Night’s Oath
The moon hung swollen and pale above Iron Hold, veiled by drifting soot from forge chimneys that burned without rest even at this late hour. The city slept fitfully, its alleys alive with murmurs – drunken laughter, whispered deals, muffled sobs no one answered.
But Ruvan did not sleep.
He lay on the straw mattress in their cramped inn room, staring at the cracked beams overhead. Kellan snored softly against the far wall, one hand still curled around his sword hilt. Elion's breathing was quiet and measured, his staff propped near his head like a silent ward.
Ruvan turned his gaze to the window. Beyond the warped glass panes, torchlight flickered in distant towers, dying embers fighting back the suffocating dark.
He closed his eyes, hoping for a dreamless night.
Instead, the shadows swallowed him whole.
⸻
He stood again in that decaying throne room.
Black marble columns twisted upwards into a ceiling lost to darkness. Torn banners dripped down the walls like blood-stained shrouds. And at the end of the hall sat the throne itself – wrought from jagged obsidian and carved with runes that writhed when he looked at them too long.
Upon it slumped a figure in corroded armour, helm crowned with broken horns. Chains bound its wrists to the throne's arms, thick links trailing down into cracks between the flagstones where something deep and hungry pulsed far below.
The Silent King raised his head.
Ruvan flinched at the sight of that empty helm – no eyes, no face, only an endless void framed by rusted steel. Yet within it burned a depthless exhaustion, as if he carried the suffering of all existence upon unseen shoulders.
When the king spoke, his voice was a low rumble filled with exhausted grief.
"All must burn before life begins."
Ruvan's heart hammered in his chest. "What… what does that mean?"
The Silent King tilted his head, as if regarding an unworthy pupil.
"You hold the blade forged to seal the devourer's maw," he said. The words echoed across the throne room like thunder rolling through hollow caverns. "But even seals fail when the will behind them breaks."
"I don't understand," Ruvan said. His voice trembled in the silence. "How do I stop this curse from consuming me? From consuming everything?"
The Silent King leaned forward. Chains rattled like a thousand iron snakes.
"You don't," he whispered.
⸻
The throne room trembled.
Black cracks spread across the marble floor beneath Ruvan's feet, glowing with molten light. From the depths rose a sound – a low churning growl, as if the earth itself was starving.
Suddenly Ruvan was falling, plunging into darkness. Heat licked at his skin. Screams echoed from below, a chorus of voices – men, women, children – all wailing as one.
And then he saw it.
A colossal shadow, bound in chains of burning gold. Its body was formed from writhing darkness, eyes blazing with crimson hate. Its maw gaped wide, fangs dripping black fire that hissed and burned the chains holding it down. Each breath from its lungs poured black smoke that curled into images of cities burning, forests withering, oceans boiling away to salt and bone.
The devourer.
Its gaze turned upon him. Even in a dream, Ruvan felt his soul recoil.
Heir of ash… bearer of the broken seal…
The voice was like a thousand knives scraping bone.
All must burn before life begins anew.
Images seared across his vision. He saw himself standing atop a mountain of corpses, Solrend raised high as rivers of molten gold carved paths through ruined cities. Children screaming. Mothers cradling blackened husks. Towers collapsing into seas of flame.
He saw Thera, armour scorched, eyes burning with grief as she reached out to him.
He saw Elion lying still, his hands glowing with healing light that flickered and died as shadows devoured him whole.
He saw Kellan, sword shattered, laughter lost forever as he knelt before a wraith made of ash and lightning.
He saw himself.
His face was a hollowed ruin, his skin cracked with glowing fissures as if magma flowed beneath. Solrend pulsed in his hand, its blade a screaming chorus of bound souls writhing within molten steel.
All must burn before life begins anew.
It lunged towards him, jaws splitting wider than any beast should. Heat and shadow swallowed him whole –
⸻
He awoke with a gasp, bolt upright on his mattress. His chest heaved with ragged breaths. Cold sweat soaked his tunic, clinging to his skin like oil. The room was dark except for moonlight slanting through the window, illuminating Elion's sleeping face and Kellan's steady rise and fall of breath.
Ruvan pressed a trembling hand to his eyes. Solrend lay beside him, wrapped in oiled cloth, but even hidden its pulse beat faintly through his bones like a second, corrupted heart.
All must burn before life begins.
The Silent King's words echoed in his skull. He did not know if they were prophecy or curse. Only that each time he closed his eyes, the throne room waited for him again.
He stood and crossed to the window. Below, in the alley, rats scurried between overflowing refuse barrels. A beggar slept curled beneath a tattered cloth, shivering in the chill breeze drifting off the forge canals.
The city reeked of coal smoke, piss, and old blood. But beneath it, he smelled something else. A scent he could not name – iron and lightning and ash.
The scent of coming war.
Ruvan clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms.
He was no king. No hero. Just a blacksmith's apprentice with blood on his hands and a sword he could barely wield.
But the Silent King's words carved themselves into his resolve. He did not know what must burn, or what life might bloom from the ashes. Only that something in him refused to let that dream be the end.
He would fight.
For Thera, whoever she truly was. For Elion and Kellan, who had chosen to follow him despite everything. For the child he could not save, and all the children yet to be born in a world freed from shadow.
He swore it to the night, to the moon veiled in drifting soot.
All must burn before life begins…
"Then let it begin with me," he whispered.
And in the silent darkness, Solrend pulsed softly against his leg – a single, silent note of agreement.
⸻
He remained by the window for hours.
The forge bells tolled the first hour before dawn. The streets stirred as merchants lit lanterns, shadows flickering across the frost-dusted cobblestones. Across the alley, a washerwoman dumped a pail of grey water into the gutter, steam rising as it struck frozen stone.
He watched as Iron Hold woke to another day of toil and silent despair. Children scurried barefoot, carrying buckets of coal. Soldiers patrolled with blank eyes, their helms rimed with frost.
Ruvan touched Solrend's hilt and felt the faint echo of the Silent King's sorrow within.
One day, he thought, this world will burn.
But I will be the one to choose what rises from its ashes.
He turned from the window as Kellan stirred awake, grumbling curses under his breath. Elion rubbed his eyes, his hair tangled from restless sleep.
Ruvan did not speak. He strapped Solrend to his side and moved towards the door, his shadow cast long and thin across the floorboards by the rising dawn.
"Where are you going?" Kellan asked, voice still hoarse with sleep.
Ruvan paused at the threshold. Without turning, he spoke.
"To become strong enough to burn what must burn… and to save what must be saved."
And with that, he stepped into the waking world, leaving behind the last of his lingering fear on the cold, straw-filled mattress.