The Forgotten Pulse of the Bond-Chapter 95: The Silent Pact

The fire inside the war tent cast long shadows across Rhett’s face, slicing it into half light, half storm. Around him, the chosen few shifted on their feet, their expressions a mix of dread and defiance. These were not elders. These were not politicians. These were warriors who’d bled for their lands, and some who had bled for Rhett.

He didn’t wait for permission to speak.

"The elders stall. They circle their tongues around fear like wolves too old to hunt. We can’t afford their hesitation."

A murmur ran through the tent. Magnus folded his arms across his chest. He was older, scarred, the kind of man who earned silence by walking into it.

"So what’s your play, Rhett? You want us to gut our kin? March through our own bloodlines?"

Rhett’s jaw clenched. He wore the burden of command too tightly now, and it showed in the way his voice strained to stay low.

"I want to survive. I want us to survive. And if our kin stand in the way of that, then yes, Magnus, we bleed them."

Isla stepped forward. The youngest of them, but her voice had the sharpness of glass.

"You’re asking for a war within. You know what the old tomes say. Blood against blood opens the Wound. Once torn, it doesn’t close."

"Then we’ll cauterize it," Rhett shot back. "With flame and teeth, if we have to."

Celeste leaned against the edge of the tent flap, half in shadow, her hands gloved, eyes unreadable. "This... isn’t leadership. This is prophecy manifesting in fear."

Rhett turned to her, slow and cold. "You’ve seen the signs. You told me what’s coming. You think waiting on a dying council will stop it?"

She said nothing. But the pause was answer enough.

Beckett moved next to the flame, his fingers dancing near the edges of the fire. He’d never been comfortable unless something burned nearby.

"So we break from the elders. We rally our own force. Quietly. Swiftly. And we strike before Sterling seals his claim."

The name carried weight.

Sterling: heir of shadows, master of silken lies. A cousin in blood, but an enemy in truth. Rhett’s twin in all ways except soul.

"He’ll know," Isla said. "He has ears in every den."

"Then we move in silence. Until the howl breaks."

No one laughed.

Rhett stepped toward the center, his boots grinding into the soil. The table held a rough map inked in blood and ash. He pressed his hand flat against it.

"We strike the Northern Ridge first. That’s where his sympathizers nest. If we sever their root, we slow the rot."

Magnus still looked unconvinced. "And when the council calls you traitor?"

Rhett didn’t flinch. "Then let them call me king."

The silence that followed was thick enough to drink.

Celeste pushed off the post. "We’ll need more than loyalty. We need oaths. Magic-bound."

"No blood pacts," Isla warned.

Celeste nodded. "No. But Luna threads. Sworn under night. Only those who truly believe can bind it."

Rhett looked at each of them. "Then let’s swear it. Tonight. Here."

They formed a circle around the fire. One by one, they cut small lines into their palms, not enough to bleed, but enough to offer. Rhett murmured the words in the Old Tongue. Celeste echoed them. The fire pulsed.

And in that moment, something unseen sealed the pact.

They didn’t know the betrayal would come before dawn.

Later that night, Rhett stood alone. The fire had died. The map lay folded beneath his cloak. The others had gone, some to their dens, others to rally in secret.

He didn’t sleep. Something in his blood prickled, a warning without form.

The flap of the tent rustled.

"Who’s there?"

No answer. ƒreewebɳovel.com

He stepped outside. The camp was quiet. Too quiet.

A low wind slithered through the pines. Moonlight fractured across the ground.

And then, he saw it.

On the front of his tent, drawn in thick crimson:

A sigil.

Old. Forbidden.

A curved fang within a sunburst, Sterling’s mark.

His stomach twisted.

Someone had breached their vow. Someone from within had already betrayed them.

And they were watching.

The torches flickered low as Beckett descended the spiral staircase, each footfall echoing against damp, stone walls. The scent of old parchment, ash, and something ancient and metallic tightened the air. Celeste walked beside him, her steps deliberate, one hand stretched to the wall, reading the grooves and faint glyphs etched into the granite.

"I never believed the vault truly existed," she said quietly, brushing her fingers along a serpentine symbol. "My grandmother said it held the cursed breath of our ancestors."

Beckett gave her a tight smile. "And yet here we are, opening doors sealed in blood."

At the base of the stairwell, a circular door loomed. It was wrought from a dark alloy, threaded with veins of crimson that pulsed faintly in the torchlight. Symbols shifted and shimmered across its surface as if alive.

Celeste paused. "This is made of moonstone mixed with wolfbone," she whispered. "You can smell the iron. It’s not just magic. It’s alive."

"Then we treat it like a beast," Beckett said. He approached the door, eyes scanning the runes, and then lifted his palm. "And beasts recognize blood."

He sliced his thumb with a ceremonial dagger and pressed it to the center sigil. The vault groaned. A low sound, half sigh, half growl, rumbled through the stone walls, and slowly, the door receded into the floor.

A gust of cold, damp air struck them. Celeste shivered. Beckett lit a fresh torch and stepped inside.

The chamber stretched into shadow. Along the walls were shelves of rusted weapons, fractured shields, and scrolls wrapped in hide. In the center stood a pedestal made from obsidian stone. Resting atop it: a relic chained in silver, wrapped in binding runes that hummed with dark energy.

It pulsed.

"Gods," Celeste breathed. "That’s no artifact. That’s a prison."

Beckett circled it, careful not to touch the chains. "What is it imprisoning?"

"Something older than the wars," Celeste said. She approached, studying the runes. Her dark curls hung around her shoulders like vines. "This script... It predates even the Luna spellbinders."

A sound behind them, the soft padding of bare feet.

They turned.

Camille stood in the doorway. Her white gown hung askew, hair wild around her pale face. Her eyes glowed faintly, like twin moons behind fog.

"You shouldn’t be here," Celeste said, instantly tense.

Camille walked forward slowly. "I dreamt of this room. Since I was a child."

Beckett took a step toward her. "It’s dangerous. The relic is pulsing."

Camille’s eyes locked on the chained object. Her lips moved in silence. Then a single word escaped her mouth.

"Ashkara."

The room shuddered.

The torch flames leaned back, drawn toward the relic. The chains groaned as if they strained against time.

Celeste shouted, "Stop speaking!"

Camille clutched her temples. "I can’t! It’s inside me!"

She dropped to her knees, gasping. Her hands dug into the stone floor. The runes around the pedestal lit up in violent red. Beckett rushed forward to shield her, but an unseen force threw him back.

Camille whispered, "The voice... she remembers me."

The relic vibrated. A howling sound, not wind, not voice, but somewhere between the two, filled the chamber.

Celeste pressed a protective sigil into the air, chanting, but the magic fizzled.

"She knows me," Camille said again. Her voice was not hers. It echoed. Deeper. Older.

Celeste stared, horrified. "She’s channeling something through you."

Camille collapsed.

Beckett caught her before her head hit the stone. Her eyes fluttered shut, but her body convulsed slightly, as if two spirits fought for dominion within her.

The relic dimmed.

The room fell silent.

Beckett looked up at Celeste. "What did she say? Ashkara? What is that?"

Celeste’s face was pale, lips tight. "A name. One we were never meant to utter. One of the first Luna queens, corrupted by death magic. Buried by her own kin."

Beckett stared at the pulsing relic. "We didn’t open a vault. We opened her tomb."

Behind him, the chains rattled.

A whisper came again.

"Beckett..."

A child’s voice.

He turned, eyes wide. The air behind the pedestal shimmered.

A figure stood there, translucent, wearing a crown of bone and tears.

Celeste gasped. "No. It can’t be."

The spirit smiled.

"Your blood remembers," it said. "And I have waited long enough."

Beckett drew his dagger.

Camille’s eyes snapped open.

Black.

Then she screamed.

The vault doors slammed shut.

Darkness swallowed them.