Echoes of vows

The stars above the chapel flickered like dying embers as Lucien carried Celeste through the woods, her body still limp in his arms. The Hollow was gone, for now, but its presence lingered like ash in the air. Every step Lucien took was heavy, not just with exhaustion but with revelation.

She had awakened—just for a moment—but it had been enough.

The light she unleashed wasn’t ordinary. It wasn’t human.

Lucien had lived long enough to know power when he saw it. This wasn’t Reaper-born. This was older. Deeper. Celestial.

She stirred as they reached a clearing where the moonlight broke through the canopy, painting the ground in silver. Gently, Lucien laid her down on a patch of moss and sat beside her, watching her chest rise and fall. Her skin was pale, but her face was calm—almost peaceful.

Then her eyes fluttered open.

“Lucien?”

“I’m here.”

She blinked, struggling to focus. “I saw… something. A man. In chains. In fire. He looked like you.”

Lucien swallowed hard. “You’re remembering.”

She sat up slowly, pressing a hand to her head. “And there was a voice—mine. I said… I vow to find you in every life, even if the stars burn away. And then… I broke it.”

Lucien turned away, his jaw clenched. “You left. You ran. And I—” He hesitated. “I died with your name on my lips.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with centuries of pain.

Celeste looked at him. “Why? Why would I do that?”

He met her gaze. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

She reached for his hand. Her touch was warm, but it carried a tremble. “Lucien… are we cursed?”

He didn’t answer. Not directly. Instead, he said, “There’s someone who might know more. Someone older than me. But she doesn’t like visitors.”

Celeste raised an eyebrow. “Who is she?”

Lucien looked toward the shadowed edge of the forest. “A Weaver. One of the three Sisters of Thread. She spins fate—and she remembers every vow ever made beneath her moon.”

Celeste stood, unsteady but determined. “Then we find her.”

Lucien hesitated. “If she speaks, you may not like what you hear.”

Celeste’s voice was quiet but resolute. “I need to know who I was… and what I did. If I broke our vow, I have to understand why.”

Lucien nodded. “Then we leave at dawn.”

⸻

That Night

Lucien sat alone by the dying embers of their campfire. Celeste was asleep again, her head resting against her rolled cloak. But even in rest, she murmured fragments of old memories—names, places, pleas.

He watched her, haunted by love and by fear.

He had waited lifetimes to find her again. And now that he had, he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to save her—or stop her.

Suddenly, the fire flickered blue.

Lucien tensed.

A voice, ancient and feminine, whispered from the flames: “She awakens. The vow was sealed in blood, Reaper. If she remembers everything… the truth will burn you both.”

Then the fire went out.

Lucien sat frozen in the dark, the whisper still clinging to his bones.

⸻

Elsewhere, in the Loom of Threads

A veiled woman stood at an eternal loom, spinning threads of silver and shadow. Her fingers danced as she hummed an old, forgotten lullaby.

One thread, black and gold, began to fray.

The woman paused.

“Ah,” she whispered. “So the vow breaks again.”

She smiled—sad and knowing.

“They always come to me before the end.”

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