Chapter 7- The Door Between Worlds
1277 Words
Mira
Mira didn't jump when Lucien knocked.
She'd already felt him approaching- his energy brushing past the leaves, his presence stirring the lunar bloom awake just enough to emit a soft glimmer.
She opened the greenhouse door and met his gaze. No greeting. No explanation. Just the kind of silence only shared understanding could build.
"They know," Lucien said.
She stepped aside, letting him in.
"And your father?"
"He's not waiting anymore."
Lucien paced once through her sanctuary, then stopped near the main bloom. His hand hovered, not touching, just feeling.
"They told him to break the bond. Or erase it."
Mira didn't flinch. Her fingers curled around the edge of the workbench.
"And what does he intend to do?"
Lucien's jaw was locked, but his eyes betrayed it- storm- tossed.
"He's afraid. Because this time, I didn't run."
The greenhouse responded. A vine near the east wall arched gently towards Mira's shoulder, brushing her braid-like comfort.
"The bloom changed," she said. "It's darker. Caela's journal warned- if that happens, the council targets the bond."
Lucien nodded once.
"Then we keep it lit."
He reached into his coat and placed a second artifact beside her grandmother's journal: a ring, old and worn, carved with its ancestral sigil. It pulsed faintly, mirroring the bloom's flicker.
"Adrien wore this," Lucien whispered. "The night they tried to finish the vow."
The bloom shimmer slightly brighter.
"It's not finished," Mira said.
Lucien stepped closer, voice low.
"Then let's finish it."
And this time, when he reached for her hand, she didn't hesitate.
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Lucien
The warmth of Mira's hand grounded him more than any blood rite ever had.
Lucien didn't speak right away. He let the greenhouse speak for them- its subtle rustle, the shimmer behind silver petals, the way the vine bent towards Mira like worship. The bloom had stilled, but it hadn't gone quiet. It pulsed now in rhythm with something ancient....and determined.
He looked at her- the woman whose name has been buried with his ancestor's, whose presence had awakened memories even the wolf inside hadn't dare to touch.
"They'll come," he said finally. "Not just to break this bond. They'll come for you."
Mira didn't flinch. She stood at her bench, her fingers resting on the journal as if it were a map drawn for war.
"Let them come," she said. "You're not the only one who has a legacy."
Lucien stepped closer, drawn by gravity, not choice.
"They'll threaten your life."
"Then I live louder."
He watched her brushed the ring gently beside Caela's entries. The bloom brightened- just barely, but enough to prove it was listening. Remembering.
Lucien touched the edge of the bench, voice low.
"Do you believe that what is happening is real?"
"I believe in roots," Mira murmured. "And this one doesn't stop at history. It's still growing."
He wanted to kiss her then- not out of desire, but devotion. Not because she was beautiful, but because she was brave. Because she'd pulled the curse from myth and dared to call it hers to rewrite.
Instead, he reached for her wrist, slow and reverent.
"Whatever happens," he said, "I'll guard you. Not because fate demands it- but because you asked nothing of me, and still stood beside me."
Mira looked at him- and in her eyes, he didn't see defiance.
He saw faith.
The bloom behind her opened wider. And one silver petal floated to the ground between them.
Lucien bent and picked it up.
It glowed.
The vow, unfinished for centuries, had just spoken.
The petal glowed between his fingers- soft silver, pulsing like breath.
Mira watched him, the air thick around them. It wasn't silent. Not really. The greenhouse hummed, low and reverent, like a cathedral made of roots and memory. And the petal- freshly fallen from the awakened bloom- felt warm against his palm.
It had spoken.
Not in words, but in certainty.
The vow wasn't broken. It was paused.
Lucien held it out, opened-palmed, between them.
"I think it's waiting."
Mira stepped closer, her expression unreadable- but her soul wasn't. He felt it. Steady. Electric. Familiar.
"So finish it," she said softly.
Lucien took a deep breath, ancient and new.
He remembered the words- not consciously, but like music from childhood, half-hummed in sleep. His fingers brushed hers as he whispered:
"No matter the loss. No matter the life. I will find you."
The bloom trembled. A second petal unfurled, silver bright, floating between them before dissolving into light.
Mira stepped into the space where it had vanished, her voice barely audible:
"Then I'll remember. Even if they make me forget."
The greenhouse changed- slowly. Vines overhead in wreath-like pattern. Moss glowed pale green along the floor, tracing circles around their feet. Somewhere beneath the soil, Lucien felt an old pulse- like a heartbeat beneath stone.
Then the bloom flared once, like a final breath-
And went still.
Lucien didn't move. Neither did Mira.
But something deep in the roots of this moment had shifted.
The vow had been accepted.
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Mira
The petal shimmered as Lucien whispered the vow, and Mira felt it- down in her ribs, in the earth beneath her boots, in every cell that had quietly waiting to remember.
"No matter the loss. No matter the life. I will find you."
The second petal appeared without sound- weightless, soft. It floated between them, glowing like moonlight liquified, and dissolved before it could fall.
Mira's throat tightened.
The greenhouse pulsed around her, not violently- reverently. Vines reshaped overhead, curling inward like a canopy. The moss along the eastern wall glowed pale green, drawing slow circles under her workbench.
The vow wasn't magic, she realized. It was recognition.
Lucien stood quietly, watching her. Not demanding. Not proud. Just there- like he'd always been, whether she'd seen him or not.
She stepped into the space left by the vanished petal. Her hand brushed his, and she whispered the only thing that felt right.
"Then I'll remember. Even if they make me forget."
A warmth burst beneath her skin- something ancient but soft. Not overwhelming. Protective. Familiar.
The bloom pulsed once- silver bright- then dimmed peacefully.
Not gone.
Settled.
And Mira understood in that breath: this wasn't the end of a curse.
It was the beginning of a promise.
Lucien reached for her wrist again, slow and intentional.
She let him.
Not because fate demanded it.
But because her heart stopped asking for proof.
Lucien didn't speak after she echoed the vow.
His fingers still curled gently around hers, the silver bloom now gone- as if absorbed by the bloom itself. The greenhouse had quieted. Not silenced. Settled. The kind of stillness that Mira remembered from being held as a child after nightmares. Not emptiness. Assurance.
She led to the old bench beneath the hanging ivy, where time always felt slower. A patch of moss bloomed softly at their feet.
Lucien sat beside her, quieter than she ever seen him.
"It's done," he said eventually.
"Not done," Mira replied. "Acknowledged."
She opened Caela's journal to the last passage- the one her grandmother never read aloud but left bookmarked with a pressed petal.
"We failed because we rushed. We remembered too late. The vow must be made with stillness. With witnessing. Not just love, but presence."
Mira traced the words as Lucien leaned in, reading alongside her. Their shoulders brushed. Their breath aligned. And for the first time since she'd met him, she felt what rooted things feel.
Safe.
The bloom pulsed once more- not with warning. With gratitude.
And Mira understood.
They hadn't just rewritten the bond.
They'd finally paused long enough to let it remember them back.
- Writer
