The Forgotten Pulse of the Bond-Chapter 78: Threads in Camille’s Mind

"Stop looking at me like that," Camille muttered, her tone sharp as a blade honed on guilt.

The mirror reflected her perfectly, down to the loose strand of dark hair curling at her cheekbone. But there was something else in the glass too. A softness gone brittle. A stare too calculating to be hers.

"You think this is madness?" she whispered.

"No," the voice answered from her own mouth, but not hers. Not truly. "This is becoming."

Camille jerked backward, the hem of her satin robe catching on the drawer handle behind her. The vanity trembled. A perfume bottle toppled and shattered against the floor, spilling violet fragrance like blood.

"You’re not real," she hissed.

"I am more real than the lies you tell yourself."

She clutched the edge of the dresser, knuckles white. Her breath shook. The walls felt too close tonight, like the room itself was listening. She glanced toward the heavy velvet curtains drawn across the balcony, then to the locked door.

"Maybe I just need sleep."

A low laugh curled inside her like smoke.

"You think sleep will save you from me?"

"Why now?" Camille asked, folding her arms tightly. "Why are you stronger now?"

"You opened the scroll," the voice purred, layered and low. "You read the prophecy aloud. You awakened the throne that waits beyond the veil."

"I didn’t mean to awaken anything."

"But you did."

The mirror shimmered for a moment. Her reflection blinked slower than she had. Her face didn’t just move, it shifted. Subtle at first, then more, cheeks hollowed, lips paler, pupils stretching too wide.

Camille backed away.

"I’m not her."

"You are," the reflection whispered. "You were born to fracture. That’s what prophecy is, splinters of truth buried in flesh."

"I’m still me," Camille insisted.

"No, you’re not. There are three of us now. You. Me. And the child."

She froze. "What?"

"Did you think you were empty?" the voice asked with poisoned sweetness. "No, Camille. He left a seed behind. You carry not just prophecy, but legacy. A throne carved from your womb."

Her stomach twisted. She pressed a trembling hand to her abdomen.

"No... Sterling said, "

"Sterling lied," the voice interrupted.

A knock on the door shattered the silence.

"Camille?" Celeste’s voice was soft, muffled through the heavy oak. "You missed dinner again."

"I’m fine!" Camille barked, louder than she intended.

Pause.

"You sure?"

"I said I’m fine!"

Footsteps retreated. Camille’s chest rose and fell with shallow breath. The silence afterward felt louder than the voice. It always did.

She returned to the mirror slowly, dreading what she’d see. But her reflection looked normal now, almost. A slight arch to the brow. A half-smile that didn’t match the weight in her heart.

She turned away.

"I need to go outside."

She didn’t wait to dress properly, just wrapped the silk robe tighter and slid her feet into slippers. The halls were dark, save for the flickering sconces lining the walls. The estate had quieted since the Syndicate’s threats had grown louder. Everyone walked like ghosts these days.

Camille moved quickly, heart thundering. She passed the ancestral gallery where a younger version of Sterling’s mother stared down from a golden-framed portrait. The resemblance was eerie.

"She wore the crown," the voice inside her said.

"I don’t care."

"She died for it."

"Good."

"You will too."

"Shut up!"

She nearly shouted it aloud. A servant in the corner flinched, startled by her sudden voice. Camille waved it off and kept walking.

Outside, the cold air slapped her skin. The moon hung crooked in the sky, still fractured from Magnolia’s scream. Stars blinked like judgment.

She moved through the side garden toward the old greenhouse. No one came here anymore. Since the night of the awakening, the plants had withered, and the glass panes sweat even in the cold. It smelled of earth and ghosts.

Camille closed the door behind her and exhaled.

"Okay," she said to herself. "Let’s have it out."

Her reflection returned, not in the mirror, but in the glass window above the long-dead orchids. Again, not quite her face.

"What do you want from me?"

"To rule."

"I don’t want a throne!"

"Then why haven’t you walked away?"

"I tried! Every time I try, someone dies. Sterling, Magnolia, Celeste, even Rhett, everyone’s been dragged into this."

"And yet you keep playing your part."

"You think I want to be the vessel?" Camille snapped. "I never wanted power. I wanted peace. Quiet. A garden of my own, not a war council!"

"You speak as if you are separate from me."

"I am!"

"You’re not."

Camille spun away, gasping.

"You think I haven’t fought?" she whispered. "I’ve fought every day since I was old enough to lie. I’ve bled, broken, loved men who only saw the pieces they could control."

"And now you control them."

Camille’s breath caught.

The reflection moved again, her eyes darker than before.

"You could make Sterling kneel. You could have Rhett at your side. The Syndicate at your feet."

"Stop."

"Your child could be born with command in their veins."

"Shut up!"

The glass cracked.

Camille flinched, stumbling backward. A spiderweb fracture ran through the pane. Her chest heaved. Her head pounded.

"You see?" the voice whispered. "You’re not meant for weakness."

Camille dropped to her knees, fingers curled in the moss-stained tiles. Her tears fell silently. The voice quieted, but it didn’t vanish. It never did.

She sat there, broken in posture but still breathing.

A rustle behind her.

She turned slowly.

Magnolia stood in the doorway, barefoot, hair undone, wrapped in a shawl of midnight blue. She didn’t speak.

Camille wiped her eyes.

"Did you hear all of that?"

Magnolia nodded.

Camille stood.

"You’re afraid of me now."

"I should be," Magnolia said honestly. "But I’m not."

Camille swallowed. "You should keep your distance."

Magnolia stepped closer. "You think your darkness can undo what’s already been written?"

"I think I can undo you."

"Then do it."

Camille’s eyes narrowed. "Why aren’t you scared?"

Magnolia touched her arm gently. "Because I’ve been broken too."

Camille looked down at the hand. "You’re not scared of what I might become?"

Magnolia’s lips parted. "No. I’m scared of what happens if you try to face it alone."

For a moment, Camille didn’t move.

But then her expression twisted, and her voice came out, layered, deeper.

"You should have run."

The reflection’s voice had taken over.

Magnolia’s face went pale, but her grip on Camille’s arm remained.

"Then make me."

And Camille screamed.

Not out loud, but inside. The real her. A scream that echoed against the hollow bones of her soul as something darker surged forward.

"You sure this is the right door?" Celeste asked, squinting into the pitch black corridor, her fingers resting on the rusted handle of a lantern.

Beckett didn’t answer at first. He crouched low near the carved runes etched into the stone floor, ancient symbols veined with dust and age. His palms hovered above them like he could read heat or memory from the grooves.

"It’s not just a door," he said. "It’s a lock. And it was meant to keep something inside, not out."

Celeste shifted beside him, her pale hair catching the golden light from the flickering flame.

"Sounds ominous."

"It should." Beckett rose, brushing dirt off his trousers. The vault had been buried beneath five feet of forgotten stairway, hidden under the wine cellar floor. No one living remembered it. And yet here it was, brimming with secrets.

He turned to her.

"You don’t have to go in with me."

Celeste met his eyes. "If I let you go in alone, you’ll die dramatically and haunt me for eternity. I’m not dealing with that."

Beckett huffed a small laugh. "Fair point."

He stepped forward, tracing the largest rune with his fingers. It pulsed faintly.

Celeste frowned. "Did it just glow?"

"It responds to blood," Beckett murmured.

"Please don’t say you’re about to bleed on it."

Too late.

He drew a blade from his belt and sliced his palm with the precision of someone far too practiced. The blood dripped onto the rune, soaking into the stone like it had waited for this moment. A groan rumbled beneath them.

The wall shook.

Dust rained from the ceiling as the stone slowly split down the center, revealing a dark passage breathing stale air and old magic.

Celeste raised an eyebrow. "Okay. Dramatic."

"Welcome to Hollowfang history," Beckett said grimly.

They stepped inside. The passage narrowed, and the walls shimmered faintly, like something moved just beneath the surface.

"Do you feel that?" Celeste whispered.

"The runes are reacting to your presence too," Beckett noted. "They weren’t supposed to."

"Maybe I’m just charming."

He glanced back at her, then turned forward again. "Or cursed."

They reached the chamber at the end of the hall. It opened like a throat swallowing them into silence. The room was circular, domed, with walls covered in layers of inscriptions. In the center stood a pedestal, and on it rested a sealed scroll, glowing faintly blue.

Celeste’s breath caught.

"That’s a Chronicle."

"You know it?"

She nodded slowly. "I’ve seen pictures in the forbidden archives. It’s not just history. It’s... prophecy."

Beckett stepped closer.

"Wait," Celeste warned.

"I won’t touch it."

He leaned close, inspecting the pedestal. More Syndicate runes surrounded the base, but they were cracked. Broken.

"These protections have failed," he muttered.

Celeste stepped to his side. Her fingers brushed the air above the scroll, reading the spell by the shape of its vibration.

"It’s binding language," she said. "Ancient."

"Can you read it aloud?"

"You want me to open it?"

"No. Just translate the incantation. Carefully."

Celeste exhaled. "Fine."

She closed her eyes and whispered, voice soft:

"’When silver blood calls, and fire meets fang, The throne shall tremble, the bond unhang. Let none betray the ancient flame, Or death will rise to speak their name.’"

The scroll pulsed.

The pedestal cracked.

The chamber lit up in a blinding blue flash.

Celeste screamed. Beckett grabbed her and pulled her back as the ground shifted beneath them. The runes on the walls began to slither like snakes.

"Celeste!"

"I’m fine!" she gasped. "The incantation didn’t open it, it woke it up."

"It?"

A deep hum filled the chamber.

From the walls, a shape began to form. A silhouette. Female. Cloaked in veils of light and shadow. Her eyes opened, glowing silver.

"The Guardian," Beckett breathed. "She’s real."

Celeste stepped forward. "What is she guarding?"

The Guardian’s voice echoed in their bones.

"Not what," she said. "Who."

Beckett turned sharply. "Who, then?"

The Guardian pointed toward the scroll.

"The one who holds the pulse."

Celeste’s throat went dry.

"Magnolia."

The scroll cracked open, releasing a soft mist that curled toward them like fingers.

Beckett took a step back.

"We need to go."

"Now," Celeste agreed.

But the chamber door sealed behind them.

The light dimmed.

The Guardian smiled.

"You have awakened the end."