The moon hung low, casting a pale glow over the forest path, illuminating the earth in a silver light that felt more like a funeral shroud than nature’s grace.

Einar wasn’t walking so much as he was dragging himself forward, his legs moving with the mechanical effort of someone who no longer cared where he was going. Each step was heavy, his body burdened not just by fatigue, but by the weight of what he knew awaited him at the end of this path.

The sword at his side swayed slightly with each motion, its presence a constant reminder—a weight like guilt—growing heavier with every step. It was as if the blade knew. Knew the revelation that lay ahead, the unravelling of truths he wasn’t ready to face.

The shadows of the trees stretched long across the ground, fingers of darkness creeping over the path, pulling at him like skeletal hands, urging him to turn back. They whispered to him, but he wasn’t listening. His mind was tangled in the web of thoughts and memories, of dreams and doubts. Was anything real?

Ahead, the stone that marked his father’s resting place came into view. Aeron Lambert. The name etched into the rough stone seemed too simple for the weight it carried. A man who had lived simply, without glory or legend, yet now, more than ever, Einar found himself questioning the truth of his father’s life—and his own.

He stopped before the grave, his breath catching in his throat. The air around him felt too thin, as if he stood at the edge of something vast and unknowable. The wind picked up, rustling the nearby trees in a mournful sigh, deepening the pit that had settled in his stomach. Something inside him was coming undone.

"Father..." The word escaped his lips, barely more than a whisper. It felt foreign in his mouth, unfamiliar against the oppressive silence of the night.

Aeron had been an ordinary man. Or so he had seemed. No tales of heroism, no great deeds. Just a humble adventurer, he’d always said. A man who loved fiercely but never fully shared the stories hidden behind his eyes. Einar had never needed more than that. His father had been enough for him. But now, with everything unravelling, even Aeron felt like a stranger.

Einar dropped to his knees in front of the grave, the earth beneath him cold and hard, sending a shiver through his body. "I miss you, Father..." he murmured, his voice cracking. The words felt hollow, vanishing into the stillness of the night, where even the wind seemed to mock the frailty of his grief. His fingers dug into the soil, desperate to hold onto something, anything solid in a world that felt increasingly unreal.

He stared at the simple grave, and the world seemed to tilt around him. It wasn’t just Aeron’s absence gnawing at him; it was everything. The dreams that haunted him. The golden-haired woman who twisted through his mind, her face blurred by memory. He felt as though he were losing pieces of himself with every step forward.

"I don’t know what’s happening anymore," Einar whispered, his voice shaking under the weight of his own words. "These dreams... memories—whatever they are—Father, I don’t know what’s real anymore."

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into the dirt, the sharp pain grounding him. But it wasn’t enough. The question gnawed at him, a constant, relentless force.

Why do I feel like I’m slipping away? Why can’t I remember, but still feel everything?

"What if..." His voice faltered, breaking into the cold night air. "What if I’m not who I think I am? What if... this life is a lie?"

The words fell into the stillness like stones, sinking deep. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest tightening, a suffocating weight pressing down on him. He squeezed his eyes shut, his tears hot and stinging as they fell. The darkness behind his eyelids did nothing to quiet his mind, nothing to stop the memories, the questions.

"Help me..." he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t know what to do."

His shoulders shook as silent sobs wracked his body, the kind of desperate, quiet crying that comes when you know no one is there to hear it. The image of the woman with the golden hair—Celestia—twisted inside his mind, a memory too sharp to forget but too distant to grasp. She was real, but she wasn’t. She was his, but she wasn’t.

Who was he? How could he love someone he couldn’t even remember?

"Who am I?" he whispered, the question hanging in the air, unanswered.

Time passed in a blur. He knelt there, the cold earth beneath him, drowning in the weight of it all. There was no mercy in the silence. Only the sound of his broken breaths and the distant rustling of the trees.

Then, footsteps—soft and deliberate—cut through the quiet. Einar tensed, wiping hastily at his face as if that could hide the rawness of his grief. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this.

"Einar?"

His mother’s voice broke through the night like a fragile thread, soft but tinged with sorrow.

He turned slowly, his bloodshot eyes meeting hers. Lyna stood just beyond the grave, bathed in the pale glow of the moon. Her face was lined with grief, but behind her pain was something else—something darker. In her hands, she clutched the pendant she always wore around her neck, the crystal within it glowing faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.

"Mother..." Einar’s voice cracked, thick with unshed tears. "Why are you here?"

Lyna stepped forward, her movements slow and deliberate, as if weighed down by more than just her own sorrow. "I should be asking you the same," she said gently, though her voice wavered. "You look so lost."

Einar dropped his gaze, unable to hold her eyes any longer. "I... I was thinking about Father," he muttered. "About everything."

She knelt beside him, her hand lifting to cup his cheek, the warmth of her touch a brief comfort in the cold night. "Einar..." Her voice cracked, and her tears finally broke free. "I’m so sorry."

The words hit him like a physical blow, confusion knotting in his chest. "Sorry? Sorry for what?" He looked at her, but the look in her eyes only deepened his unease.

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Lyna’s hand trembled as it fell from his face, her eyes filled with an apology too long unspoken. "For all of this," she whispered. "For what you’re going through... for the dreams, the memories."

His heart pounded in his chest, his pulse quickening. "What do you mean?" He asked, though he could already feel the truth closing in around him.

Lyna took a deep breath, her voice shaky as she spoke. "The dreams, Einar... they’re not just dreams. They’re... memories."

Einar blinked, his heart stuttering. "What?" His voice trembled, disbelief flooding him. "Memories of what?"

"Of a life you lived before this one," she said, her tears spilling down her face. "A life you don’t remember... but you’re beginning to feel."

His body went cold, the air seeming to thin around him. "A life I lived before..." The words felt foreign on his tongue, like some distant truth he couldn’t quite grasp. "Then... what does that make me now?"

"You’re still you," Lyna whispered, pulling him into her arms. "You’re my son, Einar. But there’s more to you than this life."

Einar shook his head, the ground slipping from beneath him. "Then who is Celestia?" The name tore from his lips, raw and desperate. "Why do I feel like I’ve always known her?"

Lyna’s body tensed, her breath catching. The truth she had kept hidden for so long finally broke free. "Celestia... was your wife," she whispered. "In that life, you were soul-bonded."

The revelation struck him like a blade to the chest, his breath hitching as the truth sank in. Celestia—the woman who haunted his dreams, the woman he felt in every fiber of his being—was real. She was his.

"Wife..." he echoed, his voice hollow, lost.

Lyna’s tears fell freely as she held him, her voice barely a whisper. "Yes, my son. She loved you... and you loved her. More than you could ever know."

Einar’s mind spun, the weight of it all crashing down. The life he thought he knew, the truth about who he was—it was all unravelling before him, a thread pulled too far. He wasn’t just Einar Lambert, the son of Aeron. He was more. And the life he thought was his... was just the beginning.

As Lyna began to speak, telling him the story of his past, Einar realized that everything was about to change. The memories, the dreams, the woman with the golden hair—they were real. And now, there would be no turning back.

** **

Years before Einar’s birth…

The ruins loomed ahead, bathed in the eerie glow of the setting sun. Lyna pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, her breath quickening with excitement and fear. The Forbidden Ruins had a dark reputation, a place where ancient magics still lingered, untouched by time. They were close to the demon territories, a dangerous edge of the world where no one ventured without reason. But Lyna had a reason—a purpose, even if she couldn’t fully explain it.

She had heard whispers of a slumbering power hidden deep within these ruins, a being from the old world, lost to time. And something inside her—a spark, a flicker of magic, perhaps—told her that this was where she needed to be.

As she stepped carefully over the crumbling stones, the air grew colder, the shadows deeper. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she pressed on. This was more than just an adventure—it was an escape from the suffocating life she’d known at the Leonhart estate. Her family was noble, powerful, bound to centuries of tradition, but Lyna had always felt out of place among them.

She could feel the cold magic that lingered here. It seeped into her bones, and for a moment, she hesitated, glancing over her shoulder as if to make sure no one had followed her. Then, with a deep breath, she ventured further into the ruins.

The entrance to a hidden chamber stood before her now, barely noticeable among the crumbling stones and overgrown vines. A faint light flickered within, almost calling her. She stepped inside, the temperature dropping even further as the walls closed in around her.

Inside the chamber, Lyna gasped.

In the center of the room lay a woman, encased in a soft cocoon of glowing magic. She was unlike anything Lyna had ever seen. Long, golden hair spilled over her shoulders, her face impossibly serene. Two delicate horns curled from her head, and her wings, folded behind her, shimmered faintly in the dim light. She was breathtaking—and she was alive.

Lyna stepped closer, her heart pounding in her ears. She knelt beside the woman, her fingers trembling as she reached out to touch the soft feathers of the wings. They were warm. Alive.

Her breath caught in her throat. "What is she?" she whispered to herself, pressing her ear to the woman’s chest, desperate to hear something—anything.

And then, there it was—a heartbeat, faint but steady.

Lyna sat back, her mind racing. This was no ordinary being. Whoever—or whatever—this woman was, she was ancient, powerful, and fading fast. The mana in the air was thin, barely enough to keep her alive. Lyna knew she didn’t have much time.

“I’ll help you,” she whispered, more to herself than to the unconscious woman. “I swear it.”

Months Later…

The Leonhart estate was a prison to Lyna now. She had spent weeks—months, even—sneaking out to the ruins, bringing whatever mana-infused items she could find to keep the woman alive. High-level monster cores, rare herbs, glowing mana stones—anything that held magic. Slowly, painstakingly slowly, she watched as the magic infused into the woman’s cocoon, strengthening her aura bit by bit.

Each time Lyna returned, the woman—Celestia, she had learned her name from an ancient inscription in the ruins—seemed to glow a little brighter, her life force just a little stronger. Lyna couldn’t explain it, but she felt a connection to her, something deep and unspoken.

But it wasn’t easy. The dark mages who roamed the ruins had taken notice of her presence. They had been searching for Celestia too, their motives unknown but undoubtedly sinister. On more than one occasion, Lyna had barely escaped their grasp.

And then, one day, as she placed another mana stone near the cocoon, it happened.

Celestia’s eyes fluttered open.

Lyna froze, her breath caught in her throat. The golden irises that met hers were ancient, filled with sorrow, yet soft. Neither of them spoke at first, too stunned by the moment.

"Thank you, human," Celestia whispered finally, her voice weak but melodic.

Lyna’s heart pounded in her chest, tears springing to her eyes. "You’re awake…" she breathed, her voice trembling. "I’ve been waiting so long."

Celestia slowly sat up, her wings shifting as if testing their strength. She glanced around the chamber, her expression distant, as though she were waking from a dream. "You’ve helped me all this time. Why?"

Lyna swallowed hard, not knowing how to explain the pull she’d felt toward the ruins, toward her. "Because you needed it," she said simply. "And… I couldn’t leave you there. I don’t know why, but I had to help."

Celestia’s gaze softened, a faint, tired smile touching her lips. "You remind me of him."

"Him?" Lyna’s voice barely carried the question.

"My husband… Einar." Celestia’s voice cracked, the grief in her eyes suddenly too much to bear. "He… he’s gone. Lost to the war."

Lyna blinked, stunned. The name felt heavy in the air, like it held a weight beyond anything she could comprehend. She wanted to ask more, but the words wouldn’t come.

Celestia closed her eyes, leaning back against the stone wall, her wings curling slightly around her. "You’re kind… just like he was."

The chamber fell into silence once more, the air thick with the weight of everything left unsaid. Lyna stared at the ancient being before her, feeling as though she had been drawn into something much larger than herself—something ancient, tragic, and powerful.

And in that silence, a bond was formed, though neither of them spoke of it.

** **

Einar’s chest tightened, the weight of his mother’s words suffocating him. The air around him felt thick, like it was pressing down on him from all sides. His jaw clenched as he tried to steady his breath, but the questions inside him twisted like a blade.

“Celestia is real…” His voice was barely more than a whisper, disbelieving. He stared at the fire, watching as the flames danced, but his mind was far away, back in those dreams—no, those memories. “I saw her, fought beside her, bled with her. But how can I be alive?” His crimson eyes locked onto Lyna’s, a deep storm brewing within them. “I died in those dreams. I felt it.”

Lyna’s face crumpled, her hands trembling as she reached for the pendant around her neck. “Because,” she began, her voice breaking under the weight of the secret she had carried for years, “we did something… something forbidden.”

Einar stood abruptly, his fists clenched. “What did you do?” His voice was low, dangerous, barely containing the chaos inside him.

The place fell silent, the crackling fire the only sound.