Chapter 18 – Oaths of Ash and Iron

The battlefield smoldered beneath a sky turned gray with ash. Where once two jarldoms clashed in stubborn pride, now only one banner remained upright—torn and trembling in the wind like the last breath of a dying god.

Tanya stood at the edge of the war's graveyard, boots crunching on scorched earth and bone fragments. Her hands rested behind her back, coat swaying in the cold wind, face unreadable. Smoke curled from the pits where Mayuri's reanimation gas had ignited corpses into twitching piles of madness just hours earlier. The chaos had passed. Now came the moment of reshaping.

The survivors knelt in the mud, warriors bloodied and dazed, armor dented, expressions haunted. Among them stood Jarl Arnar—his beard thick with soot, and his gaze clouded with equal parts rage and fear. His long axe hung loose in his grip. Across from him, his brother-in-arms-turned-rival, Jarl Sigmund, lay as little more than blackened ruin—his hall crushed, his warriors scattered, and his body blown apart by Tanya's divine artillery.

"I know not what devil guides yer hand," Arnar growled, spitting into the dirt, "but I'll not fight ghosts nor gods today."

Tanya's voice was calm as ever. "A wise decision. The dead tend not to care who they kill. And I don't appreciate cleaning up after stubborn fools."

Arnar narrowed his eyes. "So that's what you are then? A god in a girl's skin?"

She stepped forward, unbothered by the mud or blood around her boots. "No. I am what the gods left behind when they failed. And I offer you something they never could—survival."

A heavy silence stretched as Arnar glanced at the bodies of his men, then back at her. His voice dropped, wearied. "Sigmund was a hard bastard. Fought like a wolf. But he trusted too many tongues and didn't know when to bow."

Tanya turned slightly, casting her eyes toward Mayuri in the distance, who was gleefully inspecting a broken warrior's corpse. She kept her tone neutral. "Loyalty without strategy is just suicide with a nice speech."

Arnar grunted. "Aye. That's truth enough."

She stepped closer. "You've lost men, land, pride. But you've gained something few men in your position are offered—a chance to walk away alive. Swear loyalty, serve my banner, and I will give you purpose. Refuse, and you'll join Sigmund in the dirt. I've no patience left for half-measures."

Arnar looked down at his axe, fingers clenching the shaft. Around him, what remained of his warband waited for his word. They were beaten, but not cowards. Still, the way they watched Tanya—they didn't see a girl. They saw fire and death wrapped in flesh. The air around her still shimmered faintly, like embers waiting to ignite.

He lowered the axe and planted its head in the mud.

"I'll swear," he said at last, voice low. "Not 'cause I'm cowed. Not 'cause I worship you. But 'cause I've got lads to feed and a hall to rebuild. If followin' you keeps the hearth warm, then so be it."

Tanya inclined her head. "A practical man. You may last longer than the others."

He knelt then, one knee sinking into the blackened soil, and drew his blade. Pressing its flat against his palm, he cut deep—offering his blood to the fire-stained wind.

"I, Arnar, Jarl of the Eastern Stones, pledge my axe, my hall, and my kin to the service of the Iron Flame. May my bones break before my word."

Tanya's eyes flickered with approval. "Good. Then rise, Jarl Arnar of the Iron North."

The warriors behind him let out a rough cheer—tired, hoarse, but real. They had bled for days, fought like beasts, and seen their gods fall silent. But now, they saw a new banner—one forged in fire and logic, led by a devil-witch who made the dead dance.

Arnar rose, wiping blood from his hand. "What now then, fire-spitter?"

Tanya turned her gaze southward. "Now? We rebuild. We prepare. And we spread the word."

She gestured for Mayuri, who had by now finished bagging another "sample." The alchemist approached with his usual disturbing cheer, clicking his jaw like a machine testing itself.

"Oh my, oh my. This one still has nerves twitching. Fascinating." He bowed with exaggerated grace. "Ah, Jarl Arnar. Welcome to the era of progress."

Arnar blinked at him, unsettled. "That one always talk like that?"

Tanya didn't answer the question. Instead, she stepped between them, her coat billowing. "Send out messengers to the nearby clans. Tell them the war is over. Tell them a new age begins. And tell them the Iron Flame watches."

Arnar nodded reluctantly. "Aye. And if they spit at the offer?"

Tanya smiled, thin and sharp. "Then we'll burn their gods with them."

And just like that, the battlefield fell quiet once more.

But in that silence, the first sparks of an empire stirred—made not by prophecy or bloodlines, but by steel, flame, and sheer, unrelenting will.