Chapter 56

A year had quietly drifted by since the day Lucien and Lyra met in the forest.

Seasons changed—spring’s blossoms gave way to the golden rains of summer, summer to the crisp chill of autumn, and then to the white silence of winter—but through them all, their secret never faded.

The prince and the hidden girl of the woods had made the wilderness their kingdom.

Every few days, sometimes under the veil of twilight, sometimes beneath the daring light of dawn, Lucien would escape the palace walls. Cloaked in a simple brown cape, his crown exchanged for the scent of pine and freedom, he would ride alone into the forest.

And Lyra would be waiting—always waiting.

At first, they spoke like strangers rediscovering one another through hesitant smiles and quiet laughter. But soon, words turned into familiarity, and familiarity grew into something deeper.

They talked about everything—the sky, the stars, their dreams, their fears. Lyra told him about her mother, Mira, and how she raised her in a small cottage near the river. Lucien shared stories of the palace, of Kael’s mischievous pranks and the endless duties that came with his crown.

The more they met, the more they learned that they were two souls molded from the same clay.

When Lucien laughed, Lyra felt her chest warm with joy. When Lyra smiled, Lucien felt his heart trip over itself. They found comfort in silence, too—those quiet moments when neither spoke, yet everything between them was said in the gentle touch of their fingers brushing or the steady rhythm of shared breathing beneath the forest canopy.

Each meeting became a promise.

Each promise became love.

Lucien knew it, even before he could say it.

He was falling, and there was no turning back.

One evening, under the silver glow of the moon, he found himself watching her as she braided her hair beside the river. The water shimmered like glass, reflecting both their faces side by side.

“Lyra,” he said softly.

She turned, a teasing smile on her lips. “Yes, my prince?”

He frowned lightly. “Don’t call me that when we’re here.”

“Then what should I call you?” she asked.

“Lucien,” he said, his voice gentle. “Just Lucien. When I’m with you, I’m not a prince. I’m just… me.”

She looked at him, her eyes soft. “Then, just Lyra for you too.”

A silence fell. The night breeze carried the sound of the river and the whisper of the leaves. Then Lucien reached out, his fingers trembling slightly, and brushed her cheek. Her breath caught, her heart racing wildly.

“I don’t know what this is doing to me,” he murmured. “Every time I see you, it feels like I’m waking up for the first time.”

Her eyes met his, and her voice trembled. “Then don’t wake up.”

Lucien smiled faintly, lowering his forehead to hers. “Lyra… I won’t touch you,” he said, his voice low and certain. “Not until I make you my wife. That’s my promise.”

Lyra’s eyes glistened, tears threatening to spill. “You mean it?”

He nodded. “With every breath in me.”

They stayed like that for a long time—his hands around hers, their foreheads pressed together, hearts pounding in rhythm. And though they didn’t cross the line of flesh, they kissed—slowly, softly, with the kind of tenderness that makes time hold its breath.

The forest bore witness to their silent vow.

The year passed, and their bond grew deeper.

Sometimes they met in rain, soaked to the bone, laughing like children as they danced barefoot in the mud. Other times they met in the hush of night, when the moon was full and the fireflies painted silver stars around them.

They built dreams together—dreams of a world where they could love freely, where he was not a prince and she was not hidden by fate.

But neither of them knew that their love was already part of something far greater—something ancient, and dangerous.

It was one of those evenings again.

The wind was soft, the world quiet. Lucien and Lyra lay on the forest floor, hand in hand, gazing at the stars.

“Lucien,” Lyra whispered, her head resting on his shoulder. “Do you ever wonder why we met?”

He smiled faintly, turning to her. “Every day. And every time I do, I thank the gods for it.”

She laughed softly. “Maybe they planned it.”

He looked at her then—really looked at her—the way her lashes fluttered when she smiled, the small curve of her lips, the steady rise and fall of her chest. “If they did,” he said quietly, “then it’s the only good plan they ever made.”

They both chuckled, and as the night deepened, their eyes grew heavier. Without realizing it, they drifted into sleep—still holding hands, their fingers intertwined like vines that refused to part.

And in that sleep, something strange began to stir.

The air around them thickened, humming with energy. The leaves trembled without wind. The earth seemed to glow faintly beneath them.

Then, as though pulled by invisible strings, their souls slipped into another place—another realm.

They were no longer lying in the woods but standing in a vast, shadowed hall.

Torches of black flame burned on both sides. The floor was made of obsidian, reflecting their faint images. Around them stood thousands of figures—tall, masked beings dressed in black garments, each bearing strange marks on their foreheads.

Lyra gasped, clutching Lucien’s arm. “Where… where are we?”

Lucien looked around, his heart pounding. “I don’t know… but they’re—”

Before he could finish, the masked crowd spoke in one unified voice, echoing like thunder:

“You have completed seventeen years, our prince and princess.”

Their voices shook the air. Lyra’s hand tightened on Lucien’s.

Lucien stepped forward slightly, his voice shaking. “How do you know our names?”

A tall masked man emerged from the crowd, his cloak sweeping the ground. His eyes glowed crimson through the mask.

“Because you are ours,” the man said. “You are our prince, Lucien of the Living

And you—” he turned to Lyra— “you are our princess, Lyra of the Veiled Flame. We made you meet a year ago, because the prophecy cannot be fulfilled if you are apart.”

Lyra’s breath caught. “Prophecy? What prophecy?”

The man lifted his hand, and a gust of dark energy rippled through the hall. Two golden thrones rose from the ground—tall, glowing faintly with red light. Between them, a third, larger throne appeared, made entirely of black stone.

“You were chosen before time,” the masked man said. “You are the bridge between worlds—the heirs of the forgotten realm. Through your union, the gates will open again. Through your power, we shall rise.”

Lucien shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “I don’t want this.”

But the masked man only smiled beneath his mask. “It is not a choice, my prince. It is destiny.”

The ground trembled. Two unseen forces grabbed Lucien and Lyra, pushing them gently but firmly toward the thrones. Their bodies resisted, but their legs moved on their own.

“No! Stop!” Lyra cried, trying to pull away.

Lucien reached for her hand, gripping it tightly. “I won’t let go!”

They were forced down into the golden thrones, side by side. The moment they sat, the world around them exploded into light.

Their eyes flared red like molten fire, the same glow reflecting off every masked face in the room.

The marks on their bodies—the hidden symbols Mira had feared for years—burned bright and alive.

Lucien felt it spread through his veins, his blood turning to heat. Lyra screamed as her body shook, her hair floating upward like flame.

Their hands locked together, trembling, and before their eyes, their fingers began to stretch—longer, sharper, almost claw-like.

Lucien’s breath hitched. “Lyra!”

Her voice broke. “Lucien, what’s happening to us?”

The masked crowd chanted again in unison:

“You will destroy all the people in your land.

You will destroy all the people in your land.

You will destroy all the people in your land.

You will destroy all the people in your land.”

The words echoed endlessly, ringing in their heads like a curse.

Lyra, desperate, slapped her own face hard. “Wake up!” she shouted, shaking Lucien’s shoulders. “Wake up, wake up!”

The chant grew louder, faster, unbearable. The red light swallowed everything.

“Wake up!” she cried again.

And suddenly, they were both gasping for air—back in the forest clearing, their bodies drenched in sweat, their fingers still intertwined.

Lucien sat up, his chest heaving, looking wildly around. The forest was silent again. The torches, the chanting, the masked people—all gone.

Lyra was trembling beside him, her skin pale, her eyes wide with fear. “Lucien… that wasn’t a dream, was it?”

He looked at her, his jaw tight, his eyes haunted. “No,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t.”

They sat there for a long moment, the only sound their breathing and the whisper of the leaves above. Both of them knew—without saying it—that something had changed.

Something dark had awakened inside them.

And though the night was calm, the air now carried a promise of storm.