The rain lingered through the night, weaving a soft shroud over the empire.
It whispered against the windows, silver threads running down glass and stone, as though the sky itself mourned something unnamed.
Illyen had not slept. The memory of the shrine's golden crack and Cael's voice echoed inside him like a refrain he couldn't silence.
"You've never been able to resist the pull, no matter how many lifetimes try to silence it."
Each word had weight — not of the present, but of something buried deep within his bones.
By dawn, the palace felt hollow. The corridors were hushed; even the courtiers spoke in whispers. Illyen wandered them aimlessly, his thoughts heavy, his reflection pale in the rain-fogged glass.
He kept hearing that single word, over and over — again.
When his steps brought him to the eastern wing, he paused. The path ahead was unfamiliar, dimly lit by torches that flickered with the damp. He didn't remember ever coming this way, yet something in him urged him forward.
Down the stairs, through a long corridor of carved stone, until the air changed — cooler, older. And then he saw it.
A wide chamber stretched before him, half in ruin yet breathtaking still. Its vaulted ceiling shimmered faintly with gold constellations, painted long ago and faded with time.
Water dripped through cracks above, forming pale pools across the marble floor. The echoes of each drop seemed almost deliberate, like a slow, steady heartbeat.
It was a place that did not belong to the living palace.
At the far end stood a single figure.
Cael.
He turned when Illyen entered, his cloak heavy with rain, his hair glinting faintly in the torchlight. For a moment, neither spoke. Only the quiet sound of rain filtered down through the cracks above, soft as breath.
"I thought you would find this place," Cael said finally, voice low, echoing through the hall.
Illyen hesitated. "What is it?"
"The Hall of Echoes," Cael replied, glancing around. "It was built in the earliest years of Serethis, when the first kings still sought to hear the gods. Few remember it exists now. But I thought… you might."
The words sent a faint shiver down Illyen's spine. "I've never been here before."
"Haven't you?" Cael's tone was almost a whisper. "Then tell me why your steps led you straight to it."
Illyen opened his mouth — but no answer came. Because he didn't know. Because maybe, deep down, he did.
He moved closer, his boots leaving faint ripples in the shallow pools of water on the floor. The air smelled of stone and rain, but beneath it lingered something else — faint incense, like the shrine.
"Why did you bring me here?" he asked quietly.
Cael turned toward one of the walls. "Because this is where it began."
Illyen followed his gaze — and saw that the walls weren't plain stone after all. Beneath the layers of age and dust, faint carvings lined every surface: intertwined figures, threads of gold running between them, constellations linking hearts to stars.
"It's beautiful," Illyen murmured. "And… familiar."
Cael smiled faintly, the kind that barely touched his lips. "You stood here once before. Long ago. Before this empire even bore its name."
Illyen's breath caught. "You speak as if I've lived for centuries."
Cael's eyes softened, sorrow flickering there. "You have. Or rather — your soul has."
Illyen turned toward him, searching his face. "And yours?"
Cael stepped closer, his voice low, steady. "Mine was cursed to remember. To live each life knowing what was lost. To carry your name when even you could not."
The silence that followed was heavier than words. Illyen's heartbeat thundered in his ears, the echo of rain matching its rhythm.
"I don't understand," he said at last, his voice barely more than breath. "Why me? Why remember me?"
Cael's expression gentled — not with pity, but with the ache of devotion worn over lifetimes. "Because you were the promise I made beneath the altar of the old gods. The one I failed to keep when the world broke us apart."
Something trembled in Illyen's chest — a faint stirring, like a string being plucked within his heart.
He took a step back, his hand brushing against one of the carvings. The moment his skin touched the golden inlay, the air changed.
A faint glow rippled across the wall — lines of light tracing through the constellations, weaving through the threads between figures. The sound of rain faded for a heartbeat, replaced by a hum deep in the stone, alive and ancient.
Illyen gasped softly. "What—?"
"The Hall remembers," Cael whispered. "It holds the echoes of those who once stood here. And it remembers you."
Before Illyen could move, memories flickered at the edge of his mind — sunlight through blossoms, laughter beneath a spring tree, a hand entwined with his own. The sensations were brief, like the afterimage of a dream, but real enough to steal his breath.
He stumbled, and Cael reached forward, steadying him. Their hands met — warm against the chill of the hall — and for a moment, Illyen felt the faint pulse of something that wasn't entirely his own.
A heartbeat that matched his.
"It hurts," Illyen whispered.
Cael's thumb brushed over his knuckles gently. "Memory always hurts when it returns. But it's the only way to find what we lost."
Illyen's gaze met his, trembling. "And what did we lose?"
Cael's voice was barely a whisper. "Everything — except the thread that keeps pulling us back."
The torchlight flickered, gold reflecting in both their eyes.
For a long moment, neither moved. The distance between them felt fragile, as if one word could shatter the space entirely. Illyen wanted to step away, but something — old as the stars carved into the walls — kept him still.
"I'm afraid," Illyen said softly.
"I know." Cael's voice trembled, though it remained gentle. "But you've always been brave, even when you forgot how to be."
A droplet of rain fell from above, striking the marble with a faint echo. Illyen looked up, exhaling shakily. The golden carvings dimmed once more, returning to stillness — but their faint warmth lingered beneath his fingertips.
"I'll remember," he whispered. "Even if it hurts."
Cael's gaze softened — a quiet, aching smile blooming there. "Then the gods will no longer have to call for us."
The rain outside deepened, steady as breath, as the two of them stood beneath the constellations that had once watched their beginning.
And in the heart of the Hall of Echoes, the faintest light glimmered again — gold threading through stone like a pulse that refused to die.