Chapter 42

The night after the collapse felt longer than any Zerach had ever known.

The torches in the corridor burned low, and every step echoed like a memory he wanted to escape. In Lucien’s chamber, the boy slept restlessly, his chest rising and falling with the uneven rhythm of a storm.

Zerach sat beside him, unable to rest. His mind was heavy with fear — not of war, not of prophecy, but of losing the last piece of Daphne he still had.

Lucien murmured in his sleep. The boy’s hand twitched; faint sparks danced along his fingertips, red like embers. Zerach flinched.

He remembered the prophecy.

“When the mark reappears in royal blood, the sky will mourn and fire will inherit flesh.”

The same fire he had seen in Lucien’s eyes that day.

He reached out and brushed his son’s hair from his face. For a moment, Lucien looked like Daphne — the same soft lashes, the same half-smile that had always undone him.

“My son,” Zerach whispered. “Forgive me… for fearing you.”

But Lucien wasn’t sleeping. His lips moved again, and his voice was faint, almost frightened.

“Father… they called me their king. They said I must awaken.”

Zerach froze. His heart hammered once — then again. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Far away, under the dark canopy of the forest, another voice stirred.

Lyra’s breath caught as she jolted upright, eyes wide and glowing faintly in the moonlight.

Mira was at her side instantly. “Lyra! What is it this time?”

The girl clutched her chest. Her nightgown clung to her skin, damp with sweat. “The dream again,” she whispered. “The same voices. The same people in the dark… they bowed to me, Mama. They said I was their queen. But then…”

Her voice trembled. “Then I saw him.”

Mira’s hands went cold. “Who?”

“A boy with eyes like flame,” Lyra whispered. “He looked scared. And he said my name.”

That night, the moon rose high over two worlds that did not know they were one.

In the palace, Lucien tossed in his bed, trying to shake the feeling of someone calling to him.

In the forest, Lyra sat by the window, staring at the same moon, whispering softly to the wind.

Their hearts beat the same rhythm.

Their dreams shared the same shadow.

The following morning, Zerach gathered the palace healers. He claimed Lucien was suffering from a fever — nothing more. But he could not hide the worry etched into his eyes.

“His strength must be contained,” said one of the royal seers. “If the prophecy is true—”

“It is not true!” Zerach’s voice cracked through the air. “He’s just a child. My child.”

The room went silent. None dared challenge the king.

Later, he dismissed them and returned to Lucien’s room. The boy was awake now, sitting by the window, looking out at the training ground where soldiers practiced.

“I want to go outside,” Lucien said. “I feel… strange when I stay still too long.”

Zerach hesitated. “Strange how?”

Lucien looked down at his hands. “Like something inside me is trying to breathe.”

Zerach’s heart twisted. “Then breathe, my son,” he said softly, forcing a smile. “But breathe only what is good.”

Lucien turned toward him, eyes bright and uncertain. “Father, what am I?”

Zerach froze — then knelt before him. “You are my legacy,” he said. “And no prophecy will ever take that from you.”

Lucien nodded slowly, pretending to understand. But in his heart, something else was stirring — something older, darker, beautiful in its terror.

Deep in the forest, Mira watched Lyra as she practiced her lessons. The girl’s laughter carried on the wind, pure and golden, like sunlight through leaves.

Yet lately, the light flickered.

Lyra had begun humming songs she didn’t know — melodies of another world, of halls made of fire and glass. Sometimes, she’d stop mid-word, tilt her head, and whisper, “Did you hear that?”

Mira always said no. But she heard it too — a hum that made the air tremble.

That evening, while Lyra braided wildflowers into her hair, she asked suddenly, “Mama, do you believe souls can be born twice?”

Mira looked up sharply. “Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know,” Lyra murmured. “But sometimes, when I dream, I feel like I’m missing half of me.”

That same night, Lucien could not sleep. The moonlight poured across his floor like spilled milk. He stared at it, his mind restless. Then he felt it again — a warmth, faint but familiar.

He stood, crossed the room, and pressed his hand against the cold glass of the window.

Far away, in another world of trees and silence, Lyra did the same.

Two hands, two heartbeats, touching through miles and fate.

In that moment, they both spoke — the same word, carried on the same breath.

“Why do I feel you?”

The wind answered in whispers neither could hear, and the stars pulsed brighter for a heartbeat before dimming again.

The next morning, Zerach noticed the change.

Lucien’s aura — the subtle flame that lived beneath his skin — was growing stronger. When he walked through the hall, the torches bent toward him. When he smiled, glass shimmered faintly.

He hid it well, but Zerach saw. And he feared what it meant.

That night, when everyone else was asleep, the king went to the ancient archives beneath the palace. The scrolls there were older than his kingdom — older than the war of demons and men. He lit a candle and began to read.

The prophecy was clear.

“Two shall be born of fire and light — bound by blood, divided by fear. One to rule, one to remember. When they meet, the world shall burn anew.”

Zerach sank to his knees.

Two.

There had been two.

He remembered the healer’s whispers that night eleven years ago — of screams, confusion, a child that vanished. He had wanted to believe it was madness. Now he knew it was truth.

“Daphne…” he whispered. “What did you do?”

Meanwhile, Lyra’s dreams grew sharper.

One night, she found herself standing in a vast hall of black glass, the ceiling filled with swirling constellations. Shadows bowed all around her.

Then, from the far end of the hall, a boy appeared. His eyes burned red — but not cruelly. They burned like sorrow.

“You again,” he said softly. “Why do you keep haunting my dreams?”

Lyra blinked. “I could ask you the same.”

He stepped closer. “Who are you?”

“I… don’t know,” she whispered. “But I think you do.”

The world shivered. Light and darkness merged. Then everything went white.

They both woke — miles apart — hearts racing, eyes wet with tears they didn’t understand.

Days passed. Zerach hid his dread behind a smile. He ordered new tutors, lavish gifts, endless distractions. If joy could anchor his son’s heart, maybe the darkness wouldn’t win.

Lucien played along, laughing with his father, training harder than ever. But sometimes, he’d stop mid-swing and stare into the sky — feeling a pulse that wasn’t his own.

In the woods, Lyra did the same.

Two lives.

Two worlds.

One heartbeat shared between them.

That night, as rain whispered against the palace roof, Zerach stood at Lucien’s bedside again. The boy was asleep, peaceful for once.

But when the lightning flashed, the king saw it — faint, glowing marks spreading along Lucien’s spine. Not just one, but two.

He stumbled back, breath catching. “No…” he whispered. “There’s another.”

Far away, in a quiet forest, Lyra woke screaming. Her mark burned, alive, as if answering a call.

Mira rushed to her, heart pounding, but Lyra’s words chilled her to the bone.

“He’s calling me,” Lyra whispered, eyes wide. “And I think… I’m calling him too.”