The rain had come by dawn — quiet, silver, and unending. It veiled the palace roofs in mist, softening even the sharp edges of the empire. Yet to Illyen, no such mercy touched the turmoil within.
He had not slept. The word the priest spoke — Remember — echoed through every corner of his mind, restless as a ghost that refused to die. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw gold burning through stone, heard the faint sound of glass breaking, and felt a pull — not outward, but inward, like something ancient was stirring beneath his ribs.
By morning, the corridors were hushed, save for the muffled patter of rain against the tall windows. Servants moved with subdued grace, as if afraid to disturb the unease that had settled over the palace overnight.
Illyen stood by his window, his reflection ghosted across the glass — pale, tired, and strangely distant from himself. He thought of Cael's words: Memory will burn its way through you until it's done.
What did Cael mean by that? What memory?
The whisper from the shrine, the flickering of the incense, the prince's gaze — all of it tangled together into something both frightening and familiar. There were moments, brief and fleeting, when his heart seemed to ache for something he could not name. Like hearing a song without remembering the melody, or standing in a place that felt like home without knowing why.
A knock came at the door.
"My lord duke," a servant's voice said softly. "Her Highness, Princess Emily, requests your company in the eastern greenhouse."
Illyen hesitated, then murmured, "Tell her I will come shortly."
He gathered himself with slow precision — a habit drilled into him since youth. Straightened collar, composed breath, polished restraint. Yet his reflection betrayed the truth he tried to hide: the faint tremor of his hands, the haunted glint in his eyes.
⸻
The greenhouse was a world apart from the rest of the palace — warm, filled with the scent of wet earth and blooming night lilies. Raindrops slid down the glass walls, tracing paths like pale threads against the morning light.
Emily stood near the central fountain, her gown the color of frost. When she turned, her face softened with relief. "You came."
"I couldn't refuse you," Illyen said with a faint smile. "You sounded… urgent."
"I was worried." She reached out, brushing away a petal that had fallen onto his sleeve. "After last night, I thought you might not leave your chambers."
He exhaled, gaze falling to the lilies. "Last night was… difficult to forget."
Emily's eyes held a quiet sadness. "You heard what the priest said. Everyone did. But I think it frightened you more than the rest."
"It wasn't fear," Illyen whispered. "It was… recognition. As though I'd heard that voice before."
Her hand stilled. "The voice?"
He nodded. "Faint, like wind through glass — exactly as he described. It felt like it was calling to me, not the room. Isn't that strange?"
Emily looked away. "Perhaps not as strange as you think."
Illyen frowned. "What do you mean?"
She hesitated, then said softly, "My brother has not been himself since the shrine's incense turned blue. He spends hours alone there, speaking to no one. When I asked why, he told me something I didn't understand — that the gods were waiting for someone to remember them."
Illyen's pulse quickened. "Waiting for… someone?"
"Yes." She met his eyes, her voice trembling slightly. "And when the crest cracked, he said only one thing — 'It begins again.'"
The sound of rain deepened, steady as heartbeats. Illyen's throat tightened.
Again.
The word hung between them like mist — fragile, uncertain, but heavy with meaning.
Emily's gaze softened. "I don't know what ties you and my brother share, Illyen. But whatever it is, it runs deeper than court or duty. When he looks at you, it's as if he's looking at something lost."
Illyen felt the words cut into him, gentle yet piercing. He wanted to deny them — to say that Cael was merely courteous, or cold, or burdened with the weight of the throne. But he couldn't. Because beneath every glance, every silence, there was something else — a sorrow that looked too familiar to belong to a stranger.
"I should speak with him," Illyen murmured. "Perhaps understanding will come if I stop running from it."
Emily nodded, though her eyes were uncertain. "Be careful, Illyen. My brother's heart carries more than you can see."
⸻
The shrine was empty when Illyen entered.
The scent of incense lingered faintly, mingling with the faint hum of air that always seemed to fill this sacred space. The crack upon the stone altar remained — thin, golden at its edges, like lightning frozen mid-strike.
He stepped closer, his footsteps echoing softly. The silence was almost alive, vibrating through the marble floor, through his bones.
"Why me?" he whispered, touching the edge of the cracked stone. "Why that word?"
A flicker of light shimmered along the fracture — faint, but real. For a moment, it felt as though something beneath the stone pulsed in response.
And then —
"You came."
Illyen turned sharply.
Cael stood at the entrance, his cloak heavy with rain, droplets glinting like liquid stars upon his shoulders. His hair was damp, his expression unreadable — yet his eyes were vivid, piercing blue against the dim shrine light.
"I thought you might," Cael said quietly. "You've never been able to resist the pull, no matter how many lifetimes try to silence it."
Illyen's breath caught. "Lifetimes?"
Cael approached slowly, the sound of his steps steady and unhurried. "You feel it too, don't you? The ache that has no name. The dreams that vanish before you wake. The familiarity you cannot explain."
Illyen stepped back, his heart hammering. "You speak as if I've lived before."
"You have."
Silence.
The word fell like a stone into still water, sending invisible ripples through the air.
Cael's gaze softened. "Once, long ago, you stood in this very shrine. The same incense burned. You made a promise to never forget me — even if the gods tore us apart."
"I—" Illyen's voice broke. "That's impossible."
"Is it?" Cael whispered. "Then tell me, Illyen — why does your heart tremble every time I say your name?"
Illyen's lips parted, but no words came. Because it was true — his heart did tremble. It always had. From the first day they met again, a thread had pulled him closer, even when he tried to hate, even when he tried to run.
A faint sound filled the air — the crack along the altar widening, glowing brighter, gold spilling like sunlight through the stone.
Cael reached out, his voice breaking through the hum. "You don't have to remember all at once. Just… don't turn away."
Illyen's fingers hovered above the glowing line. His pulse thundered in his ears.
And somewhere, deep within the golden light, a memory stirred — faint laughter beneath a spring tree, a voice whispering his name like prayer.
He gasped softly, pulling his hand back, his eyes wide with confusion and awe.
Cael's gaze gentled. "Do you see now? The gods aren't calling for themselves, Illyen. They're calling for us."
The rain outside deepened, thunder rolling low across the sky.
Illyen stood trembling before the altar, the golden crack reflecting in his eyes like a thread of fate.
And though the memory had not yet returned, the longing had — fierce, familiar, and infinite.
⸻
That night, as the empire of Serethis slept beneath the rain, the shrine's golden light did not fade.
It pulsed softly, as though the gods themselves were waiting for a promise to be remembered.