Chapter 4: The Unwritten Vow
The city was different in the morning light. It always had been, but Zen saw it with new eyes now. The cobblestone roads, the smell of incense and baked bread, the distant tolling of the temple bells—all of it struck him like pieces of a life he had lost twice.
He kept his hood drawn, moving through the lower districts with a caution born of bitter experience. Here, he was still just another face in the crowd—another traveler, another robed figure with tired eyes and a worn satchel. No one looked closely, and he preferred it that way.
He wasn't ready to be seen.
At a small market stall, an elderly woman sold roasted almonds coated in sugar and cinnamon. Zen paused and bought a handful, exchanging a few coppers without a word. The warmth of the treat surprised him more than it should have. It grounded him, tugged him back to something human.
A girl—no more than seven—ran past him, laughing with joy as her brother chased after her. Zen stared for too long. In another life, Lyra had once run like that. Carefree. Bright-eyed. Before the bitterness.
He clenched his jaw and moved on.
He returned to his estate only once night had fallen. The manor was smaller than the one he had in his first life—modest, but still standing tall within the noble circle. A few servants greeted him politely, unaware of the storm he carried behind his silence.
In the training courtyard, the air smelled of sweat and dust. He stood before the old oak dummy, the one he had used to teach Lyra her first real strikes. His magic crackled faintly at his fingertips.
He didn't strike.
Instead, he reached into the inner folds of his robe and withdrew a scroll. Ancient. Forbidden. Blood-bound to his former self—his true self. The magic inside it pulsed with hunger.
He unrolled it.
Symbols older than the empire shimmered in the torchlight, and as his eyes moved over the text, memories returned in waves: spells forbidden by law, rituals hidden in the dark corners of the world, the kind of power that came with irreversible consequences.
Zen whispered the incantation.
A circle of runes formed at his feet, glowing softly.
He stepped into the center.
The vision came like a flood: flashes of the throne room, Seraphine's cruel smile, Lyra's cold ambition, Kaelira's silent tears. He gritted his teeth and let the memories tear at him. He had to remember. He had to understand why.
The spell dissolved.
He fell to his knees, gasping.
He wasn't strong enough. Not yet. The power was there, locked behind guilt and grief. And he wouldn't earn it by brute force alone.
The next day, Kaelira came to him.
She arrived unannounced, wearing a soft blue cloak and an uncertain expression. The guards let her through without hesitation. She'd always had a way of entering places like she belonged there.
Zen met her in the tea garden. The same one where, in another life, they'd sat only once—on the day he ended their engagement.
"Kaelira," he greeted softly.
"Lord Zen," she replied, then immediately corrected herself. "Sorry. Just Zen, right?"
He nodded, gesturing for her to sit.
For a moment, they were quiet. The clink of porcelain as he poured the tea was the only sound between them.
"I heard you were back," she said finally. "In the capital, I mean. I didn't expect you to reach out."
"I didn't know if I should," Zen admitted. "I wasn't sure what to say."
She looked down into her cup. "You didn't really say much the last time we spoke either. You just left."
The words stung more than they should have.
"I thought your family—" he started, then stopped himself. Not yet. The full truth would sound like madness.
"I was wrong," he said instead. "And I regret what I did. To you. To all of it."
Kaelira looked at him then, truly looked. Her eyes searched his face like she was reading a page she'd once memorized but found unfamiliar now.
"You've changed."
He met her gaze. "I had to."
They spoke for nearly an hour—about nothing and everything. Politics. The state of the borders. Her studies at the arcane university. But never once did she mention their past.
Until the end.
"Zen," she said, standing. "I hope whatever brought you back here… I hope it brings you peace."
He smiled, bitter and soft. "I don't know if peace is something I'm allowed anymore."
She paused, then reached out—hesitantly—and rested her hand on his.
"You're still allowed to want it."
Then she was gone.
That night, Zen returned to the training courtyard. He didn't light a torch.
Instead, he summoned flame from within—silver and red, dancing in his palm.
He looked into it and whispered to himself:
"Kaelira… I won't fail you again."
Then he let the fire grow. Not to burn, but to protect.
And this time, he would be ready.