I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.

https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon

________________________________________

Lucas's Perspective

Two days. That was how long I'd been obsessively sifting through every available scrap of information about the man whose blood runs through my veins—a man I'd never met, but whose absence had shaped my entire life. In those forty-eight hours, I'd barely slept, my mind caught in a relentless loop, chasing answers I wasn't sure I wanted to find.

Name: Michael Smith.

Age at time of death: Seventeen.

Cause of death: Car accident. Severe head trauma. Declared dead at the scene.

That was it. No missing person reports filed in the days or weeks before. No whispered rumors in the margins of small-town gossip. No conveniently misplaced police files or suspicious gaps in the official timeline. No hints of anything darker lurking beneath the surface. Just a straightforward, tragic accident—a young life ended far too soon.

It was all so…ordinary.

And somehow, that very ordinariness unsettled me more than anything else could have. I kept expecting to find something out of place, some overlooked detail that would unravel the story I'd been told. I wanted to find a contradiction, a discrepancy, a shadow of the supernatural or the sinister. But every fact lined up, every document confirmed what Susan had already told me.

I'd printed out every report, every autopsy summary, every scrap of paperwork, and pored over them until the words blurred together. I read and reread them, searching for hidden meaning, for a clue that would justify my doubts. But there was nothing—not a single thing—that suggested Susan's version of events was anything but the truth.

And that, more than anything, bothered me.

It wasn't the truth itself that unsettled me. It was the realization that I hadn't believed her. Not fully. Not even when she was telling the truth, plain and simple. I'd doubted her, second-guessed her motives, looked for lies where there were none. The evidence was right in front of me, but I'd refused to accept it.

Why? Why hadn't I believed her, when I knew I would have sensed a lie? I'd spent years honing my ability to read people—analyzing their scent, their heartbeat, the subtle tension in their posture, the flicker of emotion in their eyes. If she'd been lying, I would have known instantly. My instincts had never failed me before.

And yet, I'd still doubted her.

Maybe it was easier to believe she was hiding something than to confront the possibility that I was the one holding onto old wounds, refusing to let go. Maybe my stubbornness ran deeper than I wanted to admit.

I stood in the living room, methodically feeding the last of the papers into the shredder. The machine's steady whir filled the silence, drowning out the noise in my head. The truth was clear now, unambiguous. But it didn't change anything. My past was still my past—untouched, unaltered. The orphanage, the training, Richard and Emily, the pain and the purpose that had shaped me into who I was.

When the last strip of paper fell into the bin, I let out a slow breath, feeling neither relief nor closure. Just a quiet, persistent ache.

That's when I heard the knock at the door.

I didn't need to look to know who it was. I'd sensed her presence the moment her car pulled up outside, the familiar weight of her emotions pressing against the edges of my awareness.

Susan Lockwood.

I opened the door without a word and stepped aside, letting her enter. There were no greetings, no sharp words or forced politeness. Just a heavy, silent understanding that hung between us. She paused in the doorway, her eyes scanning the apartment as if she were stepping into a museum—one dedicated to a life she'd never been a part of.

I moved to the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting out two mugs. Tea. Not because I wanted to play host, but because Richard had always insisted that no meaningful conversation could happen without something warm to hold. It was a ritual, a small gesture of civility in a world that often felt anything but civil.

By the time I returned to the living room, Susan had settled on the couch, her gaze lingering on the framed photos of Richard, Emily, and me. I set the mugs on the coffee table and took a seat across from her, the space between us charged with things left unsaid.

She picked up her mug, blowing gently over the steam before taking a careful sip. Then she looked at me, her dark eyes searching mine, as if hoping to find some trace of herself reflected back.

"You don't seem surprised," she said quietly. "Or angry. You're not even annoyed to see me, after the way you told me to stay out of your life."

I leaned back, exhaling slowly. "My adopted father—Richard—used to say I was stubborn as a mule."

A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Sounds like something I would have said."

I nodded, acknowledging the truth in her words. "Yeah. I think I got that part from you." I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, voice steady. "So let's not drag this out. Just tell me what you want, and we'll get it over with."

She set her cup down with deliberate care, her movements precise, almost ceremonial. And then, in a voice so soft and vulnerable it caught me off guard, she spoke.

"Two days ago, when I was mugged at gunpoint," she said, her tone matter-of-fact. "It made me realize something. Life's too short to live with regrets."

She met my gaze—really met it, not looking through me or past me, but at me.

"I want what I've wanted for the last sixteen years." Her throat worked as she swallowed. "I want my son."

There was no tremor in her voice, no dramatic plea or tears. Just the quiet, unwavering truth. Honest. Direct.

For a long moment, I couldn't find the words to respond. The silence that followed wasn't awkward or uncomfortable—it was heavy, ancient, filled with the weight of everything that had passed between us and everything that still stood in the way.

A bridge had burned sixteen years ago. Now, she stood at the edge of that river, hoping I'd help rebuild it.

But bridges weren't so easily mended. Not with words. Not with tea. Not even with the truth.

And that, perhaps, was the hardest truth of all.