The door slammed hard on Lucien’s face, the sound echoing down the staircase.
He stood in front of Elian’s door for a few seconds before walking away, feeling quite uncomfortable with the way things had turned out.
Elian had suddenly turned—dead. No words, no reactions, no fighting. Just—dead.
Has he finally broken him?
Was this what he was going to be left with? An unresponsive man?
He couldn’t have that; he needed that fire back, and he was going to rekindle it no matter what.
He turned back and, without thinking twice, he entered Elian’s room just to find him staring out of the window and into the orchard.
"I asked you to sleep," Lucien said, slowly walking over to Elian.
Silence.
Elian made no move nor replied. He simply stood there, staring at the place where his only family had abandoned him.
"Are you disobeying me?" Lucien questioned, pausing behind Elian.
Slowly, Elian shook his head and stepped away from the window, walking noiselessly toward his bed.
Lucien couldn’t have it; he was not used to Elian simply obeying without a fight. He watched Elian rid himself of his clothes in front of the closet, and for a moment, he was dazzled by Elian’s body, but that was not his focus.
He strode over to Elian, who had just pulled his sleep pants up to his waist, and wrapped his arms around him from behind.
Elian stiffened at the touch, closing his eyes to shut out that violent voice in his head that was telling him to slam the Duke’s face into the closet door. He stayed still, refusing to react.
He lost his mother; what was the use of struggling? What was there to fight for when no one believed in him? He was officially the Duke’s puppet, left to the mercy of a merciless man.
"Your mother will not return to the dungeon," Lucien whispered beside Elian’s face, hands splayed on Elian’s stomach.
Elian nodded, "Okay," he murmured softly.
Lucien frowned, his arms loosening around Elian, "Go to bed," he said, stepping away from Elian and pushing his hands into his pockets.
This wasn’t like him. He didn’t need to comfort Elian or anything of those sorts, yet he was almost tempted to ask Elian to follow him back to his chambers just to make sure he kept an eye on Elian all night.
Elian sighed, walking toward his bed. He got in and pulled the sheets up to his chin, closing his eyes.
Lucien moved closer, watching Elian sleep. Finally, he had broken him, but why didn’t he feel the satisfaction he thought he’d get?
The morning light bled through the curtains, cold and indifferent. It lacked the warmth of the sun Elian had once known, feeling instead like a harsh spotlight on his empty life.
He rose without a sound, his movements mechanical, devoid of the spark that usually animated his frame. He dressed in silence, his eyes dull, his posture rigid. When he stepped out into the hallway, he was a hollow shell.
Lucien was waiting. He had been pacing the corridor, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone, a sound that usually made Elian’s skin crawl with indignation.
Today, Elian didn’t even flinch. He walked past the Duke as if he were nothing more than a statue in the hallway, his gaze fixed on the floor.
"Elian," Lucien called out, his voice sharp, demanding the attention he was used to commanding.
Elian stopped, but he did not turn. He tilted his head slightly, a gesture that signaled acknowledgment without conceding a shred of warmth.
"Follow me to the study," Lucien ordered. It wasn’t a request; it was a test.
He wanted to see the flash of defiance, the sharp retort, anything to prove that the spirit he had worked so hard to dominate was still tethered to his reality.
Elian said nothing. He simply turned and followed, his footsteps soft and precise, trailing the Duke like a shadow.
The study was a cavernous room filled with the scent of old parchment, wax, and the metallic tang of ink.
Lucien moved to his mahogany desk, expecting the usual performance: Elian hovering by the door, Elian making snide remarks about his revenge, or Elian actively searching for an exit.
Instead, Elian stood in the center of the room, hands clasped loosely in front of him, waiting for further instruction with the patience of a stone.
Lucien’s jaw tightened. "Sit," he commanded, gesturing to the heavy, velvet-cushioned chair directly across from his own.
For a heartbeat, Elian hesitated. It was the only crack in his armor. He looked at the chair—the seat of honor, the seat of proximity—and then at Lucien. Without a word, he crossed the room and sat. He smoothed his trousers, rested his hands on the desk, and stared at the inkwell with unfocused eyes.
Lucien sat down, pulling a stack of ledgers toward him. He began to work, his quill scratching against the paper. He expected the silence to be broken by a sigh, a restless shift, or a sharp question. But there was only the sound of the clock ticking on the mantel and the occasional ruffle of paper.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Lucien found he couldn’t read a single line of the account books. Every time he glanced up, he was met with the same sight: Elian, sitting perfectly still, a mannequin of a man. His skin looked pale, almost translucent in the morning light, and his blue eyes were completely vacant.
The "whore" who cried, the "prisoner" who fought, the "attendant" who whispered defiance—all of it had been replaced by this eerie, terrifying stillness.
"You have nothing to say?" Lucien finally snapped, throwing his quill down.
It left a jagged ink blot on the ledger. "No witty remarks about the state of my commands? No complaints about last night?"
Elian blinked, slowly turning his gaze toward the Duke. There was no fire in those eyes, no residue of the passion he had displayed in the orchard. It was as if a curtain had been drawn over his soul.
"No, Your Grace," Elian replied. His voice was flat, devoid of cadence.
Lucien stood abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor. He rounded the desk, the power of his presence usually enough to shrink the room, but Elian didn’t shrink. He didn’t even lean back. He just watched Lucien move with that same distant, unsettling calm.
"I didn’t break you for this," Lucien growled, reaching out to grip the edge of the desk, leaning into Elian’s space until their noses were inches apart. "I wanted you to yield, not to cease to exist."
"I am here," Elian said softly. "I am following your orders. I am sitting where you told me to sit. Is there anything else?"
Lucien felt a surge of genuine panic. He grabbed Elian’s chin, forcing him to look up, to engage, to feel something—anything.
Elian’s skin was cold, his expression unchanging. He didn’t pull away; he didn’t push back. He was a vessel that had been emptied of all its contents.
"Curse you," Lucien hissed, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way that had nothing to do with dominance and everything to do with a sickening, dawning horror. "Give me your anger. Scream at me. Tell me you hate me. I would rather you strike me again than look at me with this... this nothingness."
Elian’s gaze didn’t waver. He seemed to be looking through Lucien, toward some distant horizon where his mother was walking away, where his father’s ghost stood in the ashes, where his own heart used to beat.
"I have no more hatred to give, Your Grace," Elian murmured, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering on pavement. "You asked for submission. You have it."
Lucien’s grip on his chin tightened, his knuckles whitening, but Elian didn’t flinch. There was no pain for Lucien to leverage, no shame for him to ignite. By shattering the illusion of their bond, by forcing Elian to lose the last thing that made him human, Lucien had inadvertently destroyed the only thing that made Elian valuable to him.
He realized then that he had reached the summit of his desire, only to find it was a graveyard. He had finally mastered the man, only to lose the man himself.
"Get out," Lucien whispered, his voice trembling with a frustration he couldn’t name. "Leave the room."
Elian stood up, his movements fluid and precise. He offered a slight, shallow bow—a gesture of respect that felt like a slap in the face because it was so utterly mechanical—and turned to leave.
As Elian walked toward the door, his steps silent on the rug, Lucien watched him. He had everything he had ever wanted: an attendant who was always within reach, who obeyed every command, who would never again threaten his reputation or his control.
But as the door clicked shut behind Elian, Lucien sank into his chair, the silence of the room suddenly feeling like a suffocating shroud. He sat in the dark, watching the ink blot on his ledger spread, and for the first time in his life, he was utterly, irrevocably terrified of his own victory.
He had the puppet, but the strings were attached to nothing but the air, and he realized with a sinking, hollow dread that he didn’t know how to live in a world where Elian had stopped looking back.
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