Beneath the Threads of Fate

The morning after the rehearsal, the air within the Midnight Citadel was heavier — not just with the weight of impending vows, but with something deeper, more ancient. The sky outside had darkened despite the rising sun, as though the threads of the cosmos themselves had tangled and cast an unseen shadow over the realm.

Vaelen awoke to the distant sound of bells — not the soft, ceremonial chimes of the Celestials, but a lower, more guttural toll, echoing from the oldest wing of the Citadel. The forbidden wing.

The Echoed Glass.

He rose from his bed, his ceremonial cloak pooling at his feet like molten gold as he stared out the window. The morning light struggled to pierce the veil of the kingdom, the sun's rays swallowed by an unseen force. The Celestials would call it a mere shift in the threads of fate — a cosmic ripple. But Vaelen knew better now.

Something was breaking.

A knock at his door shattered the stillness.

Mirelha.

She stood there like a ghost of herself — the silver embroidery on her gown shimmering faintly, a quiet mockery of the starlight that no longer touched the sky. Her hair, dark as a midnight storm, spilled over her shoulders, and for a fleeting moment, Vaelen wondered if she was merely a dream — a tragic figure torn from the threads of destiny itself.

"We need to speak," she whispered, her voice hoarse with something that wasn't fear — it was a quiet, simmering defiance.

He stepped aside, and she entered like a shadow slipping past a wall.

The room, once a sanctuary of polished marble and gilded edges, now felt too small — too fragile for what lay between them.

"They won't tell us the truth," Vaelen began, his voice measured, but the storm in his chest threatened to break free. "Not about the ceremony, not about the bond, not about the symbols on the altar."

Mirelha's gaze flickered to him, and for a moment, the wall she had built around herself cracked — just enough for him to see the ache beneath her celestial calm.

"You think I don't know that?" she said softly. "You think I haven't felt it? The threads are unraveling, Vaelen. The Loomkeepers — they want me bound to you not because of love or balance, but because they believe severing me from Dacre will restore what they've lost."

Vaelen's jaw tightened. "What have they lost?"

She met his gaze, and for the first time, he saw fear — not for herself, but for the entire realm.

"Control," Mirelha said. "The Echoed Glass didn't fracture because of love alone. It fractured because Dacre and I — our bond — wasn't supposed to exist. Our threads weren't just forbidden… they crossed. And when they crossed, it didn't just break fate — it woke something."

A silence heavier than any crown settled between them.

The Echoed Glass. The first light ever spun into existence — a relic of raw, untampered magic — had shattered when their love defied the order of the threads. And now, the Loomkeepers believed binding Mirelha to Vaelen would "seal the fracture," hoping it would stabilize the mirror's power.

But it wasn't just about control.

It was about fear.

The Loomkeepers weren't fixing fate. They were fighting something much older than the threads themselves.

Before Vaelen could speak, the distant bells tolled again — louder this time, the sound like a pulse through the marble walls.

Mirelha's hand trembled at her side.

"Dacre," she whispered.

The name hung between them, an invisible thread connecting the three of them — a bond woven in defiance, duty, and heartbreak.

And for the first time, Vaelen didn't feel jealousy.

He felt dread.

Because somewhere, beyond the sealed doors of the forbidden wing, Dacre was walking deeper into the Midnight Citadel — into the heart of the Echoed Glass, where the threads of reality twisted and bled into each other.

And Vaelen knew that if Dacre reached the largest shard of the mirror — the one still pulsing with the first light — something far worse than a forbidden love would be unleashed.

Something the Loomkeepers themselves couldn't control.

The Cosmic Threads didn't just weave fates — they hid secrets. And Vaelen was starting to realize that their world was never about balance.

It was about survival.

And the Loomkeepers were no longer the weavers — they were the ones trying to stop the threads from unraveling completely.

Mirelha's voice broke the silence.

"They think this marriage will fix everything," she said softly, a bitter edge curling her words. "But Vaelen… this ceremony isn't just a binding between us."

Vaelen's heart thundered in his chest. "What do you mean?"

She lifted her gaze to his, and for the first time, he saw the full truth in her midnight eyes.

"They're binding me to the threads themselves. To stabilize the fracture," Mirelha whispered. "This marriage is not to unite us — it's to turn me into a living seal. If I wed you, Vaelen… I become the lock keeping the Echoed Glass from shattering further."

And suddenly, the weight of his crown — of this so-called union — crushed him.

Because this wasn't just a battle of forbidden love.

It was a war between realms — between the threads of fate and the ancient forces trying to rip them apart.

And Mirelha wasn't a bride.

She was a sacrifice.