The Cursed of Destiny: The One Who Waited

Lyra stirred.

The air was cold—but not like wind or weather. Cold in a way that made her feel hollow and unmoored, like she had stepped outside of time itself.

When her eyes opened, she was standing—not lying—in the middle of a pale stone street lit by floating lanterns. The sky was dusk-purple. People passed her in robes and gowns, speaking a language she couldn't understand, their movements graceful and slow.

But none of them saw her.

They passed right through her, like smoke.

She didn't know why she saw these things.

But with every step, it felt less like a dream… and more like a memory she had always carried.

Then she saw her.

A young woman, walking hand-in-hand with a man down the lantern-lit street. The woman laughed—a light, familiar sound—and Lyra's breath caught in her throat.

It was her.

Or someone who looked just like her. But older. More radiant. She wore a crown of tiny white flowers in her hair, and her smile was effortless joy.

The man beside her had his back to Lyra, his face still hidden. Yet something in the slope of his shoulders, the way he tilted toward her—gentle, reverent—stirred something ancient in Lyra's chest.

They turned a corner, laughing softly.

"That's not me," Lyra whispered. "Is it…?"

But the answer echoed in her bones.

The scene melted.

Now she stood inside a quiet bedroom, lit by warm, flickering lamplight. The woman lay in bed, aged and worn, her skin like parchment, her breaths faint.

And beside her sat the man. Unchanged. Ageless.

He held her frail hand tightly in both of his, pressing his forehead to their fingers. His silence was heavier than grief—it was eternity collapsing inward.

Lyra tried to hear what the woman whispered before her final breath. Her lips moved, but the words never reached Lyra's ears.

Then the stillness came.

The man let out a raw, quiet sound. And Lyra's heart cracked as if it had always known this moment was coming.

A graveyard. Cold wind. Midnight lilies.

The man dug the grave with bare hands.

He laid her body in the earth himself, wrapped in white silk. He placed a single lily across her chest, kissed her brow, and buried her with reverent hands—like she was the last good thing in the world.

Why does this hurt so much? Lyra clutched her chest. Why does it feel like… I was there?

The world blurred and shifted again.

A thousand lives played before her eyes.

A thousand deaths.

A thousand goodbyes.

Each time, the same soul.

The same woman—her.

The same man—him.

Different lands. Different faces. Different names.

But always them.

Sometimes they lived together for decades.

Sometimes they only had a single stolen kiss.

Sometimes she died young.

Sometimes he vanished searching for her.

In one life, he knelt at her grave for seven days and seven nights until the flowers bloomed in winter.

In another, he wandered the deserts with nothing but her locket in his hand, whispering her name into the wind.

Always love.

Always loss.

Always too soon.

But Lyra never saw his face.

Only one constant remained:

His deep, ocean-blue eyes.

And then—flames.

Not passion.

War.

Smoke and steel. Screams and fire.

She stood on a battlefield now, armor clinging to her body, sword trembling in her grip. Across from her, also bloodied, also breathing hard—stood the man.

Him.

This time she saw his face. It was younger, but unmistakable. Blue eyes burning. A scar across his temple.

And he was her enemy.

The world froze. The air cracked.

They had found each other too late in that life—on opposite sides of a war neither of them started.

They charged at each other.

But before the blades met—

The memory shattered.

Lyra awoke with a jolt, breath ragged, skin clammy.

The world was quiet again. The ruined mansion. Moonlight through the shattered roof. The scent of smoke and healing herbs.

And sitting beside her, silent and still—

Him.

Brown hair tousled. A scar across his collarbone. His hands resting quietly on his lap. And those same, deep blue eyes.

Timeless.

Searching.

Her heart twisted. Her breath caught.

And without thinking, her hand moved instinctively toward his.

Their fingers brushed.

Like a memory reborn.

His eyes widened, just slightly. But he said nothing.

Neither did she.

Because somehow, across time, across lifetimes…

They had found each other again.