couldn't sleep, huh?" a familiar, gentle voice broke the silence.
He glanced toward the doorway, where his mother, Elena, entered quietly. She wore the weight of long shifts at the hospital, exhaustion visible beneath caring eyes. Her chestnut hair was tied loosely back, highlighting her delicate, worn features. She offered him a soft smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Sleep feels redundant these days," Lucien replied with a dry chuckle, masking the tightness in his chest.
Elena took the seat beside him, gently taking his hand in hers. Her warmth seeped into his cold skin, grounding him for a fleeting moment. "You always had a way with words, Lucien. Even now."
He squeezed her hand gently, comforted by her presence. She had always been his pillar of strength—through diagnoses, treatments, and fading hopes. "I've had good practice," he said softly. "After all, fantasy worlds are kinder than this one."
Her grip tightened, the subtle tremor betraying her composure. "If I could trade places with you..."
"I wouldn't let you," Lucien interrupted gently. "You've already given me everything you could."
A silence settled between them, punctuated only by the rhythmic machinery around them. Lucien closed his eyes momentarily, feeling the weight of his mother's grief press heavily upon him. Yet within the quiet, an odd sensation brushed against his consciousness—like a memory of something he'd yet to experience.
Mountains floated in luminous twilight skies, trees shimmered with ethereal radiance, and whispered stars offered secrets no human had ever known. Lucien's heart stirred, and the feeling tugged at him with a mysterious urgency.
"Lucien?" Elena's voice was laced with quiet concern.
His eyes fluttered open, refocusing slowly on her worried expression. "Just dreaming again."
She smiled softly, though the worry lingered. "You've always been somewhere else in your dreams. Ever since you were little."
"Maybe that's where I belong," Lucien murmured quietly.
The silence returned, and eventually, exhaustion pulled Elena into a gentle sleep, her head resting beside his hand. Lucien watched her breathe, grateful for these final moments. He didn't feel fear or bitterness, only gratitude tinged with sorrow for what might have been.
His gaze drifted toward the window. The sun climbed higher, painting the sky a rich tapestry of colors, gold dissolving into endless blue. Lucien's breathing slowed, his eyes heavy with fatigue. But this time, he welcomed it. He allowed himself to drift, anchored only by his mother's warm touch.
And then the world blurred.
Not pain—just gentle detachment, an unraveling of senses and awareness. Lucien felt himself rise above his body, observing the scene with detached tranquility. The hospital room became distant, fading into mere echoes of color and shape.
Then came the darkness.
It was not cold, nor frightening, but rather like an embrace, vast and timeless. Within that endless void, he heard whispers—ancient, profound murmurs of forgotten wisdom. A presence lingered, enormous and patient, turning slowly toward him with infinite curiosity.
"Lucien," the voice resonated softly through him.
And he knew, somehow, that it spoke his name not from this life, but one yet to begin.
With that realization, the darkness receded, replaced by the sensation of rushing air, pulling him forward through space and time. It surged around him, exhilarating and overwhelming.
Finally, the motion ceased.
Lucien gasped, lungs filling sharply with fresh, untainted air. His senses burst forth vividly—the scent of herbs, the warmth of skin against his tiny body. He was utterly vulnerable, wrapped snugly in a soft cloth.
Cries escaped his lips, the sound high-pitched and instinctual. Around him, blurred figures moved, voices speaking words he didn't yet understand clearly. But one voice cut through the haze, gentle and loving.
A woman, her face warm with relief, cradled him close. "Praise the Ancients," she whispered softly, tears shimmering in her eyes. "Welcome home, Lucien Astralis."
In that instant, Lucien Vale's previous life dissolved into memory. Lucien Astralis's journey had begun beneath the boundless skies of Aetherra, reborn anew.