The Oath of Fire

The wind tore through the palace banners, carrying the scent of ashes into the cold night air. Below, the burning city stretched into the darkness, its flames licking the sky like the jaws of monstrous beasts. Beneath the fortress walls, the muffled cries of the wounded and the dying echoed through the smoke-filled air. Prince Thorven stood atop the highest tower of the citadel. His sword, still wet with the enemy's blood, rested tightly in his grip, though he paid it no mind. His gaze was frozen on a single sight in the distance—the lifeless body of his father. King Eldric had died seated on his throne, a traitor's dagger embedded in his chest. His lips, once accustomed to issuing commands and declarations of war, were now still. His eyes, once filled with wisdom and power, were empty. Thorven dropped to one knee, resting against the cold stone railing. His heart pounded with fury, and the weight of defeat pressed upon his shoulders. "Today, you have died, Father," he whispered, though his voice trembled with rage. "But tomorrow… vengeance begins." Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed from behind. Thorven turned to see his most trusted friend, Garan, his face streaked with blood and dust. His sharp eyes studied Thorven with quiet intensity. "Your Highness, there's no more time," Garan said. "They're sealing off all the exits. We either fight or flee to return stronger." Thorven remained silent. Flee? He was meant to die here, like his father, fighting for what had been stolen from him. But he could not die. Not yet. "We do not flee," he finally said. "But we must avoid open battle. Let them think they have won. Our revenge has only begun." Garan met his gaze, then gave a slow nod. "As you command, my king." Thorven was not a king yet, but those words lit a spark within him. If he was to be worthy of the throne, he could no longer be a mere man. He had to become something else—a shadow of death that would walk behind them until the last enemy was destroyed. Thorven descended into the great hall, where the last of his loyal soldiers had gathered. The flickering candlelight reflected in their weary eyes. Some were wounded, others barely standing, but all of them waited in silence. "Tonight, they have won..." Thorven began. "But the last drop of blood has yet to be spilled." No one spoke. No one needed to. Their eyes said more than words ever could. Suddenly, the doors burst open, and Mirra—the healer's daughter—ran inside, breathless. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with fear. "They… they are coming," she gasped. "We have no time left." Thorven clenched his fists. "Not yet. We will escape through the hidden tunnels. This city will fall, but we will return. And I swear—they will never sleep in peace again." The night was thick, the wind cold. Thorven and his men moved through the secret tunnels, known only to the royal bloodline. Above them, the fires still raged, but they slipped unseen through the darkened streets, making their way north, where their allies awaited. Just as they emerged from the last passage, a distant roar broke through the night. The enemy had entered the palace and realized no one was there. Thorven stopped and turned, gazing at the burning castle one last time. "Wait for me," he whispered, his oath of vengeance carried away by the wind. This was only the beginning. --- The journey north was merciless. Snow had begun to fall, dusting the landscape with a pale shimmer that belied the brutality of the cold. The wounded struggled to keep pace, and the further they traveled, the more Thorven felt the weight of responsibility press against his chest. Garan rode beside him, his sharp eyes scanning the darkened forests that surrounded them. "If they follow, we'll see their torches before they see us. But I don't trust that they'll wait until morning." Thorven nodded, gripping the reins of his horse tightly. "We must reach Black Hollow before dawn. Lord Edric will shelter us. He was loyal to my father." Mirra, riding just behind them, shivered in her thick cloak. "If we survive the night, that is." The words hung heavy in the air. Thorven knew the enemy would not rest until they hunted him down. Hours passed. The journey was silent but for the distant howls of wolves and the soft crunch of hooves against frozen ground. Then, in the dead of night, the sound of breaking branches sent a ripple of tension through the group. "Riders," Garan hissed, pulling his sword free. Thorven turned sharply. Shadows moved among the trees, the faint glimmer of steel catching the moonlight. "Defensive formation!" he ordered. His soldiers, though exhausted, moved swiftly. Shields locked, bows drawn, blades gleaming. The first of the enemy emerged—cloaked figures riding dark horses, their faces hidden behind iron masks. A single voice broke the night. "Prince Thorven, surrender and we will make your death swift. Resist, and we will drag you back in chains." Thorven stepped forward, blood pounding in his ears. "You have already stolen my city, my father, my throne. And now you want my life?" He raised his sword. "Come and take it." The enemy charged. The battle erupted in a storm of steel and fury. Arrows whistled through the air, swords clashed, horses reared and screamed. Thorven fought with a rage he had never known before. He was not just fighting to survive—he was fighting for vengeance, for justice, for the ghosts of his past and the future that had been stolen from him. Time became a blur. He cut down a masked warrior, then another. He saw Garan dismount an enemy with a swift, brutal stroke. Mirra, despite her lack of combat experience, was tending to the wounded even as the battle raged around her. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the enemy broke. The survivors turned and fled into the night, their will to fight shattered. Thorven stood amidst the fallen, his breath ragged, his blade dripping with blood. Garan sheathed his sword. "We should keep moving. More will come." Thorven exhaled slowly. "Yes. But let them come. Let them chase me into the dark. Because I promise you, Garan—I will not stop until every last one of them is dead." As they rode into the shadows of the forest, the first light of dawn crept over the horizon. The hunt had begun. And Thorven would not rest until the traitors who stole his throne paid for their crimes in blood.