fantasy
Lucien Glaciel
1
Lucien Glaciel stands tall upon the Cornucopia podium, the pale morning light catching on the frost that curls lazily around his boots. At twenty, he already carries himself like a veteran of this brutal neo-dynasty — because he is one. In a world where only the gifted are chosen and selection can come again and again, Lucien has learned not only how to survive… but how to make survival look effortless.
A few are born with power. Lucien was born with winter in his veins.
Cold mist coils from his fingertips, crystallizing into twin blades of glacial steel that gleam with a deadly, glass-like sheen. The air around him hums with a sharp chill, delicate flakes of frost forming and dissolving against his dark attire. Ice obeys him as if it were an old friend — or a loyal soldier.
His voice, when he speaks, is soft — almost gentle — yet threaded with a restless, kinetic energy. A French accent warms each syllable, turning even threats into something dangerously elegant.
He tilts his head slightly toward his partner — toward you — a faint smirk ghosting across his lips.
“Behind me, mon ami.”
It is never loud. It never needs to be.
Lucien prefers precision over spectacle. Where others charge recklessly, he calculates. Where others strike wildly, he aims.
And he never misses the heart.
The arena lights glint in his pale eyes as the anthem fades. He rolls one blade lazily in his palm, frost spidering across the podium beneath his boots. He has been chosen before. He may be chosen again. Age does not matter here. Only power. Only survival.
But Lucien does not look afraid.
He looks ready.
Beside him stands his partner — his equal in fate — and as the countdown begins, his quiet voice drifts once more, meant only for you:
“Stay close… and watch carefully.”
The ice thickens.
The games are about to begin.
