The word "brother" seemed to suck all the air out of the vault.

Reia's chains rattled as she strained to see. Silas just stared, his mind refusing to piece it together. On the floor, Marc groaned, starting to stir.

Lucian didn't move. His eyes, locked on Eron, were like chips of obsidian. "Keep talking," he said, his voice dangerously low.

Eron savored the moment, leaning back in his chair like a king holding court. "Your parents," he began, "Alistair and Isabella Black... they were brilliant. And like all brilliant people, they were arrogant. They believed their bloodline, their 'legacy,' was the only thing that mattered."

He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, as if pointing to a memory. "Years ago, at a Conclave of the major families, they made a point. A public demonstration of their spatial mastery. My father had proposed a new alliance, one that would have given the Thornes equal standing. Your father didn't like that. So, in front of everyone, he folded the space around my father's chair. Just a little. Just enough to... compress him."

Eron's smile was thin and cold. "Not enough to kill him. Just enough to break every rib, collapse a lung, and humiliate him completely. He sat there, gasping like a fish, while Alistair Black smiled and talked about the importance of 'knowing your place.' My father never fully recovered. He died not long after, a broken man in more ways than one."

He leaned forward, his eyes glinting in the green ward-light. "I was twenty five then. I swore I would burn their world down. But fire is crude. I wanted something sharper. I wanted to take what they cherished most."

His gaze drifted to the unconscious Marc. "Their firstborn son. Little Marius. He was four years old. A happy child. His power had just begun to show. He'd make his milk warm without touching the cup. Your parents were so proud. They saw control. I saw a spark. One I could fan into a flame."

"Their estate was well-guarded, but not against a simple servant I'd paid to leave a window unlatched. It was almost too easy. I took the boy from his nursery while your mother slept in the next room. I left a note. It said, 'An eye for an eye.'"

Lucian's jaw was so tight it ached. He could see it. The empty crib. The panic.

"We staged a tragedy," Eron continued, his voice almost conversational. "A small, hot fire in an old warehouse by the river. We left enough of a... residue... for them to believe their son had been killed, his body burned to nothing. They never even found a body to bury. Just ash and a melted toy he was known to carry."

He smiled, a genuine, ugly smile of remembrance. "The grief... it shattered them. Your mother, they say, didn't leave her room for a year. Your father became colder, harder. They turned inward. And a few years later, they tried again. They had her, lucy. Their perfect replacement. Then little you, Lucian, their spare. They built a new perfect family over the grave of the one I destroyed."

On the floor, Marc was awake now, listening. His eyes, full of a old, familiar hatred, were fixed on Eron.

"I raised him," Eron said, nodding at Marc. "I gave him a new name. Marc. I told him the truth. That his real parents found his power... inconvenient. Uncontrollable. That they'd rather he was dead than have a son who didn't fit their perfect mold. That the fire was their doing, a way to cover up their shame."

"He believed you," Lucian stated, his voice hollow.

"Of course he did!" Eron laughed. "It was the truth, twisted just so. His power was wild. They were afraid of it. And they did move on without him. I just helped him connect the dots. I became his father. I gave him a purpose. To be the weapon his birth family never wanted him to be. To one day break the son they chose to replace him."

Marc pushed himself up onto his elbows, his broken arm hanging useless. He looked at Lucian, and for a second, it wasn't just hate in his eyes. It was a raw, bottomless pain. "They never even looked for me," he rasped, his voice cracking. "They had a funeral for an empty box and then... they had you."

The accusation hung in the air, heavier than any chain.

Lucian felt the story settle in his gut like a stone. It fit. The cold distance in his father's eyes. The lingering sadness in his mother's, a grief he'd never understood. The way they pushed him so hard to control his power, a frantic edge to their training he'd always felt but never named. They weren't just preparing an heir. They were trying to ensure they never lost another one.

He looked at Marc, truly looked at him. Not as an enemy, or a obstacle, but as a person. He saw the ghost of his mother in the shape of his eyes, the shadow of his father in the line of his jaw. He saw a childhood stolen, a life warped into a tool for revenge.

Eron watched the understanding dawn on Lucian's face and his grin widened. "Perfect, isn't it? I didn't just take their son. I turned him into the instrument of their ultimate failure. Now..." He spread his hands, encompassing the vault, the captives, the two brothers. "The final act. The replacement and the reject. Let's see which one breaks first."

The air shifted.

Lucian's head tilted. The cold fury on his face didn't disappear, but it refined, focusing like a laser on Eron.

"You're right," Lucian said, his voice quiet but cutting through the chamber. "They did a terrible thing. To your father. To him." He gestured at Marc. "They were arrogant and cruel."

He took a step forward, the space around him warping faintly. "But you... you're worse."

Eron's smile flickered.

"You didn't take in a child," Lucian said, his voice gaining strength. "You stole one. You didn't raise a son. You programmed a weapon. You filled his head with hate because you're too much of a coward to face your own."

He took another step. The green candles flickered violently. "You talk about their grief like it was a victory. You let a mother mourn a son who was alive, just to spite his father. That's not strength. That's the act of a pathetic, small man hiding in a vault."

"Watch your tongue, boy," Eron hissed, his calm facade cracking.

"Why?" Lucian shot back. "You wanted a show? You wanted me broken? Sorry. I'm not him." He glanced at Marc, whose expression was now one of confused turmoil. "And I don't think he's as broken as you hoped, either."

Lucian's gaze swept over to his friends—to Reia's defiant hope, Silas's grim solidarity, Vyn's weak but steady light. Then back to Eron.

"You miscalculated," Lucian said, the air beginning to hum with power. "You thought this secret would shatter me. It just made the picture clearer. You're not some master strategist. You're a bitter old man who hurt a child to get back at his parents. And tonight..."

The space in front of Lucian folded. Not a weapon, but a pathway. One step, and he was directly in front of Eron's chair, looking down at him.

"...this bitter old man is going to answer for all of it."

Eron's eyes widened, real fear flashing in them for the first time. He opened his mouth to speak, to command his wards, to call for Marc.

But behind him, Marc was still on the floor, looking from Eron—the man who had been his whole world—to Lucian, the brother who was supposed to be his enemy. The story that had defined his life was crumbling, and in the rubble, he wasn't sure what was left.

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