Silent Vow

Ruvan hadn't slept.

He didn't even try. After what he saw beneath Iron Hold, there was no sleep waiting for him—only the images, burned behind his eyes.

He sat on the edge of the bed Maeven had gifted him, cloak draped across his lap, the flame from the lantern on the table flickering quietly beside him. It had burned all night. Elion had come by once, said something about food, about resting, but Ruvan hadn't answered. Kellan hadn't returned. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe he'd needed air.

Ruvan hadn't moved. Just stared at the wall. And remembered.

The boy with no arms. The girl whose spine had fused into a column of silver coils, her neck stiff like she was always being choked. The child who whispered "it hurts, it hurts, it hurts" with no lips and a broken whisper of a voice.

He gripped his knees tightly, fingernails biting through cloth.

It wasn't just cruelty. It was something worse. Something deliberate. Planned. Sustained. The children weren't just experiments—they were stock. Resources.

He felt it, deep in his stomach. The weight of knowing. The kind that doesn't go away after sleep or food or time. The kind that buries itself into your spine and stays there.

Ruvan let out a slow breath. The sword was quiet tonight. Even Solrend, with all its whispers and hunger, had said nothing since they left the dungeon. Maybe it was watching. Waiting.

A quiet knock came at the door.

He didn't answer. It opened anyway.

Kellan stepped in, dark circles under his eyes, hair messy, jacket half-buttoned.

"You still alive in here?" he asked gently.

Ruvan nodded once, not looking at him.

Kellan shut the door and crossed the room, sitting across from him on the floor. His back leaned against the cold wall, arms draped over his knees.

For a while, they sat there in silence. Two shapes in the lantern-light. Ruvan didn't speak. Kellan didn't force it.

Then, finally, Ruvan found words.

"How long do you think this has been happening?"

Kellan tilted his head. "The grafting?"

"The children. The experiments. That chamber. It didn't look new."

Kellan shook his head. "Years. Maybe longer. This place has tunnels that go deeper than anyone's allowed to chart. Most of Iron Hold's nobles won't even admit the lower levels exist."

"Maeven knows."

"Of course he does." Kellan's voice hardened. "He's overseer of the hold. Nothing happens down there without his word."

Ruvan clenched his jaw. "Then why show it to me?"

Kellan hesitated. "Because he wanted you to see. Maybe not that far, not the children—but enough. Enough to test how you'd react. He's watching, Ruvan. Watching who you'll become."

Ruvan looked at him, eyes cold. "And who does he want me to become?"

"Someone who can kill for him. Quietly. Powerfully. Without mercy."

The words didn't feel like exaggeration. They felt true.

Ruvan leaned back, resting his head against the wall. "I want to burn this place."

Kellan gave a bitter smile. "You and me both."

"No," Ruvan said quietly, eyes locked on the flickering lantern. "I don't mean scorch a few halls or gut a few guards. I mean the whole thing. Maeven. The graft-forgers. That dungeon. I want it all gone."

Kellan watched him for a long time, then asked, "You think you're ready to take that on now?"

Ruvan didn't answer right away. His hand drifted to the sword at his side. Solrend. Still silent. But he could feel the weight of it, like a predator curled at his hip.

"No," he admitted. "Not yet."

Kellan nodded. "Then get ready. Because if you wait too long, Maeven will decide who you are for you."

Ruvan's voice dropped to a whisper. "He already thinks I'm his."

"Then prove him wrong."

Ruvan stared ahead, and something inside him shifted. It wasn't rage, not exactly. Rage was wild. This was colder. Sharper.

Resolve.

"I swear," he whispered, "I'll burn it all. When I'm ready. When I have the strength. I'll come back here and end this."

Kellan gave him a long look. "That a promise?"

"It's a vow."

They sat like that for a while longer, the silence no longer oppressive, just heavy.

Then Ruvan stood.

"I need to train," he said.

Kellan raised an eyebrow. "Now?"

"Now."

Kellan didn't argue. He just got to his feet and grabbed his cloak. "Then let's get to it."

The training yard at the edge of the upper keep was mostly empty this late. A few guards stood watch, lazily exchanging turns with practice spears, but no one paid much attention as Ruvan stepped onto the sand with Kellan behind him.

The air was cold. His breath hung in front of him. He didn't care.

Kellan tossed him a dulled practice blade. Ruvan caught it and immediately threw it aside. Then, slowly, deliberately, he drew Solrend from its scabbard.

Kellan tensed. "That thing's not a toy."

"It's not for show either," Ruvan said. "If I'm going to use it, I need to know it."

The blade flared faintly. Just a whisper of red along the edges.

"Fine," Kellan said, stepping back. "But I'm not sparring you while you hold that thing. I like my limbs."

Ruvan didn't answer. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and began moving.

No forms. No drills. Just motion. Swing. Recover. Step. Pivot. Strike. Again.

Solrend flowed like a part of him. It was heavier than most blades, but it wanted to move. It pulled, gently, toward his targets. As if it could feel the memory of enemies not yet slain.

Ruvan could feel it too. The sword's hunger. But beneath that, deeper still, was something else. A presence that didn't just crave death—it watched. It waited.

You want to avenge them, the sword seemed to say.

Then become the flame that cannot be put out.

Ruvan's breath caught. The blade glowed faintly again. His feet moved faster. The strikes came quicker.

Step. Turn. Cut.

Every movement had purpose now. Every motion was part of the vow.

He trained until his arms ached. Until sweat poured down his back. Until the guards started whispering and backing away.

Kellan called out eventually. "That's enough."

Ruvan didn't answer. He sheathed Solrend and turned to face him.

"I'm not going to stop."

"Good," Kellan said. "Then maybe you'll survive what's coming."

Later that night, after the others had gone to sleep, Ruvan stood at the small balcony outside his quarters.

Iron Hold stretched out before him. Towers of black stone. Smoke rising from forges. The wind carried the faint scent of metal and ash.

Somewhere below, those children still lived. Suffering. Waiting. Enduring.

And he'd walked away.

Not because he didn't care—but because he wasn't strong enough. Yet.

"I will come back for you," he whispered into the wind. "I swear it."

Behind him, Solrend pulsed faintly, as if in agreement.

A silent vow, carried by the dark.

And for the first time in a long time, Ruvan knew exactly what kind of man he had to become.

Not a soldier. Not a survivor.

A reckoning.