Chapter Ten: Oaths in the Dark

The vow was silent.

But it echoed louder than any spoken promise.

In a sealed chamber deep beneath the Academy—far below the official training halls, below the archives, even below the crypts—Angel and Silas knelt side by side beneath a dying silver flame. Before them stood a statue: cloaked, faceless, hands outstretched in offering.

The Brotherhood of the Hidden Quill.

It was not on the record books. It answered to no crown, no guild, no school. It lived in rumors and riddles, and it served only one purpose: to uncover, disrupt, and—when necessary—erase corruption at its root.

And now, it had two new members.

Silas pricked his finger, letting a drop of blood fall into the flame.

Angel did the same.

The fire hissed, flared black for an instant, then vanished. In its place, a sigil branded itself into their palms—invisible, but pulsing with power when needed.

No witnesses. No applause.

Only the binding truth:

You serve no master.

You strike without hesitation.

And if you are caught…

You never existed.

❖ ❖ ❖

Their mission began that night.

Inside the High Inquisitor's wing—Velin's personal sanctum—was a hidden vault sealed behind a chronos glyph. Whatever was locked inside it, Silas claimed, wasn't just about Angel. It was about the Dreamborn line itself—and why it had supposedly been erased from history.

Breaking in required timing, stealth, and illusion.

Fortunately, they had Angel.

"Your imagination spell," Silas whispered as they crouched outside the vault corridor, "can you recreate a person's shadow?"

Angel nodded. "I can do better."

He closed his eyes. Aura flickered from his fingers, and from the floor, a shimmering clone of Velin stepped into existence—identical in form, walk, and aura signature.

She walked down the corridor like she belonged there. The sentry golems blinked, scanned her aura… and bowed.

The door opened.

Angel and Silas slipped in behind the illusion, just as it vanished in a flicker of ink.

The vault was unlike anything they'd seen.

No shelves. No scrolls. Just a floating crystal prism, suspended mid-air by six beams of light. Inside the prism, golden threads of memory twisted and tangled—living memories. Dangerous ones.

Silas hissed softly. "Memory extractions. Someone's been removing truth from people's minds."

Angel stepped closer. The threads glowed brighter in his presence.

One thread pulsed in blue.

His name shimmered inside it. Angel Galván.

"I'm in here," he whispered.

Silas nodded grimly. "They've been rewriting the timeline."

Then a glyph activated near the ceiling. Traps began to hum. Light collapsed inward.

"We've got sixty seconds," Silas said sharply.

Angel raised his hand. Imagined a cage that inverted. The beams shuddered, fractured, and the prism shattered.

Memory threads spilled outward like spectral water.

Angel grabbed his own and pressed it to his forehead.

And the vision slammed into him—

❖ ❖ ❖

He saw a tower. Not the Academy—but something older.

He saw children, dozens of them, trained like soldiers. Dreamborns.

He saw magic not taught, but unleashed—wild, beautiful, terrifying.

He saw Velin standing over a child with dark hair—him.

And then—flames. Screams. A sigil breaking. A name erased.

His name.

He was meant to be forgotten.

They didn't just erase the Dreamborn.

They hid them.

Buried them like bones too sacred to touch.

And one escaped.

Angel staggered back, panting.

"Are you seeing this?" he gasped.

Silas's eyes were glowing faintly—he had linked to the thread as well.

"This changes everything," he said quietly.

And then—footsteps.

The trap had triggered.

Golems began pouring down the stairs. Sentinels of ink and gold, blades gleaming, eyes burning.

Angel turned to Silas. "Ready?"

Silas smirked. "I never liked quiet missions anyway."

Angel raised both hands.

Two swords exploded from his aura—blades made of script and starlight. He leapt into the air, slicing clean through the first golem, his aura crackling with fury.

Silas bent the shadows behind him, pulling energy from memory fragments. Illusions danced, clones flickered, the floor itself warped beneath enemy feet.

The hallway became a dreamscape battlefield.

And Angel?

He moved like a storm—cutting, phasing, teleporting between thoughts. His eyes no longer human—more like glowing verses written by gods.

Together, the two of them were a poem made of destruction.

They didn't just escape.

They erased the path behind them.

❖ ❖ ❖

Back in the chamber, as the sun rose beyond the academy's silent spires, Angel stared at his hand—the sigil pulsing faintly beneath his skin.

"Why did they erase us?" he whispered.

Silas leaned back, flipping through his book.

"They weren't afraid of your power," he said. "They were afraid of what someone like you would remember."

Angel clenched his fist.

For the first time, he wasn't just playing a role.

He wasn't just surviving.

He was part of something now.

And someone was going to pay for every lie they'd buried in silence.