The village called him slow and simple, but legend will call him the Fist of the North.

Quiet as a child, but most terrifying of warriors. Lucian was considered slow and simple, but when he speaks, even the gods listen. What he lacks in social graces, he makes up for in brute strength, strategy, and observation.

He moves like shadow through the ruins, the quiet tether that keeps the others from unraveling. Inside him lives fury and longing, always denied and never truly sated. Outside, he is stillness so absolute it frightens the ones who love him most.

He does not rage; he endures. But endurance is its own form of madness.

“Lu,” she says more softly. Ari’s touch is fire on my skin. Gentle and tender, but for all the wrong reasons.

He touched you—How many times has he touched you?

Rage-filled thoughts burn through my blood and tighten each of my muscles to the point I think I might actually snap.

Why have you not told us? No—why have you never told me? “I will kill him,” comes out instead.
— Bloodborn, Book One of the Darkborn Saga

If Sylas is the heart and Thorne the blade, Lucian is the silence between them—steady, watchful, and far too dangerous to ever be underestimated.

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