Lichtenbourg. A neutral European microstate, nestled amidst ancient mountains, known for its ceremonial monarchy and quiet, enduring influence. Inside a white marble nursery, within a centuries-old royal estate, a newborn prince was being prepared for his public unveiling. His mother, Princess Mira, watched him with a serene smile, her face a mask of regal composure. The palace staff whispered amongst themselves, marveling at the baby's eyes: sharp, silver-gray, unlike any seen in the family line for generations. They called it a "mutation," a curious anomaly. Mira said nothing, her silence a profound, knowing secret.
The final chapter brought no confrontation, no dramatic climax—only realization. Lucien's empire now breathed through blood, not leverage, a legacy woven into the very fabric of global power. As the world crowned another heir, Lucien watched from afar, a silent architect of destiny. His voice was never heard. His name never spoken. But the boy in the mirror carried his eyes, his subtle smirk, and eventually, would carry his will. Lucien had won not through war or fame, but through genes, through women, and through the profound, unsettling power of silence. A future of power, raised by the powerless, carrying his legacy unknowingly. This was not an end—it was the echo of a beginning.
Morning light streamed through the stained-glass windows of the royal nursery, painting the opulent room in shifting hues. Royal staff moved with hushed reverence, preparing the infant prince for his public appearance, a new symbol of the monarchy's enduring lineage. Princess Mira cradled the newborn, her movements graceful, her expression one of profound, almost ethereal calm. She received a call on a discreet, encrypted line. No words were spoken on her end, only a faint, knowing smile that touched her lips before she ended the call.
The world watched a live broadcast as the royal family, resplendent in their ceremonial attire, introduced the "Future of Lichtenbourg." News anchors celebrated his birth as a symbol of peace, continuity, and a new era for the ancient principality. Only one man watched with absolute silence, his gaze fixed on the screen, a subtle, almost imperceptible satisfaction playing on his lips.
In a quiet moment, before the throngs of cameras and dignitaries, the baby was placed in front of a polished silver mirror. He stared at his own reflection, his tiny features blinking, his expression neutral, a blank canvas awaiting the brushstrokes of destiny. Then, slowly, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. It was the exact smirk Lucien wore at age ten, a chilling echo across time and bloodlines.
On The Pale Mirror, adrift in the vast, indifferent ocean, Lucien watched a frozen frame of the infant on his surveillance screen. He placed his hand against the cold glass, his fingers tracing the outline of the child's face. He said nothing, his silence more profound than any pronouncement. A slow, confident blink. Then, with a single, decisive motion, he powered down the entire ship's command room. One final command flashed across the screen, a silent declaration of his ultimate victory: "Sleep mode: 9 years."
The ship faded into the gathering fog at sea, a ghost on the horizon. The mirror in the royal nursery darkened as the child was gently carried away, his future already written in his eyes. The world celebrated. The empire rested.