Hello readers! This is the first chapter of Bound by What Was Promised.
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Ashbridge had learned the art of endurance.
It was an old town, built of weathered stone and quiet habits, tucked far from the capital's restless ambition. Dynasties rose and fell beyond its borders, emperors were crowned and buried, yet Ashbridge remained unchanged—its streets narrow, its people cautious, its history carefully folded away like a letter no one dared to reread.
The elders said this was why the town survived.
Because Ashbridge never asked for more.
Miran had grown up hearing that lesson whispered in every corner of his life. Do not speak too loudly. Do not want too much. Do not reach for what has not been given. Silence, restraint, acceptance—these were the virtues Ashbridge prized most.
He had tried to learn them.
At dawn, pale light filtered through the thin curtains of his room, brushing softly against the wooden floor. Miran stood by the window, one hand resting against the cold stone sill, watching the town wake. Smoke curled from chimneys. Footsteps echoed faintly along the street. Everything looked as it always had.
Ordinary.
If not for the warmth beneath his sleeve, he might have believed today would be no different.
The mark on his wrist pulsed.
Once.
Miran stiffened, breath catching as the sensation spread—not painful, but unmistakable. He closed his fingers slowly, pressing his wrist against his chest as if that might quiet it.
It did not.
The mark had been with him for as long as he could remember, faint and pale, like a half-forgotten scar. Most days it lay dormant, easy to ignore. But on rare mornings like this, it stirred with purpose, as though responding to something unseen.
As though remembering.
Miran pulled his sleeve down carefully, covering the skin. He had learned long ago not to let others see it. In Ashbridge, difference was noticed quickly, and questions were never kind.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Miran?" a familiar voice called. "Are you awake, or are you pretending not to be again?"
He exhaled, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.
"Come in," he said.
The door opened, and Elio leaned against the frame with easy confidence. He was already dressed, hair still damp from washing, a half-smile tugging at his lips as if the world rarely gave him reason to frown.
"You're going to miss breakfast," Elio said lightly. "Again."
Miran glanced away from the window. "I wasn't hungry."
Elio laughed, soft and unbothered. "You're never hungry when something's bothering you."
Miran didn't answer.
Elio had been his friend for as long as memory allowed—loud where Miran was quiet, bold where Miran hesitated. He belonged to Ashbridge in a way Miran never quite had. People liked Elio easily. Trusted him. Expected things from him.
They expected nothing from Miran.
Outside, a low horn sounded in the distance.
Elio straightened immediately. "That must be it."
"The procession?" Miran asked.
Elio's eyes lit up. "Of course. The imperial army arrives today. Soldiers, banners, officials—half the town hasn't slept."
Miran's stomach tightened.
He hadn't forgotten.
The mark beneath his sleeve warmed again, sharper this time, like a warning. Or a call.
"Elio," Miran said quietly, though he wasn't sure why. The name left his lips almost unconsciously.
Elio paused, studying him. "What is it?"
"Do you ever feel like something is about to change," Miran asked, choosing his words carefully, "even when everything looks the same?"
Elio blinked, then smiled. "You think too much. Change isn't something you feel—it's something you chase."
Miran thought of his mother's voice, distant but clear in his memory.
Some bonds are older than choice.
He lowered his gaze.
They stepped out into the street together as the town gathered, drawn toward the main road like iron to a lodestone. Banners unfurled overhead, bright against the muted stone. Soldiers took their positions, armor gleaming beneath the rising sun.
Miran stood among the crowd, heart beating too fast, senses too sharp. The air felt heavy, charged with something unspoken.
Then the first horse stepped onto the road.
The mark burned.
Miran gasped softly, fingers digging into his sleeve as heat spread across his wrist. His breath stuttered, vision blurring for just a moment as something ancient stirred deep within him.
Not fear.
Recognition.
The procession moved forward—rows of soldiers, officials in silk, banners bearing imperial crests. And at the front rode a man clad in dark armor, unadorned and severe, his presence commanding silence without effort.
The General.
Miran lifted his eyes despite himself.
The moment their gazes met, the world narrowed.
There was no dramatic thunder, no sudden declaration of fate. Only a stillness so profound it felt like the pause between heartbeats. The General's eyes—dark, sharp, searching—locked onto Miran as if he had been looking for him all along.
The mark flared violently.
Miran stumbled back half a step, chest tight, pulse roaring in his ears. Something twisted painfully inside him—not pain, not fear, but a longing so deep it felt carved into his bones.
The General's horse slowed.
For a single, fragile moment, control slipped from the man's expression. His brows knit, his gaze sharpening with disbelief—as though he were staring at a memory brought to life.
Then the moment passed.
The procession continued.
But the vow had awakened.
Behind him, Elio frowned, eyes flicking between Miran and the retreating figure. "What's wrong?" he asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Miran couldn't answer.
Because deep within him, the mark whispered a truth he had spent his life hiding:
Fate had found him.
And it would not be ignored again.