The Forgotten Pulse of the Bond

Camille sat barefoot at the base of the vault stairs, her gown torn and stained with moon ash. Mirrors, seven of them, shattered in jagged crescents, circled her in a crude halo. Each fragment held a version of her: one with hair snow-white, one sobbing blood, another smiling with too many teeth.

"Camille," Rhett’s voice came first, firm and low. He stepped into the vault, boots clicking on stone, eyes locked on the woman he once thought fragile.

She didn’t respond.

"Camille, it’s Rhett. Look at me."

She turned slowly, her irises flickering silver, then pitch black. A grin stretched across her lips, not hers.

"Is it Camille you’re looking for? Or the other one who wears her face?"

Rhett hesitated, fingers twitching toward the dagger at his hip. "Let her speak."

"She’s listening," the not-Camille said in a sing-song voice. "She’s always listening."

Celeste arrived next, robes brushing stone, her voice calm and cutting. "Step back, Rhett. She’s not gone."

"Then what is she, Celeste?" Rhett growled. "This is the second time she’s escaped. She drew sigils in her sleep. Her blood opened a sealed vault."

"And yet she breathes," Celeste countered. "Which means her soul hasn’t shattered entirely."