Chapter 64

The days that followed were strangely quiet.

No thunder. No tremors. No whispers of dark magic in the air.

For the first time in decades, the kingdom of Songhai woke to sunlight that wasn’t dimmed by shadow. The rivers ran clear again, the forests breathed freely, and even the wind carried warmth instead of warning.

People whispered that when the prince and his sister died, they didn’t just end a curse—they healed the land itself. The prophecy had always spoken of “two born of one blood, whose death would seal the world anew.” But no one had understood it until now.

Crops began to bloom twice as large. The barren fields turned golden with harvest. The sick began to recover without medicine. Even the birds—long silent—returned, filling the skies with song.

Peace had finally come.

A year later, the palace no longer felt like a fortress of grief.

Its marble walls, once cold and gray, were repainted white and gold.

Servants laughed again in the corridors, and children played in the royal gardens, where new fountains glittered under the morning sun.

King Zerach had aged in that year. His hair, once black as coal, now carried streaks of silver. But his heart was lighter. Every morning he walked through the gardens and looked toward the horizon—toward the place where his children had fallen—and whispered a prayer of thanks.

He had learned to smile again.

Not the smile of a ruler, but the smile of a father who had finally understood love, even through loss.

Mira still lived in the palace, though she moved more quietly than before. She had become something between a counselor and a guardian of memory. She often visited the royal library, where portraits of Lucien and Lyra hung side by side, lit by the soft glow of morning light.

“They would have loved to see this peace,” she would say softly.

And she was right.

A Celebration of Life

That morning was special—the anniversary of the Day of Restoration, as it came to be called. The palace buzzed with excitement. Everyone, from nobles to gardeners, was preparing for the royal portrait, a symbol of unity and rebirth.

A large red carpet stretched from the palace steps down to the courtyard, where the royal photographer set up his golden frame camera, imported from the southern lands. Assistants polished lenses, arranged props, and adjusted the great banner of Songhai that fluttered proudly above.

King Zerach stood at the center of the courtyard in his ceremonial robe, his expression calm but filled with quiet pride. Mira stood beside him, dressed in a gown of emerald green, the color of renewal.

One by one, members of the royal household gathered: advisors, guards, healers, maids, and even children of the palace staff—each representing the unity the kingdom had rebuilt.

“Everyone, please smile!” the photographer called, his voice bright and cheerful.

As he prepared the shot, the sunlight shifted—pouring through the trees like liquid gold.

And for a fleeting moment… something shimmered in the light.

The Glimpse

It began as a soft breeze.

The flags rustled gently, though the air had been still moments before. Then came a faint sound—almost like laughter—carried through the courtyard.

King Zerach’s hand trembled slightly as he turned his head, his eyes narrowing toward the open garden. He thought he saw two figures standing beneath the great willow tree by the fountain.

A young man in royal garments, tall and strong, his hair catching the sunlight like flame.

Beside him, a young woman in white, her smile soft, her hair dancing in the wind.

Lucien.

Lyra.

For a heartbeat, the world stood still.

The King blinked, and the vision flickered—but the warmth in the air remained. Mira gasped quietly beside him, her eyes wide, her lips trembling. She saw them too.

The two figures smiled back at them, peaceful and radiant—not as forbidden ones, not as cursed souls, but as siblings reunited and free.

Then the wind carried them upward in a shimmer of light, dissolving into the golden sky.

“Ready, everyone!” the photographer shouted again, oblivious to what had just passed. “Hold your pose!”

Zerach and Mira exchanged a glance—tears glistening in their eyes, but their hearts overflowing with calm joy.

And so, the picture was taken.

The great flash of the camera captured the royal family smiling, standing strong in the new dawn of peace. But when the photograph developed that evening, the palace gasped in wonder.

Behind the King and Mira—just faintly, like light reflections—stood two more silhouettes.

One male.

One female.

Their hands were clasped.

Their smiles were full of warmth.

Lucien and Lyra.

Eternal Harmony

Word spread quickly across Songhai:

that the prince and his sister had appeared in the royal photograph, smiling as if blessing the kingdom they died to save.

The priests called it divine proof that the curse was broken forever.

The poets called it the Song of the Twins.

The people simply called it love—stronger than blood, stronger than death.

The kingdom prospered beyond all imagination.

Children born in that year were said to have “the light of the twins” in their eyes—pure, fearless, and kind.

No war, no famine, no plague dared touch Songhai again.

And when the wind blew through the city streets, it carried two voices—soft and familiar—like laughter echoing through eternity.

The camera faded to black.

Then light flickered again—revealing the royal portrait, framed in gold, hanging in the grand hall.

The sound of birds filled the palace. The servants were laughing somewhere offscreen. The music swelled—soft strings and flutes, the anthem of Songhai reborn.

The camera zoomed in slowly on the photograph.

On the faint figures of Lucien and Lyra standing together—side by side.

Not as lovers.

Not as cursed beings.

But as brother and sister, whole and at peace.

Their smiles seemed to move, as if whispering one last message to those who still carried their story in their hearts:

“No darkness lasts forever.

No love is ever truly lost.

We are home.”

The screen faded to white.

And beneath the final glow of sunlight, golden letters appeared:

“The End.”