Lucian

Lucian. He was 29. And ever since he was born into a family with two older brothers and two parents, he had always been competing for attention. Why? Because his parents never failed to compare him to James and Arthur—his brothers. Always James this. Always Arthur that. And Lucian? He was just the shadow they never cared enough to see. He tried. God, he tried. He did everything better. School, grades, performances, behavior, chores, attitude, college, all of it. Every single thing that could be measured, he excelled in, and yet—he was never better in his parents’ eyes. Never enough. And so, at the age of seventeen, something in him hardened. He became cold. Detached. Devoid of any emotion. He still did everything his parents asked of him, but he stopped going out of his way for them. He stopped searching for approval that would never come. From then on, Lucian became a man of silence. He liked the quiet. He hated walking into rooms full of chatter, hated speaking, hated wasting breath. His icy blue eyes never softened, never shed a tear. His lips, pressed into a permanent line, never chuckled, never laughed, never smiled. His hands never reached for anyone with love, never raised with hate—just the occasional pat, or the forceful grip when necessary. But that was it. And Lucian was beautiful, though he never cared for beauty. His jet-black hair fell carelessly over his forehead, sharp against the pale cut of his skin. His face—gorgeous, striking, impossibly attractive—was the kind that could silence a room if he ever let himself be seen. His body matched his face, slender yet defined, with an allure that drew eyes even when he offered no warmth, no smile, no acknowledgment. He carried himself like a man carved from ice, every inch of him composed yet hauntingly magnetic. And then, at twenty-seven, came the day he was asked to marry her. She at the age of 26, with her long silky brunette hair always in a loose ponytail, layered curtain bangs framing her gorgeous face, pale white skin, slender attractive body, and hazel-yellow flecked eyes. She was stunning. But beauty had no meaning to him. He married her out of duty, obligation, nothing more. And so they lived—two strangers bound by paper, dwelling in a mansion that echoed with silence. They never spoke, never asked, never cared. She did not seek him, he did not seek her. They simply existed. Did she care? No. Did he? No. Five months into this marriage, his father asked something bigger of him. To join the military. And without hesitation, Lucian agreed. It was war. A great, consuming war. And so, for nearly a year, his parents, his siblings, his wife—none of them saw him. Until the day of return. He stood among thousands of soldiers in a vast grassy field, the sun setting, casting a golden haze across rigid lines of uniforms. All stood silent, hands behind their backs, expressions carved from stone. Each soldier waited to be tapped out, freed by the embrace of someone who had come for them. Fathers, mothers, siblings, friends, lovers—all streamed onto the field, pulling their soldiers away with smiles, tears, and laughter. And Lucian? He stood. And waited. An hour passed. An hour of watching others collapse into arms that had come for them, while he—he remained untouched. His father never came. His mother never came. His brothers, the ones he had spent his life trying to surpass, never came. No one came. And for the first time in years, Lucian felt the sting in his chest. He wanted to cry. He wanted to break. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He stood still, icy blue eyes fixed on the abyss ahead, determined not to fall apart. Until he saw her. His wife. Stepping out of a car, walking toward him with an expression unreadable. And then she approached.