Lyrielle awoke before dawn, the hairpin clutched in her hand.
Her dreams had been filled with the sea — waves that whispered her name, foam that took the shape of Seloria's face before dissolving into salt and sorrow. When she opened her eyes, she was certain she still heard the echo of that voice, somewhere between her heart and the horizon.
She rose before the servants stirred, dressed in a heavy cloak, and carried a single candle to the library. The corridors seemed endless in the gray light of early morning, filled with the hushed expectancy of things half-remembered.
The library greeted her like a cathedral of silence. Dust drifted in slanting beams of dawn. She placed the candle on a long oak table, its small flame trembling in the draft.
She had come searching for answers — not to her madness, but to her haunting. The vision of Seloria had been too vivid, too real to dismiss as grief's illusion. Somewhere, she was certain, the truth lay hidden within Elaria's long-forgotten history.
She began to search.
Scrolls, bound journals, and books thick with age — tales of the sea, the land, the storms that had shaped both. Hours passed unnoticed. Then, near midday, she found it: a crumbling manuscript bound in faded blue leather, its title written in silver ink nearly worn away.
"The Tidebound Lovers."
Her breath caught. She turned the pages carefully, the script curling like vines. It spoke of a legend from centuries past — of two souls who had loved beyond mortal law. A noblewoman and a priestess of the sea, bound by devotion that defied the gods. When discovered, they were cursed to opposite fates: one to live bound to the land, the other to the tides. They could see each other only where sea met sky — at the edge of mist, between dawn and dusk.
The legend claimed their love gave rise to the eternal storms of Elaria's coast — that the sea wept each time they were parted.
Lyrielle's heart pounded as she read. The parallels were too perfect. The words felt like memories. She could almost hear Seloria's voice reciting them beside her.
As she turned another page, a pressed flower slipped out — white and brittle, its edges tinged silver. A jasmine bloom. Her breath stilled.
For a long moment she simply stared, feeling something inside her awaken — a recognition that went deeper than thought.
We've lived this before, she thought. Somewhere, sometime, this sorrow has been ours.
That night, the sea grew wilder still. The wind howled through the corridors, slamming shutters, rattling the glass. The air smelled of brine and thunder. Lyrielle sat by the window clutching the book, reading the final passage again and again:
They say when the heart is faithful beyond death, the sea becomes a mirror — and the lost beloved may rise again, if called by name beneath the crimson moon.
A crimson moon.
She had seen it once, years ago — the night she first kissed Seloria beneath the balcony's shadow. The memory flooded her like light breaking through water: the softness of Seloria's hands, the way her laughter had trembled with fear and joy.
Lyrielle pressed the flower between her palms and whispered,
"Then I will call you, Seloria. When the crimson moon returns, I will call you home."
Outside, the storm rose higher, waves crashing like heartbeats against the cliffs.
And in the roar of the sea, faint but unmistakable, she thought she heard it again
her name, carried across wind and water,
spoken in the same voice she had loved all her life.