Rion had never believed in destiny. Not in his old life, not now.
But when someone chases you through death and into rebirth, destiny stops being a concept—it becomes a prison.
The walls just look prettier.
---
He spent the next year pretending.
Pretending to be Lira's friend. Her confidant. The loyal young nobleman she believed would one day "remember" the love they once had.
He smiled.
He listened.
He held her hand when she offered it.
And all the while, he studied.
In dusty tomes forgotten by the manor's old library, he learned of soulbinding rituals, reincarnation magics, and forbidden contracts made by mad lovers in ancient times. They called it Anchoring—a curse wrapped in devotion. A soul tied to another, carried through lives until one relents or one breaks.
She had anchored herself to him.
That's how she found him.
That's how she always would.
But anchors, he read, could be severed.
For a price.
---
Lira grew closer.
Innocently, at first.
A soft kiss under moonlight, "just a memory."
A laced cup of wine during a spring festival, "just to help you sleep."
A lock of his hair, cut without permission, tucked into her pendant, "just to keep you close when we're apart."
She never hurt him—never again. She knew better.
She'd learned.
And that terrified him more than her knives ever did.
---
The turning point came during the Festival of Stars.
The manor glowed with lanterns. Music filled the air, and couples danced beneath falling petals like a dream frozen in amber.
Rion stood at the edge of the courtyard, eyes cold as steel.
Lira approached in a silver dress, shimmering like starlight.
"Dance with me," she said, holding out her hand.
He hesitated.
She leaned in close. "They're watching," she whispered. "Don't make me punish them."
His gaze flicked across the crowd—servants, nobles, children.
His fingers closed around hers.
They danced.
She moved gracefully, like a leaf on wind. He moved like a man trapped in a dream he couldn't wake from. Her smile never faltered.
"You're doing better," she whispered.
He said nothing.
That night, when she kissed him under the lanterns and whispered, "I think you're finally remembering," he let her believe it.
But inside, he was counting the days.
The ritual needed preparation. A sacred altar. A blade of origin. Blood freely given.
And a moment when her guard would fall.
---
Three months later, he found the blade.
Buried in the ruins of an old temple, half-swallowed by roots, sealed behind a veil of magic so ancient even the scholars feared to touch it.
He touched it anyway.
The blade sang to him.
The whispers in his dreams grew clearer. A voice that was not hers.
A woman. Cold and wrathful. A goddess betrayed.
"Sever the chain," she hissed. "Bleed your cage. Break your echo."
He awoke with blood on his lips and purpose in his bones.
---
But Lira had grown suspicious.
She no longer trusted his distance. She asked questions. She lingered outside his door.
One night, he found her curled on his bed, fast asleep, clutching a small doll that looked eerily like him—stitched with thread from his cloak and a button from his old coat.
"You're planning to run again," she murmured in her sleep.
He stood over her, blade in hand.
He couldn't do it.
Not yet.
The ritual had to be perfect.
Or the chain would simply rewind.
---
He turned to the Mage of the Pale Peaks—a woman older than the mountains, blind in both eyes, but wise beyond reason.
She saw him for what he was.
"You carry her within you," she said, tracing a bony finger down his chest. "Like a parasite. Or a curse."
"Can it be removed?"
The mage smiled grimly. "Only if your will is stronger than hers."
"It is."
"No, boy," she snapped. "I mean stronger in love. For this anchor is not bound by hate. It's bound by obsession. And obsession, when pure, is harder than steel."
He went still. "So I have to love her more?"
The mage's blind eyes stared through him. "No. You must love yourself more."
---
And so he prepared.
He crafted a circle in the forest glade—where the moonlight touched the altar only once a year.
He poured the sacred oil.
Carved the runes.
Readied the blade.
And waited.
On the night of the ritual, he sent her a letter.
"Meet me at the glade. I remember everything. I want to be yours again—freely, completely. Come alone."
She arrived in a white cloak, barefoot, trembling with joy.
"I knew," she whispered, tears in her eyes. "I knew you'd remember."
He said nothing. Only held out his hand.
She took it.
They walked to the altar together.
"Will you bind yourself to me again?" she asked.
He smiled.
"No."
Her face fell. Confused. Afraid.
"What…?"
"I'm breaking the chain."
She backed away. "No. No, Riku. Not again—please—"
"You followed me through death," he said. "You turned love into a cage. But I see it now. I see you now. I won't be yours."
He drew the blade.
She screamed.
She ran.
He moved faster.
With trembling hands, he cut his palm and let the blood fall onto the runes.
They hissed. Glowed. Burned.
The wind howled. The forest shook. The moon turned red.
Lira knelt, sobbing, screaming words in a language long dead.
But the goddess's voice rose louder:
"Break. The. Echo."
Rion raised the blade.
Lira reached for him.
"Don't," she sobbed. "Please… I can be better this time. I am better…"
He hesitated.
Just for a breath.
But that was enough.
She lunged.
The blade sliced into her arm—not fatal, but deep. She screamed in pain.
Rion screamed in rage.
And the altar shattered.
The light burst upward, a pillar of power that seared the night.
The chain—anchored through lives, through time, through soul—snapped.
Rion collapsed.
And the last thing he heard was her voice, not angry, not monstrous—
But small.
Shattered.
"Riku… why don't you love me…?"