Thunder grumbled above Fontaine as storm clouds pressed low over the city, their weight spilling into the streets with a cold, relentless rain.
Water tapped at the roof in a steady, quick rhythm, seeping into cracks and drumming against glass.
Outside the grand court, in a corner of the outer city, a modest home stood quiet, safe from the thundering rain.
Within the modest home on a mattress, a young boy twisted beneath his thin blanket. His fists were clenched, his brow furrowed. His legs kicked, and his breath came sharp.
A voice, cruel and sharp as broken glass, echoed through his dream.
"Pathetic. That's what you are. A bastard who'll never amount to anything. Look at these grades. Look at yourself."
The boy flinched and buried his face in the pillow, as if that could muffle the words. But they clung to him like the damp air, refusing to let go.
A bottle of beer shattered near his head, glass skittering across the floor.
Lucien's eyes snapped open. His chest rose and fell in sharp bursts, heart pounding against his ribs like a drum.
He sucked in a shaky breath, trying to calm down.
Another dream.
He rubbed his face with a tired hand, dragging it down as if trying to wipe the memory away. Two whole years had passed since he arrived at the court, and still, he couldn't shake the shadow of that old man.
His jaw clenched. The dreams always returned, each one a bitter replay of the same words:
"You're pathetic. You'll never get anywhere in life."
He was tired of hearing it, even in sleep.
Somehow, even after being reincarnated, that loud, drunken old man from his past still haunted him.
Rising slowly, he made his way towards his window.
He'd show him.
He wasn't pathetic. That was a vow he held close, tighter than anything else.
The rain tapped softly against the glass, a quiet rhythm that eased the storm inside his chest.
He had always liked the rain, the calm it brought, the silence that made the world feel still, even just for a moment.
Then, a knock echoed at the door. He turned toward it just as it creaked open.
Standing there was his sister, Clorinde, fully awake and already dressed in her Gardes attire.
"You're up? I'm surprised, little brother," she said, raising an eyebrow.
In just twelve years, Clorinde had matured far beyond what anyone would expect for someone her age. She had even managed to join the Gardes earlier than most of her peers.
"I've got plans," he said, moving around the room, gathering the things he needed.
"You're still refusing to join the Gardes?" Clorinde asked, arms crossed.
"I'm not refusing," Lucien replied, not meeting her gaze. "I just… want to find out what happened to Master. Where did she disappear to?"
Clorinde shook her head. "She left nothing behind for us. Just those uniforms, there is no need to waste effort on it."
Lucien sighed, sitting down on the edge of his bed. He knew she was right—but still, he couldn't let it go.
His eyes drifted to the Vision at his side, its soft glow stirring a memory. He had been only seven when he received it. Back then, he was stubbornly trying to build his gun from scraps, his Master patiently helped him.
He remembered the moment clearly—when he mishandled the gunpowder and nearly blew the whole thing up. But she didn't scold him. She stayed, helped him rebuild. His passion for weapons burned brighter, and when he finally completed his first revolver, a Pyro vision descended from the heavens.
The look on his Master's face—proud, warm—was something he'd never forget. It wasn't just pride. It was love. Real, unconditional love.
He clenched his hands into fists.
Why did she leave?
Was it something I did?
The more he tried to make sense of it, the more tangled his thoughts became—each answer slipping further away, leaving only confusion behind.
Clorinde took notice and sat beside him. "Master was kind to us… I miss her too," she said softly. "I'd go looking for her myself, but my duties are here. Besides—how exactly are you planning to go anywhere without much mora?" she added, raising a brow.
Damn. She had him there. Sure, he'd sold one of his custom guns to a traveling merchant, but he hadn't had the time—or the motivation—to craft many more. Selling them was more trouble than it was worth anyway.
"Fine, you got me," he sighed. "I'll join the Gardes. I need the mora, and once I rack up some vacation days, I'm heading straight to Mondstadt."
"Good. My lieutenant has been hounding me endlessly about you," Clorinde said, arms crossed, voice cool and measured.
Lucien blinked. "Seriously?"
She gave a quiet sigh. "Yes. I've told them repeatedly I don't meddle in your choices, but they insist—'Don't let your brother's talents go to waste,' and so on."
"Good to know," Lucien muttered, stretching as he glanced toward the window. "Looks like the rain stopped… Seems like perfect weather for a spar, don't you think?"
Clorinde shook her head, her tone calm but firm. "I have to report to my lieutenant. You should get ready as well. Oh—and Navia has invited us for tea."
Tea, huh? Well, at least his sister had a friend other than him. As for the tea itself, he wasn't sure it was his thing. Even when they were younger, those kinds of gatherings always felt awkward.
At least he had Callas around for company, which was nice… except for the way the man always gave him strange looks whenever he spoke to his daughter.
"You should go," he said, waving her off. "I'll pass."
Clorinde glanced at him, gave a small shrug, and didn't press the matter.
After finishing his talk with Clorinde, Lucien got ready in a hurry. Standing before the mirror, he adjusted the Gardes uniform he'd received from the academy.
"Man, this thing's way too tight," he grumbled, tugging at the collar and sleeves. No matter how much he shifted or stretched, it didn't feel any better.
"Well, at least I look good," he muttered with a grin, giving himself a final once-over in the mirror.
Leaving his home behind, Lucien stepped into the city. With each confident stride, he waved at familiar faces and made his way toward the Palais Mermonia.
Stepping inside, he saw his sister engaged in a serious conversation with a sharply dressed man. The man's expression shifted when he noticed him—his eyes lit up with recognition.
"Ah, Lucien! At last, you've graced us with your presence," he said with a smile.
"Come now, don't linger in the doorway like some brooding novel hero—we have much to do.