Echoes of a Forgotten Fate
Isla rushed into her dorm, the book clutched tightly in her hands. The worn leather cover felt warmer than it should, the weight of it settling strangely in her palm.
She barely tossed her bag onto a chair before dropping onto her bed, propping up a pillow and pressing play on her reading playlist. Soft instrumental notes filled the room, but the moment she opened the book, the world narrowed—music, time, and reality all blurred beneath the pull of the pages.
The paper was delicate, tinged yellow with age, the spine barely intact. Her brow furrowed as she ran her fingers across the title page. No author’s name.
Odd.
She turned the first page, inhaled sharply, and began to read.
Excerpt from the book: In the year 1231, beneath the blood-stained skies of Strathclyde, the prince stood before his people. Lachlan Strathclyde, first of his name, last of his kind—a ruler bound by duty, trapped by fate.
Isla’s grip tightened. 1231. The same year the woman on the plane had mentioned.
A strange chill curled in her stomach.
She flipped ahead. The ink was slightly raised, as if freshly written. The script flowed with elegance—too perfect, too precise for something so old.
Then she saw it.
Excerpt from the book: Princess Isla of the Highlands arrived in chains, her fate already written in the stars. She did not know then that the man standing before her would be both her salvation and her doom.
Isla froze.
Her name. Her exact name.
Coincidence, she told herself. But the way the words stared back at her made her feel seen in a way that sent a shiver down her spine.
She shook off the unease and read on.
Lachlan’s introduction surprised her. She had expected a brute—a cruel, heartless tyrant. But he wasn’t. He was distant, yes. Stoic. Commanding. But not unfeeling.
He was tragic.
Excerpt from the book: He was not cruel by nature, but by necessity. Love had no place in the halls of war, nor in the heart of a king.
Her chest tightened.
It was the kind of line that made people believe they could change someone like him.
Page after page, she devoured the story—the princess and the prince, their fated bond, their inevitable marriage. She wanted to believe he would soften. And for a while, it seemed he had.
Excerpt from the book: "You are afraid of me," Lachlan murmured, his voice edged with something softer than authority—hesitation.
Isla should have lied. Should have said no. But instead, she whispered, "Only when I do not understand you."
His gaze flickered—like she had touched something hidden, something no one else ever had. The candlelight stretched shadows across his face, sharp lines softened by the glow.
He reached for her—not commanding, but seeking. His fingers brushed her wrist, tentative, as if unsure she would let him.
She didn’t pull away.
"You understand me more than I want you to," he admitted.
And then, quietly, achingly— "What will you do with that knowledge?"
Isla swallowed. "Hold it carefully."
It wasn’t a declaration of love.
But it was a promise.
Modern Isla pressed a hand to her chest, heart aching. She could see it—the hesitation in his touch, the weight behind his words. He had loved her. In his own way.
So why—
She flipped ahead, faster now.
Excerpt from the book: "It is foolish," Lachlan murmured, eyes on the stars, arms braced behind his head. "This belief you have in me."
Isla lay beside him, the cool Highland air weaving through her hair. "Love makes fools of us all."
He smirked—barely, but it was there.
For a moment, he was just a man. Not a prince. Not a ruler. Just Lachlan.
She turned toward him, propping herself on an elbow. "Have you ever thought," she asked softly, "that fate is asking something different of you?"
He looked at her, searching.
She let the silence stretch, long enough for him to consider. Long enough for her to hope.
Then—"Do you?"
She nodded. "Yes."
And for that night—for that fleeting, impossible night—he let himself believe her.
Modern Isla’s fingers trembled. This was why the princess had stayed silent when the execution came. Because she had believed in him. Because she had known he loved her.
She turned the page, dreading what came next.
Excerpt from the book: She did not plead. She did not beg. She only looked at him—eyes full of something he could not name. And then, with a heavy breath, he gave the order.
Tears slipped silently down Isla’s cheeks.
The princess had been accused of treason. Innocent. And yet, Lachlan let the blade fall.
Excerpt from the book: The witch abandoned him. The magic faded. And in the end, it was not war that destroyed him, but his own curse.
His pride had cost him everything. His kingdom crumbled. His people suffered. And eventually, he too was lost.
Isla whispered the final line aloud, voice breaking.
Her name. Her connection. The eerie way the story clung to her thoughts.
It couldn’t be real.
Could it?
And yet—
Somewhere deep in her soul, she felt it.
Like a forgotten fate waiting to be remembered.
She closed the book slowly, hands trembling, and set it down on her desk.
That’s when she saw it. A glint of something gold catching the light beneath the inner flap.
Curious, she lifted it. A faint inscription lay hidden in the corner, nearly swallowed by age.
A.I. Smith.
She leaned closer, her breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t a part of the printing. It was hand-written, barely visible.
Grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil, she carefully traced over the inscription. The name reappeared in soft gray: A.I. Smith.
Her pulse quickened.
She opened her laptop and searched the name. At first—nothing. Then, one obscure result. A brief article. A.I. Smith: Scottish. Reclusive. No photo. No known works. No record of life or death.
Just a whisper.
She sat back, heart racing. This wasn’t just a story. It was a message.
Sleep tugged at her, but her mind spun. Tomorrow, she’d find the vendor. She’d dig deeper. She had to.
Because this wasn’t over.
Not even close.