Though raised in Garlemald, Luci was no true child of the empire. His mother, Isolde, was a conjurer, who though originally born in Giridina was a wanderer at heart, and eventually settled down for a time in the mountains of Ala Mhigo. It was a slice of tranquility, in a little cabin on the mountainside. Isolde’s reputation as a healer preceded her, and only grew as the Garleans invaded. She had a reputation for healing anyone, regardless of allegiance, without any questions.
It changed little in the way of life for the young, and undeniably beautiful conjurer. There were more serious injuries, and more of them, but her cabin was relatively isolated, and many of her days were peaceful. Everything changed when a handsome Garlean, Galerius tol Sylvius, was poisoned. The situations were dire, far from proper civilization, his soldiers turned to her. Though it was arduous, and thought it took days of recovery before he could yet move, he lived through the poison, and in so doing, fell deeply in love with his healer.
Of those days, Galerius never mentioned, but they were likely the happy sort. Galerius always had duties to attend, and the rebel presence often drew his attention away. After a time, Isolde became pregnant, and he vowed that he would bring Isolde and her child back to Garlemald to see the sights for herself, regardless of the consequences, or their difference in status.
Not long after Luci was born, everything changed one night when Garlean soldiers came bearing their quo, a man of no small esteem, who too was on the brink of death after a brutal ambush by the rebels. Though Isolde tried as with any other, she could not save him, and for this the soldiers blamed her, as it was said that she could heal anyone.
When the young Galerius came to visit his love, he found only her lifeless body, with the young Luci silently clutching to the unmoving form, surrounded by a sea of scarlet flowers. The lord, though grieving of the loss of his love, took the child in his arms, and vowed that he would give him a good life. Even then, Luci bore a striking resemblance to Isolde. Only when he was led away from the flower-covered remains of his mother, did he finally weep, in the arms of his cold and unforgiving father. It was the last time he would be allowed to cry so openly.
From then on, he was known as Lucius Sylvius, son of Galerius tol Sylvius. He raised him with all the privileges of any Pureblood child of the land in no small comfort, helped along by his father’s rapid ascent to the Senate upon his return. From the start, there were occasional rumors. Many did not approve of a foreign child, so obviously not of Garlemald stock. The problems only grew with time, for the absence of such a fey creature who lacked the Third Eye and a penchant for effeminate dress stirred rumors. There were yet darker whisperings behind closed doors, that the child was touched by death, that the air itself seemed to chill when he entered. A simple smile from the beautiful child was often enough to dispel the notion for most, though as he grew older the smiles became rarer.From a young age, Lucius was considered to be a strange child by the standards of the empire, with his delicate cheekbones, fey eyes and hair that grew long no matter how his Father tried to shear it short. Despite it all, he was tutored by some of the best in the land of how to be a true and proper Garlean. From history to swordplay, Magitek to politics. First and foremost, the lesson he learned was to trust no one. Often did he make a game of seeing how long his newest tutor could last before he drove them away. Of course, when he got caught his father often grew furious, and though his hand never did the beating, a beating was administered nonetheless, often in sparring, which he grew to despise. Each one was a lesson he took to heart.
Magic was utterly forbidden, utterly anathema to everything he was and should be, and yet it whispered in his very blood. In his youth, there was once a servant who was whipped half to death on the mere suspicion of thaumaturgy. In the end, the accusation turned out baseless. It was a lesson he would always carry with him. He learned well how to lie and deceive, how to conceal his true feelings behind a porcelain mask. Only in the most isolated of areas, in the dead of night, did he begin to truly conceive of the true nature of his gift. He was twelve when he brought back his first animal, a rat caught in the snare. He talked to it for hours before it became no more than a pile of bones once more. The dead, at least, were loyal.
No matter how many lessons, or tutors he had, it became increasingly evident he was no true son of Garlemald. A delicate flower more suited to distant mountains, of a peaceful life. Here, he slowly wilted, increasingly became more silent and sullen. It hardly helped that Lucius was regularly bested and beaten in the drills, his father turning a blind eye, thinking it would toughen him up. In those moments, wild and afraid, his true nature shone through, and magic manifested in strange and violent ways. It was never something he had much control over, and often his sparring partners bore the brunt of it.
It was never anything concrete enough to deem him a mage, though there were whispers. Sometimes, they choked on flowers that weren’t there. Sometimes they simply went mad, raving incoherently about the death that awaited them. Most of them he never saw again.The absence of a Third Eye coupled with the swirling rumors increasingly tainted every interaction he had as he grew older. Constantly looked down upon for his foreign blood, Lucius became withdrawn and elusive, rarely seen except when his presence was demanded by his father.
There were rumors of a twin sister, for often spotted during the hours of a night was a ghostly, feminine beauty. In truth, it was the magic that blossomed within him, letting him shift between the masculine and feminine depending on his mood. It was a fragile peace that could never last. A scion of Garlemald must, after all, prove himself in war before he can truly be considered a man. With his father’s influence in the senate, upon his eighteenth birthday he was henceforth known as Lucius quo Sylvius, and set to be sent to war within the week. Only his performance in war, or so his father said, could truly erase the rumors that so pervaded him.
It was a future he despised. His skill at the blade was middling, and the military discipline chafed at his very soul. Yet it was the fate afforded to him, and one he could not refuse. The waiting was the worst. His magic boiled over often to the detriment of the Magitek that surrounded him, causing outages and flickers. On the eve before he was to be sent off, he attended a dinner with his father and Decimus fae Maursus, who had served with his father in the service, now a fellow senator in his old age. Though it started off pleasant enough, the man’s true feelings emerged with the wine.Oh, he talked of how wonderful it was that Lucius was at last going off to war, of how even non-Purebloods could earn their place in the hardships of the campaign. He talked of the spoils of war, too. Somehow, the topic of his mother came up. Decimus was only too happy to talk on and on about how she was quite the sight for a foreign whore, and had the gall to say it was a shame that Lucius had been born of her, and not a proper Garlean lady.
Perhaps it was the wine, or the mere frustration of it all. It certainly hadn’t been a conscious choice, but one moment the man was prattling on, and the next thing Lucius knew, he was standing, watching as the fool choked on the flowers the color of dried blood that endless sprouted from his mouth. It was satisfying, oh so satisfying, for a single moment of shock. Only when he fell to the table, utterly lifeless, did all hell break loose. Many went for their guns or swords, whatever they had on them, among them his own father. The stench of magic was overwhelming in the air, and he was at its center.
Who fired first, it was impossible to say. The first bullet hit Lucius in the shoulder, and the pain of it awakened something in him. The corpse that was once a senator moved, animated by crimson strands, and intercepted many more. His own father sunk a knife in his side, and called him an abomination. In his rage, inebriated at drink, a blast of unfocused energy burst from him, sending his father hurtling back into the unforgiving ground. As the rest of the patrons brave enough to face him approached, death in their eyes, he turned to fight. The magic in his blood begged for it, to make them all puppets. The dead were loyal. A hundred loyal puppets… all his.
It was the sight of his father, always so strong and cold, crumpled helplessly on the floor that made him change his mind, and flee. The singular puppet he had was quickly overwhelmed, and he barely made it to the window before the shots resumed. One hit him in the cheek, another in the back. In a feat he never again replicated, as he hurtled himself out of the window to all but certain death, he thought of the mother he never knew and never would, of the magic in his blood that had long seemed a curse more than a blessing. It answered him then, a tear in reality opening for a split second, and in a shower of blood-red Lycoris petals, he vanished.
Days later, he woke in mountains that he had never seen before, and yet seemed so strangely familiar. In the fragments of a burned hut, he found an old journal, worn by weather and time to a dirty yellow. The handwriting was loopy and elegant, and strangely comforting, though mostly unreadable. From that day on, he was free to explore the world that lay beyond the gilded cage of the empire, to explore his blood that had long been suppressed, and to embrace the strange beauty he had been gifted. That day, he took on a new name, for Lucius was a creature of the empire, and he was that no more. He took on the name Luci Rein from that day on, for whether mistake or truth, it was one of the few legible fragments in the journal, and most of all, it felt right. A new world, and a new start.

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