Chapter 11: Family in Turmoil

Charlotte, a crimson rage twisting her features, launched herself at Lucine.

Every wild swing of her fists struck only air.

Time in Acortis had been kind to Lucine . The sparring sessions that once left him bruised and breathless now felt like distant memories.

Compared to standing against a god, his sister’s blows were no more than an infant’s tantrum.

Lucine, at first bewildered, began piecing together the reason behind Charlotte’s sudden anger.

Worry—perhaps, but this? This was something deeper.

He assumed his sudden disappearance had sparked her fury, but her trembling fists, her eyes shining with unshed tears, spoke of a grief too heavy to name.

With a pang of guilt, Lucine stopped dodging. He let her fist land squarely against his jaw—a satisfying thud, the metallic taste of blood blooming in his mouth.

Charlotte, bracing for a counterstrike, found herself instead pulled into a quiet, desperate embrace.

“Charlotte,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, “I’m sorry. Please… forgive me.”

That broke her.

Anger and relief twisted into a single, choking sob as she clung to him, her fury dissolving into tears.

“I—I’m sorry,” she hiccupped. “For attacking you like that. But there’s something you need to know… something terrible.”

Lucine exchanged a glance with the hermit. Morai could wait.

There was a story etched into Charlotte’s face—a truth that threatened to shatter the fragile peace they’d fought for. Whatever it was, it needed to be heard.

As Charlotte slowly pulled away from Lucine’s embrace, a measure of composure returned to her face.

“I’ll tell you everything,” she said quietly. “But first, we need to return to Rougemonde.”

***

In Rougemonde’s city, A hush fell over the capital as Lucine returned alongside Charlotte and the hermit.

No one shouted. No one cheered. Where once there had been warmth, now only cold, withering stares.

The citizens did not speak, restrained by the last shreds of respect for royalty—but their contempt was loud in every turned back, every averted gaze.

This was no hero’s welcome. This was exile cloaked in civility.

Inside the royal palace, behind the heavy doors of Lucine’s quarters, the silence turned stifling. Guards were dismissed. Only the hermit remained, tolerated by Charlotte with a wary side-eye.

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Lucine broke the quiet. “Where is Father?”

The question shattered her composure. Charlotte’s shoulders slumped. Her lips trembled.

“That’s what I came to tell you,” she whispered. “It’s about King Regis…”

***

Two Weeks Earlier…

The Rougemonde forest was thick with shadow and tension. Charlotte, disguised as Lucine, gnawed her lip as her ruby eyes scanned the trees. Weeks had passed since her brother’s disappearance. Nefeli’s cryptic words echoed in her thoughts, offering little peace.

Behind her, the newly appointed BlancSoldat captain, Seraphina—a gruff woman and the first female to receive that honor—watched with concern.

“King Lucine,” she rasped, “shall we return to the palace? The forest is treacherous after dusk.”

Charlotte forced a smile. “Fear not, Seraphina. I can handle myself.”

But the words felt foreign. The crown, once a distant symbol of power, now felt like a shackle around her neck. Every day was a battle—not just of diplomacy and reform, but of perception.

She had championed landmark reforms—appointing Seraphina, opening the Royal Guard to women, and mandating formal education for all girls.

But with each step forward, resistance mounted—and no voice was louder in opposition than her own father’s.

Though once Lucine’s staunchest supporter—and unaware that it was Charlotte behind the crown—King Regis had begun to question the very policies enacted in his son’s name.

Then came the summons.

A BlancSoldat arrived in haste, urgency etched into every movement. King Regis demanded her immediate presence—still believing she was Lucine.

***

The throne room was suffocating in its grandeur. Regis paced like a lion caged, his usual regal calm frayed.

“Lucine,” he snapped, voice taut, “a raven from Finsternis has arrived. They claim… they’ve captured your sister.”

Charlotte’s blood turned to ice.

“Finsternis?” she breathed. The Lightless Land of darkness and nightmares, spoken of only in fearful tales. No foreigner returned from its borders. The threat was blatant—a trap. But her father, blinded by paternal dread, couldn’t see it.

She couldn’t stay silent.

Tearing off her cloak, Charlotte revealed her true form—no longer ‘Lucine,’ but the princess who had donned her brother’s name.

The silence was thick and horrified.

“Charlotte…?” Regis’s voice broke. “What have you done?”

A beat of stunned quiet. Then fury.

But beneath it—fear.

“I’ll go to Finsternis myself,” he declared. “Trap or not. If they’ve mistaken you for Lucine, then perhaps he’s the one truly captured.”

“Father, no,” Charlotte pleaded. “Lucine wouldn’t have walked into that. Give me a week. Just one more week. Let me find him.”

His expression warred between rage and love. Finally, he relented.

“One week. No more.”

The next days were agony. Charlotte scoured every corner of Rougemonde—valleys, towns, woods—until her feet bled and her voice cracked. Each day without news felt like another stone laid upon her chest.

When the week ended, so did her hope.

King Regis, true to his word, departed for Finsternis with the BlancSoldats. Charlotte could only watch, hollow and powerless, as her last parent rode into the jaws of darkness.

The whispers began soon after. Then the stares. Then the open contempt.

The truth of her charade had spread. Her efforts seen not as noble, but foolish. A princess pretending to be a king. A cursed family dragging the kingdom into ruin.

She bore it all. Until she could no longer.

A final glimmer of hope flickered to life—Nefeli.

Charlotte found her cave easily, drawn by instinct more than memory. Mist curled at the entrance, a whisper of something ancient.

And there, standing in the eerie glow, was Lucine.

Alive.

Her joy surged—then vanished.

Beside him stood the Hermit—the man from the headlines, the self-proclaimed God.

Lucine looked unfazed. He hadn’t been kidnapped; he had left of his own accord.

The betrayal cut deeper than any blade

“Lucine!” she screamed, the word a razor’s edge of rage and heartbreak.

Charlotte flashed her sword, silver fury flying toward her brother.

A weaponized expression of everything she had endured.