The Forgotten Pulse of the Bond-Chapter 58: BECKETT’S MEMORY RETURNS

"You were humming."

Beckett’s voice was soft, almost distant, as if it belonged to someone dreaming out loud rather than a man sitting upright in a candlelit room. He was shirtless, ribs still bandaged, a sheen of sweat on his chest despite the cool night air. His hand trembled slightly as it gripped the edge of the cot.

Camille, seated across from him with a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, tilted her head. "Humming?"

"In the clearing. When I found you," he said. "I couldn’t place it at first. It was familiar, but wrong. Too slow. Too hollow. And then..."

She leaned forward, her voice no louder than his. "And then?"

Beckett’s eyes flicked toward her. "You turned to me. But it wasn’t you."

Silence held between them. The only sound was the faint crackling of the hearth in the far corner of the healer’s chamber. Outside, the storm had started again, wind brushing rain against the windows like fingers tapping to be let in.

"I remember the trees," he said finally. "The way they bent toward you, like they were listening. And then your mouth opened. But it wasn’t speech. It was something older. Something meant for the earth, not for ears."

Camille didn’t deny it. "It wasn’t language. It was bond."

Beckett flinched slightly. "It felt like drowning."

"You weren’t supposed to be there," she whispered.

"I followed because I knew you wouldn’t come back."

Her lips pressed together.

Beckett sat up straighter, his breathing growing tighter. "I remember more now. Flashes. Not just from the Hollowfang cave, but before. Days before. Dreams I thought were mine."

Camille’s eyes widened. "What dreams?"

He turned his gaze toward the window, toward the rain. "You. Standing in water. Up to your waist. Holding a child’s crown. Not made of bones. Made of ivy. And you were crying. But your mouth was smiling."

Camille looked down at her hands. "That wasn’t a dream."

Beckett blinked. "What?"

She pulled something from beneath her shawl. A slip of paper. Faded. Damp at the edges.

She handed it to him.

It was a drawing.

Crude. Childlike. Two girls. A boy. All standing beside a pond. A crown floating between them.

"Mags drew this when we were kids," Camille said. "She said it was a vision. We laughed. Called it fantasy."

Beckett held the drawing like it might crumble.

"But years later," Camille continued, "when the Hollowfang found me, they showed me this. Told me it wasn’t a fantasy. It was a memory. Planted in blood."

"They manipulated you." fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

"They rewrote me," she said bitterly. "Turned my old fears into prophecy."

Beckett’s voice was low. "And now that they’ve lost you... what happens next?"

"They try again," Camille said. "Harder. Louder. Deeper."

Beckett leaned forward, pain visible in every motion. "What if I told you I think they left something in me?"

Camille froze.

He reached under his cot and pulled out a small leather pouch. He opened it carefully.

Inside: bone dust.

"No wound. No scar. But after I woke up, I started coughing this up."

Camille’s face paled. "That’s..."

"Binding ash," he said. "I looked it up. Used in Hollowfang blood-marking rituals. But only for witnesses. Not vessels. Which means they weren’t just using me to watch."

Camille took the pouch, holding it as if it might burn her.

"They’re trying to tie you to her," she said. "To Magnolia."

"Why?"

Her voice cracked. "Because they know I failed. And they’re choosing another key."

Beckett stood, slow and stiff. "Then I need to know everything."

Camille looked at him with something close to awe. "You’d carry it?"

He met her eyes. "I already am."

She exhaled shakily and stood as well. "Then come with me."

They moved through the estate corridors in silence. The rain muffled their steps, and the late hour left most halls dim and empty. Camille led him past the war chamber, past the Luna sanctum, and down into the lower levels, beneath the chapel ruins.

Beckett had never been this deep.

"I found this place when I was thirteen," Camille said, lighting a torch as they entered a circular stairwell. "I was hiding from Celeste. She said I wasn’t fit to be anything more than shadow."

Beckett’s grip on the banister tightened. "She was wrong."

"She was scared," Camille said. "Of me. Of what I might become. She saw the bond flickering even then."

"What bond?"

Camille stopped at the final step.

With a trembling hand, she pushed open the last door.

The chamber inside was small.

Empty.

Except for a single altar carved from obsidian and two symbols on the wall.

One: a moon split in two.

The other: a circle of flame wrapped in vines.

"I used to dream of this room," Camille said. "Before I ever knew it was real. I’d wake up with dirt under my nails. Moss on my fingertips. As if I’d been here while I slept."

Beckett stepped inside, every instinct on edge.

"Why bring me here?"

"Because this room was meant to store what the Hollowfang couldn’t destroy."

She knelt at the base of the altar and pulled a hidden latch.

Stone shifted.

Revealing a hollow cavity.

Inside: a scroll.

She offered it to Beckett.

He took it with careful fingers and unrolled it.

The writing was ancient. But readable.

It described a ritual.

A reversal.

Not of possession.

But of prophecy.

"It says," Beckett read slowly, "that if the bond between sisters is severed, and the vessel reborn, only one may walk forward unless the watcher carries the wound willingly."

Camille nodded. "That’s why you’re bleeding bone. They marked you. But they didn’t complete the rite."

Beckett looked up. "What happens if they do?"

"You’ll become her anchor."

"To Magnolia?"

"No," Camille whispered. "To what’s coming."

Beckett stood frozen.

The scroll trembled in his hands.

"And what happens to me?" he asked.

"You stop being Beckett."

He laughed bitterly. "Too late."

Camille stepped close. "Then you need to tell her. Tonight. Before this consumes you."

"She doesn’t need another burden."

"She needs the truth."

He looked at her for a long time.

Then nodded.

And together, they left the shadows behind.

But as they climbed the stairs,

Neither of them saw the single rune etched on the back of the scroll begin to glow.

Faintly.

Hungrily.

Like a fuse waiting for fire.