Chapter 5: The Oath of Shadows
When Ayla awoke, the first thing she noticed was the silence.
No distant roars.
No shifting shadows.
Only the steady pulse of magic that thrummed through the stones of the Sanctuary.
She sat up slowly.
The small chamber was dimly lit by crystals embedded in the walls, their soft glow chasing away the deeper darkness. A tray of food — strange fruits and steaming broth — sat untouched near her bed.
Her stomach growled, but Ayla ignored it.
The dream still clung to her, heavy and cold.
The reflection.
The words: "You cannot escape what you are."
She shivered.
Before she could lose herself to fear, the door creaked open.
The Watcher entered, his grey robes flowing like mist around him.
"You're awake," he said simply. "Good. We have much to do."
He handed her a folded garment: black and silver, stitched with unfamiliar symbols.
"Put this on," he instructed. "You'll need it."
Ayla hesitated.
The fabric felt strange — heavy and warm at once, like it remembered the touch of ancient hands.
Still, she obeyed, changing quickly.
When she emerged, the Watcher nodded approvingly.
"You wear the Initiate's garb now," he said. "You have taken the first step — whether you understand it or not."
Ayla frowned.
"I didn't agree to anything."
The Watcher's lips twitched — not quite a smile.
"Perhaps. But fate cares little for consent."
He turned sharply and motioned for her to follow.
"Come. The others are waiting."
The Hall of Echoes
The Sanctuary's inner halls were vast, carved into the heart of the mountain itself.
Their steps echoed against the smooth stone floors as they moved deeper underground, past doorways guarded by silent figures in grey.
Finally, they entered a massive circular chamber.
Ayla stopped, awed.
The walls were covered in ancient murals — scenes of battles against monstrous shadows, of shining heroes wielding blades of light, of great cities now lost to time.
At the center of the chamber, a circle of figures stood waiting.
Six of them — all robed like the Watcher, but each bearing unique marks on their clothing and weapons.
They turned as she entered, faces shadowed by their hoods.
One of them — a tall woman with a jagged scar across her cheek — stepped forward.
"This is her?" she asked, voice hard with skepticism.
The Watcher inclined his head.
"The one the Prophecy spoke of," he said.
Another figure, older and hunched with age, snorted.
"She's just a child."
"Looks deceive," the Watcher said quietly. "Power does not."
The scarred woman circled Ayla, appraising her like a merchant inspecting flawed goods.
Ayla lifted her chin, refusing to show fear.
"She smells of raw magic," the woman said at last. "Untamed. Dangerous."
"Exactly why she must be trained," the Watcher said.
He turned to Ayla.
"Listen well, Ayla of Veloria.
We are the Sentinels — the last guardians of the Realms Between."
He gestured around them.
"This world, and others like it, hang in fragile balance. Forces beyond mortal comprehension gnaw at the edges of reality, seeking to consume and corrupt."
"The Hunter is but a pawn," the scarred woman added. "A harbinger of worse things to come."
Ayla swallowed hard.
"And you think I can stop them?"
The Watcher's gaze was piercing.
"Not yet. But you can learn. If you survive."
He pointed to a raised platform at the chamber's center.
"Swear the Oath, Ayla. Bind yourself to our cause. Or walk away — and be hunted until the end of your days."
The air grew heavy, waiting for her choice.
Ayla hesitated.
Fear whispered in her ear: You're not ready. You're weak.
But another voice — fainter, but fiercer — answered: You survived. You fought. You endured.
She took a step forward.
Then another.
Climbing the platform felt like climbing a mountain.
At its center was a pedestal of black stone, etched with glowing runes.
A single dagger rested atop it.
The ceremonial blade.
Ayla picked it up, feeling its weight — heavier than it should be.
She pressed the blade lightly against her palm.
A sharp sting. A single drop of blood welled up.
The runes flared brighter, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.
Ayla raised her voice, steady despite the fear curling inside her.
"I swear," she said. "To guard the Realms. To stand against the darkness. To never falter, even in death."
The runes exploded in brilliant silver light, washing over her.
For a moment, she felt... everything.
The heartbeat of the earth.
The sorrow of fallen stars.
The roaring hunger of the Void.
And then it was gone, leaving her gasping.
The Sentinels bowed their heads.
"It is done," the Watcher said.
"You are one of us now."
The First Lesson
Training began immediately.
The scarred woman — who introduced herself tersely as Commander Varra — wasted no time.
She dragged Ayla into the Hall of Blades — an open courtyard surrounded by high stone walls and swirling winds.
"You know how to hold a knife," Varra said, tossing Ayla a short sword. "Let's see if you can survive with it."
Ayla barely caught the weapon, stumbling under its unexpected weight.
Varra came at her instantly, her own blade a blur.
Ayla parried by pure instinct, the clash of metal ringing in her ears.
Pain exploded up her arm from the impact.
Varra didn't relent — pressing the attack, driving Ayla back across the courtyard.
"You're slow," she barked. "Sloppy. Weak."
Ayla gritted her teeth, fury rising.
She ducked a blow, spun low, and managed to score a shallow cut along Varra's side.
Varra grunted — and then smiled, a fierce, savage expression.
"Good," she said. "You have teeth after all."
The Secrets of Power
In between brutal training sessions, the Watcher taught Ayla other things:
How to summon the latent magic within her without losing control.
How to weave defensive wards and sigils of binding.
The ancient names of the Old Shadows — creatures that lurked beyond the Rift, seeking a doorway into the mortal worlds.
"You have a gift," he told her one evening, as they studied by lamplight.
"But gifts are burdens. The stronger your power grows, the more the Void will hunger for you."
Ayla shivered.
She remembered the Hunter's burning gaze. The cold emptiness she had felt.
"I won't let it win," she said.
The Watcher only nodded — but something like sorrow flickered in his eyes.
The Whispering Gate
One night, weeks later, Ayla couldn't sleep.
She wandered the Sanctuary's darkened halls, drawn by some invisible thread.
At the very edge of the compound, she found it:
A forgotten archway, half-buried in rubble.
Whispers oozed from its broken stone — calling her name.
Ayla stepped closer, heart pounding.
Through the cracks, she glimpsed something.
A shadow — vast, winged, terrible — shifting in the darkness beyond.
"Come closer," it whispered.
"Let me show you the truth."
Ayla reached out, almost without thinking.
A hand seized her wrist, yanking her back.
She spun — and found herself face to face with the Watcher.
His expression was harder than she had ever seen.
"Never approach the Whispering Gate," he said, voice sharp with fear.
"Not until you are ready. Or it will claim you."
He pulled her away, sealing the archway with a burst of magic.
Ayla stared at him, shaken.
"What was that?"
The Watcher hesitated.
"A piece of the Void," he said at last.
"A fragment of the ancient darkness — trapped, but not dead."
He fixed her with a grave look.
"And it knows your name, Ayla."