The Forgotten Pulse of the Bond-Chapter 87: The Whisper in the Hall

The hollow corridor of the Syndicate court lay steeped in silence, save for the rhythmic flicker of oil-fed torches that sputtered against the high stone walls. Camille walked with quiet purpose, the hem of her midnight-blue robe whispering against the marble floor. Her pulse had settled since her confession to Celeste, but her thoughts still tangled in knots. She needed air, space to think. The burden of being a vessel was already a weight, but the fear in Celeste’s eyes haunted her more.

She paused by a narrow alcove and leaned into the cold stone, the chill biting into her bare arm. Just a moment of stillness, she thought. Just a moment to catch her breath.

Voices carried from deeper down the hallway, sharp, conspiratorial, and dangerously hushed.

"He grows bolder," came a voice Camille recognized instantly: Sterling, the High Alpha. His cadence was clipped, his disdain barely masked. "If we wait longer, the boy will think the council belongs to him."

Camille instinctively pulled back, pressing herself against the alcove’s curve. Her heart climbed into her throat.

Another voice, unfamiliar but authoritative, responded, "Rhett is popular. His blood stirs the young. They see hope. Strength."

Sterling scoffed. "Fools. They see defiance dressed in charm. And charm burns when it gets too close to fire. He is not like his father."

A pause. Then, deliberate and final:

"We remove the boy. The girl will obey."

Camille blinked. Her breath hitched audibly in her throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling the sharp inhale that wanted to explode into a scream. Remove Rhett? Use her? Her legs threatened to buckle beneath her.

"You overestimate her loyalty," the strategist said. "She’s unstable. Too many contradictions in her blood."

Sterling’s reply cut like a blade. "She is a vessel. Not a queen. Not a leader. A vessel obeys the hand that fills it. She will serve, as her kind always has."

Camille shook. Her stomach turned as if she’d swallowed poison. How long had she been just a pawn? How long had he known?

She stumbled back down the corridor, away from the voices, her vision blurring. Her fingers grazed the stone for balance as she pushed herself into motion.

The passage twisted, shadows dancing at the edges of her vision. Moonlight spilled from the arched windows above, glinting off her hair like firelight. She reached a side hallway and ducked behind a tapestry, heart pounding. She waited, listening.

The voices grew distant. They were moving away.

Camille slid down the wall, clutching her knees. "He planned this," she whispered. "From the beginning." frёeωebɳovel.com

Rhett. She had to find Rhett. Now.

But something inside her shifted, not fear, not panic. A quiet defiance. If Sterling thought she would be controlled like some soulless artifact, he had underestimated what the vessel contained. Not just prophecy. Not just power.

Choice.

A spark of rebellion lit behind her eyes. She stood, straightened her robe, and stepped out of the shadows, her expression unreadable.

From a far-off hall, a bell chimed twice. The night was far from over.

The scent of crushed herbs lingered thick in the apothecary chamber. The shelves trembled slightly as though they, too, were holding their breath. Candles cast long shadows over glass jars and parchment scrolls, flickering against the velvet-black walls. Camille stood at the basin, her hands trembling as she ground moonflower petals into a silver mortar. She didn’t hear the footsteps until they stopped behind her.

"If you’re truly a vessel," Celeste said, voice low but sharp as a blade, "then tell me, what do you feel when the moon sings?"

Camille froze. The pestle slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.

She turned slowly, eyes wide and shimmering like pale topaz. Celeste stood with her arms folded, her black robes rustling faintly, her expression carved from stormcloud and stone.

"You heard it again, didn’t you?" Celeste pressed. "The voice."

Camille swallowed hard. "I... I don’t know what it is. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it’s like a song inside my bones. And sometimes, "

"Sometimes what?"

"It takes me over."

Celeste stepped forward, her boots silent against the stone floor. Her eyes bore into Camille’s. "The Luna prophecy speaks of a vessel born with two pulses. One her own. One not. Is that what you are?"

Camille blinked rapidly, tears welling. "There’s something inside me, Celeste. And it’s not mine."

Celeste gripped the edge of the basin, staring down at the glowing moonflower pulp. "When did it start?"

Camille hesitated. "The night of the Hollowfang eclipse. I touched the fire stone... and I heard a scream in my head. Since then, I’ve felt... split. Like I’m sharing my soul with someone else."

Celeste inhaled slowly, fingers tracing an invisible sigil in the air. "You need to understand the weight of this."

Camille nodded. "I do. I just don’t know what to do."

"You choose," Celeste said. "You choose whether that voice becomes you, or devours you."

Camille leaned back against the stone counter, staring at the flickering candlelight. Her thoughts spiraled.

"Do you remember the phrase from the Scroll of Tides?" Celeste asked suddenly.

Camille blinked. "The one about the vessel?"

Celeste nodded. "’Whose blood will crown the vessel? The chosen, or the cursed?’"

Camille’s skin prickled. "You think that’s literal?"

"Everything in the Luna scrolls is literal."

"So..." Camille shivered. "I have to choose someone’s blood?"

Celeste approached her now, face taut with urgency. "You must choose soon. Whose blood will crown you?"

Camille backed away. "That sounds like a death sentence."

"Not always death. But always consequence."

Camille turned toward the far shelves, fingers brushing old herbal volumes. "Rhett doesn’t know. He mustn’t know."

Celeste frowned. "You fear his reaction?"

"No," Camille whispered. "I fear he’ll accept it."

Celeste softened slightly. "Because he loves you?"

Camille nodded once, sharply. "Because he doesn’t know I was meant to ruin him."

Celeste placed her hands on Camille’s shoulders. "Prophecies can be bent, Camille. But never broken. The way you walk it, though..."

Camille looked up. "That’s mine."

"Yes." Celeste’s voice dropped. "But it won’t stay yours forever."

A gust of wind shivered through the chamber, extinguishing a few candles. Shadows lengthened. The fire in the hearth hissed.

Camille shuddered. "I think something’s waking up in me. It knows the war is close."

"Then you must wake faster," Celeste said. "Before it decides to take you whole."

Camille stared at her reflection in a polished brass bowl. Her features, sharp cheekbones, storm-touched hair, pale skin, looked like her own. And yet behind her eyes, something stirred.

"What if I fail?" she asked.

Celeste didn’t blink. "Then Rhett dies. Magnolia falls. And the Hollow burns."

Camille stepped back. "So it’s my fault if the world ends?"

"It’s your power that decides it," Celeste corrected. "You’re not the villain. You’re the sword."

The silence between them cracked with tension. Outside, a wolf howled.

Camille drew in a ragged breath. "Can you train me?"

Celeste blinked. "You want to awaken it?"

Camille met her gaze. "No. I want to control it. There’s a difference."

Celeste nodded slowly. "Then meet me in the moon crypt at dawn. Come alone."

Camille hesitated. "What will we do there?"

"Call it by name," Celeste said.

Camille’s breath caught. "It has a name?"

Celeste leaned close. "All ancient things do."

The candles flickered again. This time, Camille didn’t flinch.

Celeste walked to the exit. She paused at the threshold. "And Camille?"

"Yes?"

"Don’t tell Rhett. Not yet."

Camille nodded slowly.

But deep inside, something whispered back, and it was not her own voice.

The wind outside howled louder. The moonlight turned bloodred on the chamber walls.