"Vows are not promises.
They are chains made of words—
And some are sharp enough to bleed the gods."
---
The day of the wedding, the sky forgot how to shine.
Not cloudy. Not storming.
Just… hollow. Like the heavens were holding their breath.
The priests called it a divine omen.
The queen called it divine timing.
But Aralyndra—pale, veiled, and dressed in silver so pure it looked like starlight woven into thread—called it nothing.
She hadn't spoken in eight years.
Not since her voice had shattered her sister's bones.
They told her she was cursed.
They told her it was for the best.
They told her that a good queen doesn't speak. She obeys.
And so, she stood in silence.
At the edge of a glass altar.
In front of a man she didn't love.
Beneath a crown that felt like iron knives braided into her scalp.
She wanted to run. She wanted to scream.
But her vows were sealed in the blood of saints.
One vow: Obey the throne.
Second vow: Do not speak.
Third vow: Never remember.
---
Across the hall, nobles whispered behind their veils.
"She doesn't cry."
"She doesn't blink."
"They say she once burned a boy just by whispering his name."
And yet, they all bowed.
Because the girl was sacred.
Because the blood in her veins was older than the stars.
Because if she ever remembered who she truly was… the world would burn.
---
A single bell rang from the cathedral's peak.
The wedding had begun.
The King-to-be—Lord Caelren of Velharrow, lion of the Northern Wastes—stepped forward with a blade instead of a ring. That was tradition in their kingdom.
He would slice her palm. She would offer blood.
A vow would be made, sealed with pain and silence.
But just as the blade touched her skin—
The sky screamed.
A sound like ten thousand swords scraping the edge of the world.
The stained-glass windows shattered inward.
Wind howled through the marble arches like a god's fury.
And from the heavens—
A man fell.
---
He didn't fall like a star.
He crashed like a judgment.
His armor was broken. His chest bled flame.
Dragons circled behind him—real ones—smoke and light curling from their wings like stormclouds with teeth.
And as his body slammed into the center of the altar, stone cracked like brittle paper.
Screams followed.
Guards drew blades.
The queen screamed for the archmages to kill him.
But Aralyndra couldn't move.
Because the moment the man raised his head—
He looked at her. Straight through the veil.
And whispered a name no one had spoken in centuries.
> "Astraeva…"
Her body trembled.
Her vows cracked.
And in that instant—something inside her remembered.
---
> She remembered a mountain turned to ash by a single word.
She remembered a god who died smiling.
She remembered him, in a crown of flame, vowing to find her in every life.
She remembered what her voice could do.
---
The sky split open behind the dragons.
A second god was descending.
This one did not fall with fire.
He came wrapped in chains of light, held by the Pale Matron herself.
And above them all, inscribed in divine runes across the torn clouds, came the first prophecy in 300 years:
> "THE VOICE HAS RETURNED.
AND THIS TIME…
SHE WILL NOT BE SILENT."
---
Aralyndra looked down at her hand.
The blade meant for the wedding had sliced her palm open.
Blood dripped to the altar.
But her lips—
They moved.
A whisper, soft as silk.
> "I remember."
And with that breath—
The glass altar exploded.
The vow broke.
And half the cathedral burned.