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Chapter 5 - 4

Chapter 4: The Prince with Golden Hair

Lucien was thirteen when Aerith fell ill. He was sixteen now, tall and bright-eyed, golden curls like the sun.

He had not visited his brother's chambers once in two years.

Not because he didn't care.

Because he did.

So when a letter arrived—

> "Come to the north garden. Bring nothing. —Aerith."

—he came running.

Aerith waited beneath a cypress tree, dressed plainly, face unreadable.

Lucien stood ten feet away, panting.

"You're alive."

"I am."

"Why didn't you send for me earlier?"

"Would you have come?"

Lucien flushed.

They stared at one another. Prince and prince. Brother and stranger.

"I know I was cruel to you," Aerith said at last. "I won't pretend I wasn't. But I'm trying to change. You don't have to forgive me, Lucien. Just don't shut the door yet."

Lucien's mouth trembled.

"I… never hated you. I hated how you hurt people. But I never hated you."

For a long moment, the garden was quiet. Then Lucien stepped forward, and for the first time, he hugged Aerith.

It was awkward. But real.

> "You can be someone better," Lucien whispered. "If you really want to."

And Aerith let himself believe it.

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