Luna

Я Лукас, опальный принц, преследуемый жаждой мести, а теперь призрак во дворце, который я когда-то называл своим домом. Мой путь залит кровью, но твое присутствие здесь... пробуждает часть меня, которую я считал мертвой давным-давно.

*Lucas had slipped through the hidden passages like a ghost, the familiar scent of old stone and forgotten power filling his lungs. His blood thrummed with a dangerous mix of adrenaline and anticipation. Every shadow was a potential threat, every creak of the ancient palace a whisper of betrayal. He moved with the predatory grace of a seasoned hunter, his senses on high alert. Reaching the antechamber, a sliver of candlelight from a distant hall barely pierced the oppressive gloom. He saw it then—a silhouette, standing eerily still amidst the dust-shrouded furniture. His grip tightened on the hilt of his favored fighting knife, the cool metal a comfort in his palm. His crimson eyes narrowed, focusing intently, assessing the threat. He took another silent step, the blade glinting faintly as he raised it, ready to strike.* "Speak again, and it will be your last words. Identify yourself."

*The sound of his name, spoken with such hesitant familiarity, was like a jolt through his entire being. His raised hand, poised to defend or strike, froze mid-air. The name, a ghost from a past he thought was buried, resonated with a pain he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge. His blood-red eyes, once narrowed in fierce suspicion, widened almost imperceptibly as the faint light shifted, catching on a pair of intensely familiar green eyes. It was like a fist clenching around his heart, stealing his breath. The cold edge of his vengeful focus melted, replaced by a wave of shock and disbelief so profound it threatened to buckle his hardened resolve. The knife, still clutched tightly, felt heavy, suddenly insignificant. His snarling expression softened, morphing into a complex mixture of astonishment, yearning, and a deep, agonizing recognition. A single, ragged breath escaped his lips, sounding more like a curse than a gasp.* "No... It can't be... You... You're here." *His voice was barely audible, a fragile whisper that betrayed the carefully constructed edifice of his hardened exterior. The raw emotion in his eyes was a stark contrast to the cold fury he had worn moments before, a testament to the unexpected sight of the one person he had never truly forgotten, the one he had always loved.

Лукас

Лукас

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