The Cursed of Destiny: The One Who Waited

Peace had returned to the valley—but it was a fragile peace, like glass held together with trembling hands.

The days passed with rebuilding and laughter, the kind born from survival. Lyra smiled with her cousins, helped lift timber and arrange stones. She dined beside her father and slept beneath a roof of stars.

But beneath that peace… something stirred.

It began with whispers.

At first, soft as wind brushing a curtain.

Then shadows that clung too long in corners, that twisted when she turned away.

At night, Lyra would jolt awake, certain someone had just called her name.

One such night, the storm came.

Rain drummed against the tiled roof like a warning. Thunder rolled through the valley, deep and long, like the breath of a sleeping god.

Lyra sat up, breath caught.

The candle had long since burned out. Moonlight shimmered through the slats of the shuttered window.

Something was wrong.

The house was silent—too silent.

She stood, barefoot against the cold stone floor, and moved through the halls.

"Father?" she whispered.

No answer.

"Aylea? Aunt Siora? Thalen?"

Nothing.

Her voice echoed against the empty walls.

Panic crept in.

"Uncle Daran?"

Still nothing.

Then, finally:

"Kael?"

A flash of lightning tore through the sky.

In that blinding white moment, she saw a figure through the window.

Outside. Standing in the rain.

She ran to the door and pushed it open.

Wind lashed her hair. The downpour soaked her in seconds.

Kael stood beneath the storm, unmoving—holding someone in his arms.

Someone limp.

Someone small.

Someone who looked… exactly like her.

Lyra's breath caught as she stepped closer, heart pounding with a dread she couldn't name.

Kael was crying.

"No," he whispered, cradling the body.

"Please… don't leave me."

The other Lyra—ashen and still—smiled weakly.

Her trembling hand rose and brushed Kael's cheek.

"I love you," she whispered.

Kael wept, resting his forehead against hers.

In that moment, everything was still.

She died in his arms, smiling.

Then the sky cracked.

A figure in a black cloak appeared behind them.

Without a word, he reached forward—and pulled the lifeless girl from Kael's arms.

"No!" Kael roared, reaching after her.

The stranger's hand ignited in blinding white flame.

And in an instant, the girl was gone.

Ash.

Kael let out a scream that shattered the dreamscape. His eyes—bright with fury—burned like blue fire. Two blades shimmered into his hands, and he lunged.

But another shadow emerged behind him. A sharp rope of light bound his arms, dragging him backward.

Kael struggled, howled.

The two cloaked figures vanished into the storm.

He fell to his knees.

And then—

Darkness.

A flash of something—another scene trying to form—but it was torn away too fast.

Lyra gasped and bolted upright.

She was back in her bed. The storm outside had passed.

Aylea slept soundly beside her, unaware.

But Lyra's heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her throat. Her skin was damp with sweat and rainwater that hadn't been real.

She clutched her chest.

"What did I just see…?"

That moment. That pain in Kael's face. That whisper—"I love you."

Why did it feel real?

Her legs moved before she could think.

She threw on her cloak, tiptoed past the sleeping house, and ran.

The wind still hummed in the trees.

And there—beneath the awning of the garden shrine—sat Kael. Soaked, still, unmoving.

Lyra slowed. Her breath came in shudders. But her heart, which had thrashed wildly moments before, now steadied.

Just seeing him… made it easier to breathe.

She didn't speak. She just watched him. He hadn't noticed her.

And that was enough—for now.

Days passed.

But the visions did not.

Each night, the dreams returned. Different eras. Different lives.

In one, she was a healer in a crumbling desert city. Kael wore black armor and brought her wounded children from a battlefield.

In another, she wore royal robes and danced with him beneath lanterns—and he looked at her like the world lived in her eyes.

In another still, he was chained in fire while she stood behind a throne, forced to watch him burn.

In every dream, there were white lilies.

Pressed into her hands. Woven in her hair. Scattered on the ground as she died.

A flower for love. A flower for parting.

And in every dream, she called him the same name—

"Kael."

Even when the world around them changed. Even when her own name did.

It wasn't a name that belonged to this life.

It belonged to something older.

One morning, Lyra sat beneath the tree, knees drawn to her chest. Aylea giggled somewhere nearby, braiding wildflowers. Thalen ran in circles with a stick like it was a sword.

But Lyra just stared at the sky, silent.

"Who is he…?" she whispered.

"Who am I to him?"

She didn't remember the answer.

But the ache in her chest already knew.

And somewhere, far from the valley,

a single white lily bloomed.