✧ Chapter Eighteen ✧
Before Our Promise and Dreams
from Have You Someone to Protect?
By ©Amer
— when forever felt possible, and memory hadn't yet turned against us.
The morning air carried the last breath of the festival—sweet with lantern smoke, stale with the memory of music. Townsfolk gathered again, not for dance or cheer, but to see off the young men who had returned in silence and now left with ceremony.
Silas stood near the black-and-gold envoy carriage, its sigil glinting in the sun, a mark of official summons. He wore the dark uniform of high rank, shoulders sharp with silver lining, collar pinned with the crest of his old house. It clashed with the looseness in his smile, the way he waved to a child clinging to his mother's skirt.
"Be good," he told the boy, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "And stay away from rooftops, alright?"
The boy laughed, and so did his mother. The crowd chuckled with them. For many, Silas was not just some officer—they remembered him. His return had been quiet, his stay subtle, but his departure? A little grandiose. A little too rehearsed.
But Silas was searching the crowd for someone who wasn't laughing.
His eyes skimmed over bright scarves and sleep-rumpled faces. The baker nodded respectfully; the blacksmith raised a brow. But Lhady wasn't there. He hadn't expected her to be—but part of him looked anyway.
He adjusted the cuffs of his uniform—polished, formal, too tight. Sharp silver against dirt-stained roads. The envoy carriage beside him bore the black-and-gold crest of his summons, its wheels idle like the pause before a sentence ends.
Corren stood nearby, just as polished but less composed.
The Elowen family, who had hosted them, stood to the side. Lady Elowen offered her warm smile, Allen giving a silent nod, arms crossed—unsure if he admired or resented the attention Silas attracted.
More townsfolk had gathered than expected. Maybe it was the uniform. Maybe it was the way Silas looked like someone returning to war, not just leaving town.
He smiled anyway—easy, familiar. The same smile he'd worn years ago, stealing apples and hearts in the square.
He waved once more, gaze scanning for her again. She wasn't there. He hadn't expected her to be.
Still, it stung.
He climbed into the carriage, let his head rest against the frame, and let the noise of town slip away.
The uniform itched. The metal pressed warm against his collarbone. The carriage rolled forward. And sleep—stitched from memory and regret—claimed him fast.
It was night, years ago. Solara's lanterns made constellations of the streets.
They were just past seventeen, and everything felt like it might last.
Lhady had pulled him away from the crowded plaza, her fingers sticky with sugar and warmth. They ran, laughing, through strings of glowing lanterns and bursts of sparklers.
Some saw them sneak away—young lovers vanishing toward the chapel slope—but no one stopped them. A few smiled quietly.
They climbed the hill behind the chapel, barefoot on dry grass, their laughter trailing behind like music, like thread.
He turned to her beneath the moonlight, eyes burning with something unspeakable.
"I have nothing else to give," he whispered, holding out his hand, "so I'll give you this."
In his palm, a ring woven from wildflowers—twisted with care, bound by the rough fingers of a boy who had nothing but intention. A garland offering. A childish vow.
Lhady blinked, startled. "Silas—"
"It's not a promise," he said. "It's... something before the promise. For when we're older. If we ever make it there."
She looked at him a long while, her eyes glistening with all the things she couldn't say.
"You're ridiculous," she murmured.
He slipped it onto her finger anyway. "Then you'll remember this ridiculous boy."
A pause—then, sudden and bashful, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. Quick, soft. Her breath caught as she pulled away.
Silas blinked, stunned. Then he laughed—low and unguarded, joy spilling out like light through a crack.
He pulled her into a hug, arms wrapping around her like he could bind the moment together, hold it fast before time unraveled it.
They laughed—quietly, freely—beneath the stars, like nothing could unmake them.
Below, the town still danced. But some paused. A few looked up from lantern-lit porches and crowded food stalls. One elderly woman—watching from her doorway—pressed her hands together, as if offering a blessing.
Solara's streets, lit gold with festival warmth, seemed to hold their breath for them.
Two hearts, barely seventeen, pretending to play at forever—and somehow meaning it all the same.
But the night turned.
Warmth bled away. Smoke unfurled at the edges of memory, like the dream itself was catching fire.
Silas stood in a darkened alley. Silent. The sky above him torn, bleeding light and shadow.
A figure emerged—hooded, half-formed. Its voice wasn't spoken; it threaded through the wind like a curse unraveling.
"She will suffer for what you carry," the oracle warned.
Silas froze. "What do you mean?"
"You are not whole," it hissed, shape growing tall and warped. "You are part of something ancient. You will unmake her peace."
And then—
He saw her.
Lhady—her back arched in pain, blood blooming beneath her, lips forming his name.
Then again—her face pale in water, eyes open but unseeing.
Again—on stone steps, gasping for breath, fingers reaching—
Each vision tore through him, faster, crueler. Death after death. And always, her eyes searching. Always, her mouth whispering for him.
"No," he choked, staggering. "No—stop it!"
The voice twisted. "This is your tether. This is the ruin your soul remembers."
"You're lying!"
Shadows surged. The alley buckled. The air cracked open.
Blackness swallowed him, sudden and suffocating—like a thread pulled too tight, snapping in the dark.
But deeper still, another memory stirred.
The cold of a train station. A winter long past.
A child shivering on a bench, his mother pleading with the conductor. No seats left.
"You can have mine," Silas had said, already unbuttoning his coat. "I'll take the next one."
But the train he gave up—
It exploded before it reached the border.
The carriage rumbled forward.
And the stitched dream stayed, like thread under skin.