The Forgotten Pulse of the Bond-Chapter 29: Rhett Questions Camille’s Past

Rhett found her sitting in the atrium behind the west wing, exactly where he expected her to be. The frost hadn’t lifted yet, and the moon was still pinned high in the sky like a slow-dying eye. The stone bench beneath her was dusted with dew, but Camille sat as if carved from it.

No cloak. No gloves.

Just silence.

And grief.

He didn’t speak at first.

He let the moment stretch between them, taut and quiet like a string pulled to the edge of snapping.

Camille didn’t look up.

"You followed me," she murmured.

"You didn’t close the bond."

"I didn’t want to be alone."

"Then why did you come here?"

"Because this place forgets things."

Rhett stepped forward, boots crunching frost.

"Not you," he said. "You remember everything."

She gave a breathless laugh, bitter and soft. "That’s the problem."

He sat beside her.

Close.

But not touching.

The silence returned, deeper now.

Then she whispered, "Do you think I’m someone else?"

His jaw tightened. "Why are you asking that?"

Camille finally turned to look at him.

Eyes gray, raw, trembling at the edges.

"Because I don’t think Camille is my name."

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t speak either.

She went on.

"When I was eight, I had a fever. High. Elara thought I’d die. But I kept saying the same word over and over in my sleep Caelia. That’s not a name I ever heard. Not in stories. Not from books. Just... there. In my mouth. Like it belonged."

"Why didn’t you tell anyone?"

"I did. Elara told me it was a dream."

"And you believed her?"

"I wanted to."

Rhett leaned forward, elbows on knees.

He stared at the dead grass.

"What else have you remembered?"

Camille exhaled.

"When I almost drowned... it wasn’t just water. I saw stone. A ring of it. I saw candles burning even though there was no air. And I saw a mark on my wrist. Not the bond. Something older. It was shaped like a gate."

Rhett turned to her, voice low. "Camille..."

She cut him off. "Don’t tell me it was the dream again."

"I wasn’t going to."

"Then what?"

"I was going to ask why you think you saw it."

She looked away.

"Because I think it happened. Because I think I wasn’t supposed to survive it. And because part of me didn’t."

The air shifted.

He reached out slowly and touched her wrist.

It was cold.

But not lifeless.

"Then who are you?"

She looked back at him.

And didn’t blink.

"I don’t know. But I’m scared to find out."

"Why?"

"Because what if I was made for something I don’t want?"

"Then you unmake it."

"It’s not that easy."

"It is if you let me help."

Her hand curled around his before she even realized she’d moved.

It was a simple touch.

But it meant everything.

He didn’t let go.

"I know you think you’re cursed," Rhett said. "I know you think this thing inside you is rotting its way to the surface."

"It is."

"No. It’s trying. There’s a difference."

She looked at him, eyes shining. "You think I can win?"

"I think you already did. You came back."

"Barely."

"Enough."

Camille swallowed hard.

The words pushed up before she could stop them.

"I’m not her."

"Who?"

"The girl you used to watch train. The one who sat too close at fire circle. The one who smiled like she didn’t know what it meant."

"I know you’re not her."

She met his eyes.

"Then who am I to you?"

He didn’t answer with words.

He leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn’t frantic.

It wasn’t desperate.

It was honest.

And quiet.

And full of the ache neither of them had dared name.

When he pulled back, their foreheads stayed pressed.

"You’re not a story," he said. "You’re not a seal. Or a gate. Or a weapon."

"Then what?"

"You’re the choice. The one that changes what comes next."

Camille trembled.

"But what if I break it?"

He kissed her again.

But someone was already waiting.

A figure cloaked in wolf-hide, tall, thin, arms crossed tight against the bitter wind. His face was half-covered, but she knew that stance. She knew the curve of his shoulders. She knew the quiet tension in his silence.

Sterling.

She didn’t greet him.

She simply stopped two paces away.

"You’re early," she said.

"I’ve been waiting."

"You said you wouldn’t come near the camp."

"I didn’t."

Elara’s mouth twisted. "This is close enough."

He turned, letting the wind tug his hood back slightly.

His hair was silver now completely. Not just at the temples.

"The girl," he said. "She’s unstable."

"She’s surviving."

"She’s remembering."

Elara said nothing.

Sterling took a slow step forward. "When you hid her, you swore the essence was dormant."

"It was."

"She almost drowned last night."

Elara’s voice stayed level. "So did her sister."

He laughed once, humorless.

"This isn’t what we planned."

Elara’s eyes sharpened. "No. This is what you planned. I gave her a life."

Sterling’s voice dropped. "You gave her a name."

"Better than the one she was born to."

He stepped closer.

"She is the last of the Blood Gate line. You know what that means."

"I know exactly what it means."

"It means she isn’t a girl anymore. She’s a key. And the bond she carries if it wakes fully "

"I won’t let it."

"You won’t be able to stop it."

Elara’s eyes flashed.

"I will. Even if it breaks me."

Sterling tilted his head.

"Would you kill her?"

Elara didn’t answer.

Sterling pressed, voice cold. "Because that’s what it will come to."

"You were supposed to stay gone."

"You should have buried her deeper."

The wind howled suddenly, cutting between them like a blade.

Elara didn’t flinch.

She took a slow breath.

"She isn’t a weapon, Sterling. She’s a child you tried to unmake."

"She was never a child. She was born with the seal already on her heart."

"And somehow she lived."

"That was your mistake."

"No," Elara said. "That was my miracle."

Sterling’s eyes darkened.

"You’re risking a war over a bond you can’t even control."

"I’d rather burn the gates than let you break her again."

"She doesn’t belong to you."

"No," Elara said. "She belongs to herself now."

Sterling’s lips curled.

"We’ll see how long that lasts."

He turned and walked into the mist.

Elara didn’t follow.

Didn’t call after him.

She stood at the cliff’s edge until the sky began to turn.

Then whispered to the trees:

"I won’t lose her. Not again."

The sky outside was the color of old ash, and most of the camp still slept, including Camille. But Magnolia couldn’t. Not after what she’d read. Not after what she’d seen in Camille’s eyes when she cried out in her sleep.

So she followed instinct.

It led her here.

To Sterling’s wing.

To what remained of it.

The corridor had been locked since the second uprising. A fire had torn through the old study chambers and scorched the blood seals that protected the inner rooms. No one had repaired it. The council claimed it held nothing useful.

Magnolia knew that was a lie.

She stepped through the threshold, her fingers glowing faintly with bond-ink as she pressed her palm to the old seal. It hissed, resisted, then fell silent.

The door creaked open.

Dust spiraled in the shaft of light behind her.

She stepped into shadow.

The study was untouched.

Shelves lined every wall, stacked with relics, ledgers, dried roots in wax-sealed jars. There was a long table in the center, half-covered in old scripts and feathered quills, all hardened with time.

But Magnolia ignored all of it.

She moved straight to the back.

To the stone hearth where the scent of lavender still lingered.

She knelt, pressed her hand to the cold stone.

Waited.

A pulse answered.

Faint.

But there.

She pressed harder.

The hearth cracked just enough to show a hidden seam.

She found the release beneath the mantle, a tiny lever hidden behind a loose rune brick.

It clicked.

And the wall opened.

Inside was a narrow tunnel.

Carved from dark shale, lined with runes burned deep into the stone.

Magnolia hesitated.

Then entered.

The air inside was old.

Not stale preserved. It held the scent of charred blood and snowroot and something else. Something metallic and sharp.

The tunnel sloped down.

Twisting once, then again.

And then opened into a room.

A chamber.

Hidden beneath the west wing.

Magnolia stepped inside.

And froze.

There were no books here.

No scrolls.

Just glass cases.

Rows of them.

Each holding something different.

An infant-sized crib. Charms bound in sinew. A pair of gloves stitched with binding spells. And at the far end a cradle carved from obsidian, lined with runed velvet.

A name etched beneath it:

Subject 34-C.

Magnolia’s blood ran cold.

She moved slowly toward the stand beside it.

A journal sat open.

Written in Sterling’s hand.

She read.

"Subject 34-C displays irregular bond patterns crossed thresholds at 13 moons, partial seal rejection, unknown bloodline response. Recommend memory binding. Containment initiated. Elara will handle above-ground integration."

Magnolia’s hands shook.

She flipped the page.

Sketches.

A child with two heart marks.

One over the left side, traditional.

One over the right.

Unnatural.

Camille.

She couldn’t breathe.

This room wasn’t just about secrets.

It was a lab.

A cradle.

A tomb.

She turned to leave.

Then saw something else.

A mirror.

Tall. Black-framed. Covered in an old cloth.

She pulled it off.

And stared.

There was no reflection.

Just smoke.

A girl’s shape in the center.

Whispering.

"You brought her back. But I never left."

Magnolia stumbled back.

The smoke didn’t move.

But the girl raised her hand.

And touched the inside of the glass.

Magnolia turned and fled.

She didn’t stop running until she reached Beckett’s quarters.

She pounded on the door.

When he opened it, half-dressed and bleary-eyed, she shoved the journal into his chest.

He read one line and went still.

"We have to show Camille," he said.

Magnolia shook her head.

"Not yet."

"She deserves to know."

"She deserves to survive."