The Forgotten Pulse of the Bond

The apothecary chamber smelled of crushed jasmine, damp bark, and dusted roots. Night air whispered through the cracked windowpane, curling around glass jars like ghostly fingers. Camille sat cross-legged on the stone floor, her hands trembling over a basin of moonwater, silver liquid trembling under the sway of candlelight. Her voice was low, murmuring to someone who wasn’t there.

"She said I shouldn’t have told them. But they needed to know," Camille whispered, eyes fixed on her wavering reflection. Her fingers tightened around a rust-colored herb she no longer remembered picking. "Celeste is watching me now. But she doesn’t see it. She never sees it."

The silence answered her.

Then another voice, her voice, but not quite, rose from her throat, sharp and venom-laced. "You’re weak. They will burn you like the rest."

She flinched and dropped the herb into the moonwater. It hissed, frothing with crimson streaks as if it bled. Her breath caught in her throat. Sweat glazed her temple.

"No," Camille choked. "I am not you."

Behind her, a shadow stirred.

Celeste entered without a sound, moving through the doorway like a whisper carried on salt and iron. Her long braid swayed against the dark blue fabric of her robe, eyes catching the candlelight with their piercing clarity. Her gaze landed on Camille, then on the basin.

"You’re speaking to the mirror again."

Camille rose too quickly. The world spun. Her back pressed to the wall as her eyes darted to the tall mirror leaning against the apothecary shelves. It was covered in dust and moon glyphs carved into the wood, a relic of Luna rituals lost to time.

"I wasn’t alone," Camille whispered. Her lips trembled. "She’s in here."