In the shadow of the Great Ruins — far beyond crumbled towers and endless ash — there stood another world.

  A world untouched by the decay.

  High walls rose into the sky, shining white against the endless blue, so tall they seemed to pierce the heavens themselves.

  Inside those walls, the city of Eden bloomed like a flower in defiance of the wasteland beyond.

  Here, the air was sweet with the scent of gardens.

  Water still ran clear in glittering fountains.

  Children laughed in the streets, chasing each other past clean stone houses and vibrant marketplaces.

  Bakers called out their morning wares, students hurried along in pressed uniforms, lovers strolled under canopies of ivy and painted banners.

  Hope lived here.

  Dreams lived here.

  It was a place where the old world had not yet died — or perhaps, where it had been carefully preserved, sealed away from the rot.

  Of the Ruins beyond the walls, most citizens of Eden knew nothing.

  And those who did — the old, the wise, the powerful — spoke of it only in hushed tones.

  A place of monsters and madness, a land swallowed by its own sins. Best to forget. Best to look forward, not back.

  And so, life in Eden moved like a river: smooth, steady, always forward.

  At the very heart of Eden, where the avenues turned from cobbled streets into grand marble roads, stood the estates of the Nobility — the houses whose bloodlines traced back to the founding of the city itself.

  Here, among sprawling manors and towering spires, dreams were woven not from survival, but from legacy. From ambition.

  It was here, inside a mansion of shining glass and gold-trimmed stone, that Lucius of House Caelum lived.

  The courtyard of House Caelum stretched wide and gleaming, paved in smooth white stone.

  At its center, training dummies stood in neat rows, worn by countless strikes that had never truly been needed.

  Lucius stood at the center, sword in hand, the morning sun catching the silver-white of his hair and painting him in an almost holy light.

  His blade — a slender rapier of fine make — moved like a living thing in his grip, flowing effortlessly from guard to strike to flourish.

  Each motion was precise, elegant.

  Perfect.

  Too perfect.

  "Good, good," drawled a voice from the shaded terrace.

  Master Orien, Lucius’s appointed tutor, lounged in a chair far too comfortable for a training ground, sipping lazily from a cup of chilled tea.

  He was an older man, soft around the edges, his once-proud frame long surrendered to the comforts of noble life.

  "Mind your left wrist, young lord," Orien said, barely looking up.

  "You're overextending. Makes it easy for a counterthrust."

  Lucius paused mid-motion.

  He turned his head slightly — just enough to seem respectful — and offered a flawless, practiced smile.

  "Of course, Master Orien," he said aloud.

  Inside, something coiled tight in his chest.

  'As if I need advice from a corpse rotting in velvet.'

  He resumed his form, slower now, deliberate, each step measured.

  He let Orien's words wash over him like a passing breeze, acknowledged but never truly felt.

  The sun shifted.

  Time dragged.

  Another hour of perfect stances, perfect strikes, perfect bows.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  All witnessed by a man who had stopped caring long ago.

  When the final chime rang across the estate — the signal of day's training end — Lucius stepped back, bowed low, and sheathed his blade with a grace that seemed effortless.

  "Thank you for your guidance, Master Orien," he said, voice clear and polite.

  Orien gave a lazy wave of the hand, already rising to leave.

  "You hardly need it, my boy. Hardly need it at all."

  Lucius bowed again, waiting until Orien’s footsteps faded.

  Only then did he allow the mask to slip, if only slightly.

  He stood alone in the vast courtyard, the fading light glinting off the marble and polished stone.

  The staff, the guards, the tutors — all kept their distance.

  Not out of fear.

  Not out of dislike.

  But because they thought he didn’t need them.

  Lucius Caelum: the perfect heir.

  The perfect son.

  The perfect student.

  He smiled thinly to himself.

  He touched the hilt of his rapier absently, gazing up at the impossibly high walls of Eden, their bright banners fluttering like taunts against the sky.

  'One day' he thought, 'I'll show them all. I'll show the world what true greatness looks like.'

  "A true Hero"

  That evening, the great dining hall of House Caelum was alive with soft music and warm golden light.

  Servants moved silently along the edges, pouring wine and setting down platters of roasted meats and rich breads.

  At the head of the table sat Lord Theo Caelum — a stern man with a chiseled jaw and eyes like cold sapphires.

  Across from him sat Lady Eve Caelum — radiant, ageless, her hair a cascade of silver so fine it seemed spun from starlight.

  Between them, at a respectful distance, sat Lucius.

  He was dressed impeccably in formal attire: silver embroidery threading through dark velvet, a small signet ring flashing on his hand.

  He sat straight-backed, hands folded neatly in his lap, every movement precise and polished.

  "Your training progresses well, I hear," Lord Theo said between sips of wine, voice clipped and efficient.

  "Yes, Father," Lucius replied smoothly, lowering his gaze in modest deference.

  Lady Eve smiled faintly, dabbing her mouth with a silk napkin.

  "My beautiful boy. You always were so gifted. We needn’t worry about you at all."

  Lucius smiled warmly, bowing his head slightly.

  "Thank you, Mother. I strive to bring honor to House Caelum."

  later, with the formalities ended, Lucius remained seated, his plate half-finished, his glass still half-full.

  Across the long polished table, his father and mother spoke quietly of things that no longer needed him — trade routes secured, alliances maintained, their future assured.

  He watched them with a smile stitched so tightly onto his face it might as well have been carved in stone.

  'They don’t ask how I feel' Lucius thought. 'They never do.'

  'Why would they?'

  To them, he was already complete — a portrait they had finished painting long ago, beautiful and lifeless.

  He could have screamed across the table, flipped every golden platter, broken every crystal glass —

  and they would have smiled, nodded, and said how passionate he was.

  Their perfect little heir.

  Their polished weapon.

  Not a son. Not a boy. Just a thing.

  Lucius lowered his eyes, the same way he'd been taught — a respectful show of humility.

  'You don’t see me' he thought quietly. 'You see what you needed. And you’re satisfied.'

  The ache was sharp, bitter.

  For a moment, it filled his chest so full he thought he might actually shatter — splinter apart into something ugly, something real.

  Something that wouldn't fit their world anymore.

  Instead, he inhaled slowly, deeply, mastering himself with practiced ease.

  He wore the perfect smile a moment longer before rising with a quiet, elegant bow.

  "Mother. Father. I thank you for your time. I shall retire to study."

  Lord Theo nodded once without lifting his gaze from his wine.

  Lady Eve smiled absently, like someone admiring a painting they'd long since grown used to.

  Neither truly saw him leave.

  Lucius stepped into the empty marble hallway beyond the dining hall, the heavy doors shutting softly behind him.

  Only then, alone with the silence, did he let the mask slip.

  Just a little.

  He exhaled a slow, ragged breath, pressing a hand briefly to his chest, feeling the dull throb there.

  Not pain. Not anger.

  Hollowness.

  He tipped his head back, staring up at the high vaulted ceilings, the carved angels frozen in perfect, unfeeling stone.

  "One day," he thought, "the world will look at me — and it will see more than what you ever could."

  "I will be real. I will be something no one can ignore."

  A tremor passed through him — fleeting, almost invisible.

  Then Lucius straightened, smoothing the sleeves of his tunic, setting his mask back into place with ruthless precision.

  He would be a hero.

  He would be a legend.

  Not because they asked it of him.

  Not because it was expected.

  But because it was the only way to fill the emptiness they left inside him.

  The halls of House Caelum stretched out before him — cold, beautiful, empty.

  Lucius walked forward, alone, into the dark.

  End OF CHAPTER 2