Across Lifetimes, Still Yours

The rope dug into Marcus’s wrists, rough and unrelenting. Flames licked at the edges of the pyre, close enough that he could feel the heat beginning to sear his boots. He didn’t flinch.

Across from him, bound to the same wooden stake, Mia’s hair whipped in the wind like a banner of defiance. Her dark eyes held his. No tears. No fear. Only fire.

Soldiers lined the square, their armor glinting under the blood-orange sun. Nobles watched from balconies above, silent as tombs. The high priest recited ancient rites, calling their love heresy. The crowd murmured, hungry for an execution.

“Marcus Vel Drazan,” the priest thundered, “loyal son of the Crown, warrior of Thornvale, accused of treason.”

“Mia Orven,” he continued, his voice sharp as steel, “scholar of the rebel province Viremonthe, accused of sedition, sorcery, and corrupting a royal heir.”

Gasps. Spat curses. Even a few stones tossed from the edges.

Marcus’s lip curled. “They’re scared of us.”

“They should be,” Mia muttered. She turned her face toward his, the rope forcing her head at a crooked angle. Still, she smirked. “They’re burning the wrong traitors.”

He laughed under his breath. “I was going to say something dramatic before we died.”

“Like what?”

“Like, ‘our love will outlive kingdoms’ or ‘the fire cannot consume what’s eternal.’”

She snorted. “That’s awful.”

“I know. You love awful.”

“I love you, idiot.”

The wind rose, carrying the scent of oil. The torchbearer stepped forward. Marcus could see the man’s hands shaking.

“Now,” the priest barked. “Cleanse their wickedness.”

Mia leaned forward as far as the rope would allow, brushing her forehead to his. “Listen to me. We’re not done. Not in this life. Not ever.”

“I’m listening.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “There’s a binding ritual. I read it once in a forbidden text.”

“Of course you did.”

“We swear it now. Before fire. Before death. That we’ll find each other. In every life. In every form.”

“Even if you come back as a toad?”

She gave him a look. “Even if you come back as a stuck-up prince.”

They spoke the vow in the Old Tongue—words older than blood, forbidden by both kingdoms.

If we are ever reborn, we will find each other again. As lovers. No matter the form. No matter the cost.

The torch fell.

Flames exploded around them, consuming the dry wood beneath their feet. Smoke swallowed the square. The crowd shrieked, though none dared look away. Amid the roaring fire, two souls clung to each other, not with flesh, but with something older. Stronger.

Their screams never came.

Only silence.

Then ash.

---

Present Day – Viremonthe

Cris Orven shot upright in bed, drenched in sweat.

Same dream. Same flames. Same voice.

His hand gripped his chest, where it always burned after waking. Not pain exactly—just an emptiness clawing to be filled.

Outside, moonlight bathed the castle of Viremonthe in silver. A raven perched on the balcony rail, staring at him with eyes too knowing for a bird. Cris hissed at it.

“Piss off.”

The raven blinked and flew away.

“Talking to birds again?”

Cris turned. Lori leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, wearing a smug grin and a sword on her hip like she’d slept with it.

“You creep like a ghost,” he muttered, grabbing a shirt.

“You scream like a child.”

“Didn’t scream.”

“Woke the entire east wing.”

Cris groaned and ran a hand through his unruly curls. “Nightmare.”

“Lemme guess. Fire, death, tragic longing?” Lori sauntered in, plopped onto his bed, and grabbed an apple from the tray. “You’ve got the drama of a soap widow.”

“You should write poetry.”

“I do. In blood.”

Cris chuckled, but it faded fast. “This one felt…different.”

“They always feel different.” Lori took a bite. “You never remember the details, just that same burn in your chest and that same pitiful look in your eyes after.”

He looked away. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting. I’m finishing.” She tossed the apple core aside and stood. “You leave for Castle Veilridge tomorrow. The Grand Conclave. Your royal debut. Smile. Shake hands. Pretend you don’t hate everyone.”

“I don’t hate everyone. Just most.”

She grinned. “See? You’re improving.”

As she left, her tone softened. “Get some rest. You’re gonna need it.”

---

Castle Veilridge

Neutral territory. Ancient. Sacred. Haunted, probably. Leo Drazan hated it already.

He adjusted his collar for the hundredth time as the Thornvale procession climbed the cobbled path toward the castle’s inner gates. At his side, Anna rode her dark mare like a queen already crowned, back straight, lips painted like war.

“Stop fidgeting,” she snapped. “You look guilty.”

“I am guilty.”

She arched a brow.

“Guilty of loathing ceremonial parades,” Leo muttered.

Anna didn’t smile. “Keep that up, and you’ll loathe a crownless future.”

Their entourage halted at the bridge—a long stretch of moonlit stone that connected the two kingdoms for this occasion only. Leo dismounted, steps echoing as he walked forward. That’s when he saw him.

A figure stood at the opposite end of the bridge, wind catching the edges of his dark cloak. Tall. Sharp-featured. Lean and feral in a way Leo couldn’t define.

Something inside Leo seized.

The man turned.

Cris.

Their eyes met. Time didn’t stop, but something in Leo did. For a fraction of a second, everything blurred. The castle. The guards. Even Anna’s venomous glare.

Cris tilted his head, curiosity flaring in his eyes—along with something else. Recognition.

Leo’s breath caught.

Not because he knew him.

Because it felt like he should.

Cris gave him a slow, mocking smile. Like he’d just spotted a secret. Like he already knew Leo was in trouble.

The Grand Conclave was about to begin.

And nothing—absolutely nothing—would be the same after tonight.