Chapter 67: The Echo of Bloodlines
The fortress felt different.
Even with victory behind them, a shift had settled over Isla, subtle but undeniable. The stone walls seemed colder, the corridors longer, as though the air itself held its breath. A weight pressed against her chest, invisible yet ever-present. It followed her like a shadow, a whisper she couldn’t quite name.
Vincent’s words echoed through her like the ghost of a memory.
You were never meant to be just his.
She had wanted to dismiss them, wanted to believe they were nothing more than manipulations meant to rattle her. But something deep within refused to let them go. They hadn’t been just words. They’d struck a chord inside her that she hadn’t known was strung.
Then there was this… this warmth that hadn’t left her since that moment in the ruins. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t weakness. But it was there. A pulse deep in her core, quiet but persistent, like a second heartbeat.
Something was changing and Damian knew it.
He had barely left her side since their return, watching her with a silent intensity she couldn’t bear to meet. Even now, as she stood on the balcony overlooking the training grounds bathed in fading gold, she could feel his gaze, not heavy, but grounding. Protective. A silent tether to the present.
“I can feel your eyes on me,” she murmured, her voice barely louder than the wind.
Damian’s footsteps were soft behind her, his presence a welcome weight as he stepped close. His arms slid around her waist, firm and certain, pulling her back against his chest.
“That’s because you’ve been lost in your thoughts all night,” he said, voice low against her ear.
Isla leaned into him, exhaling slowly. The sun dipped beyond the horizon, casting long shadows over the field below.
“Do you ever get the feeling that your life isn’t just your own?” she asked quietly.
Damian stiffened. Not noticeably, but enough.
“What are you talking about?” His voice was calm, but his grip shifted slightly on her waist.
She hesitated, fingers tightening on the stone railing. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing… a dream or maybe just a feeling.”
He turned her gently in his arms, silver eyes locked onto hers. “Isla, I know you. Something is wrong. Tell me.”
She opened her mouth to lie, to brush it off like smoke, but the words wouldn’t come because in that moment, his hands moved, slid lower and one thumb grazed the curve of her abdomen. A bolt of heat lanced through her. It wasn’t resembling pain and not even desire but rather recognition. The warmth inside her surged, soft and pulsing. Reminding her she was alive.
Her breath caught.
Her fingers clenched the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself as the truth clawed its way into her awareness.
Damian’s gaze darkened with alarm. “Isla?”
Her lips parted, but no sound came because, somehow, impossibly, she knew. She wasn’t just awakening to some forgotten past.
She was carrying the future and she had no idea how to tell him.
The next morning, dawn crept in under a heavy sky, and Isla found herself standing at the threshold of Lucia’s chamber.
The oracle was waiting, seated in shadow, as if she had known Isla would come.
“You felt it,” Lucia said, her voice soft, ancient.
Isla hesitated. “I don’t even know what it is.”
Lucia rose, her movements fluid, her golden eyes unreadable. “Yes, you do.”
Isla’s stomach twisted. “Vincent said I wasn’t meant to be Damian’s. That I…” Her throat tightened. “That there’s something else.”
Lucia stepped toward the center of the room, where a pedestal held a shallow stone bowl filled with still water. Her fingers brushed the surface, sending ripples outward.
“He’s not wrong,” she said quietly.
A chill prickled down Isla’s spine. “What do you mean?”
Lucia didn’t answer right away. She dipped her fingers again and the ripples danced, revealing something beneath the surface, like a window slowly opening.
“You believe this life began in your mother’s womb,” she said. “You believe this body is your first. But the soul… the soul is older than flesh.”
The water shimmered, and a vision rose to the surface like mist:
A battlefield drenched in silver moonlight. A woman standing tall in the center of it, eyes glowing like gold fire, her face fierce and determined. She looked so much like Isla it stole the breath from her lungs and beside her stood a man. Not Damian. But a man with Vincent’s eyes.
Isla staggered back. Her hand flew to her chest, to the place where her heart raced.
“That’s…”
“You,” Lucia whispered. “One of many.”
Isla shook her head. “That’s not who I am now.”
“No,” Lucia agreed. “But the past does not care who you think you are. It only cares that you remember.”
Silence fell heavy in the room.
Isla’s mind reeled. The warmth in her belly. The memories that weren’t hers. The inexplicable pull toward Vincent. And now this.
She closed her eyes, her pulse thundering in her ears because she was remembering and she wasn’t sure she wanted to.