Ashes and Oaths

Andravion stands in his tent watching flames that burn lick the wood. His mind numb from the recent events. He was sure now that the memory will be among those that will torment his sleep and batter against his mind when he's at his lowest. However... If just maybe he could get home and bask in that warmth, then maybe the torment will be worth bearing.

"Captain? You in there?" a voice called from outside the tent, snapping him out of his daze. He cleared his throat before responding with a gruff, "Enter.

A soldier stepped in, boots heavy with dust, armor stained with blood and soot. He looked like the battle had followed him in. "Sir, we've secured the city. Resistance has been put down, and the royal flags now fly over the citadel.

Andravion gave no reply at first. His gaze lingered on the tent's open flap, where the glow of firelight pulsed like a dying heartbeat. Then, slowly, he nodded. "The loyalists?"

"Rounded up. Some fled into the hills. We've posted scouts. The rest..." The soldier hesitated, "won't be causing further trouble.

Andravion let out a slow breath and turned fully to face him, the weight of leadership pressing visibly on his shoulders. "Disarm the populace. No one carries steel unless I say so. Post guards at the city gates and every square. If anyone stirs unrest..." He paused, jaw tightening. "Deal with it swiftly. I want no more blood—but I won't hesitate if it comes to that"

"Yes, sir."

He reached for the dark cloak hanging nearby, throwing it over his shoulders as if bracing himself against something colder than night

"Ready the men," he said. "We sail for home… at first light."

The soldier gave a firm nod and left.

Andravion remained, alone in the quiet that followed, surrounded by flickering shadows. Behind him, a city smoldered. Ahead, the promise of home—distant, fragile, and the only light he could still chase, the only torch that continues to burn away the darkness that's trying to swallow him. He breathes a sigh—a long, slow breath that drowns his inner conflict and draws up the iron will of a commander—before stepping out of his tent.

Outside, the camp is alive with motion. Soldiers move about in loose clusters; a short distance away, ships rest atop the sand bed while others are already being loaded in preparation to set sail. To his left, some men are dismantling their tents, hauling weapons and supplies with tired resolve. Others sit around fires, drinking and relishing the victory. A few stand apart, scattering the ash of their fallen brothers into the wind.

"Quite a sight, isn't it?" a familiar voice calls from behind.

Vion turns to find Haleel—his childhood friend, his best friend—standing with that effortless air of calm that only he could manage. Haleel was the kind of man who carried sunlight in his voice and steadiness in his step. His presence softened even the harshest days. With tousled chestnut hair that always caught the light and warm hazel eyes that held a flicker of mischief, he was a beacon of hope amidst the shadows of war.

His armor, though scarred by battle, bore the insignia of his lineage with pride. His stance spoke of confidence earned in blood and years. But it was his heart—his gift of lifting spirits—that set him apart. Where Vion had hardened, Haleel had remained whole, grounding others in laughter and light. Beneath the sunlit charm, though, was a fierce loyalty—a bond forged in their earliest days that had never wavered.

"Aye, it is," Vion replies.

"It's something you can and can't ever get used to. Makes me want to tear up a little," Haleel says with a light laugh.

Vion answers only with a nod, and Haleel's expression falters just slightly as he studies him.

He could see it, the war took something from him—maybe it is in the way his eyes that are usually sharp and radiating a steel like aura are now dimmed, like a small flame that's flickering in the wind— Whatever it was he was sure of one thing. This is not the Vion he knows.

"You've stopped looking people in the eye, Andravion," Haleel finally spoke, his usual bright smile still on his face—but this time, it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Vion sighed again, turning to face the ocean. He had nothing to say. His thoughts were cloudy, heavy—he just wanted the days at sea to pass, to leave this bloodstained chapter behind as he crossed into the shores of home.

Haleel studied him quietly. He knew that look. That weight. It was the same one he saw in the mirror after the first siege. The weight of lives taken, and the lives they couldn't save. But Haleel wasn't one to let shadows linger unchecked—not in those he cared about.

"You're still a sucker for the lil' lass, aren't ya?"

That earned a flicker of something—Vion's lips tugged into a small, reluctant smile. "She'll probably not be so little anymore."

Haleel grinned at the response, pressing forward. "You know she has your eyes, right? The kind that hold fire in them. I remember the first time I saw her—tiny, red-faced, and glaring at me like I'd just declared war on her crib." He chuckled. "Even then, she had that fire. Like she could chew through steel if she wanted."

Vion chuckled softly. It was brief, but Haleel caught it.

"She was the one thing you would talk about without sounding like a tired old man," Haleel continued. "You said once you wanted to make the world better for her. That she'd grow up without the weight you had to carry."

Vion looked away again, but his jaw tightened. The storm inside him hadn't passed—but a part of him was listening now.

"You may not see it, Vion, but that fire's still in you too. Buried, maybe. Cut around the edges. But not gone."

The silence stretched again, but this time it was companionable.

Haleel chuckles. "Y'know, I also remember when you clutched your mum's skirt like it was a strand that was holding you from being dragged to gates of Rah'um the first time we met."

Vion snorts. "You make it sound like I cried."

"You did cry."

He chuckled. Finally. Then a smile, not just the half hearted ones, a smile that mirrored the boy he grew up with, then sighed "You always do this," Vion said at last, voice low.

"Try to pull me back with jokes and memories."

Haleel shrugged. "Someone has to remind you you're still human. Still the same lad who used to dream of battling monsters and going on epic conquests and later bury himself in a boring library full of old scrolls."

Vion looked at him now—really looked—and Haleel met his eyes without flinching.

"You're not lost, Vion," he said, voice gentle. "You're just tired."

Then the silence stretched for a while then Haleel's tone dips low. "Do you ever think... none of this would've happened if that damned treaty had held?"

Vion barked a laugh. "Ha! I'd bet my father's sword it wouldn't. Not after we uncovered their plot with the South—disguising an invasion as a marriage proposal. Slimy bastards." He spits on the ground, anger flashing through his voice.

Silence falls again, heavier this time. Then for the first time since the conversation started Andravion speaks, voice softer.

"I sometimes think… if my father were here, we'd have ended this war sooner. He discovered their plot. It's only right that he should've been the one to make them pay."

"If he were here, he'd have run you ragged on the battlefield, then dragged you out for drinks under the stars." Haleel chuckles, and Vion laughs with him.

"Aye, he would've," Vion says, smiling at the thought—before it fades as reality sets back in.

Sensing the shift, Haleel places a firm hand on his shoulder. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. The silence between them is enough.

"He always acted like nothing was wrong. Wore that crown like it weighed nothing. Barked orders like he had the nectar of the gods in his veins. If only he had…"

"He was doing it for his empire. And his family," Haleel says gently.

"He could've said something!"

"And risk giving our enemies an opening?" Haleel's voice softens further. "You know your father better than that."

"That's not—" Vion starts to protest, but a sharp voice cuts into his mind.

"The powers of a contractor and its risk is what each blessed is aware of, boy." Ramona's voice is cold, clipped. "Your father knew the cost. Your friend understands it well—unlike you. And you are privileged to even have a contractor.'

"Do not shame me Andravion."

The voice is like a blade across his thoughts, slicing his grief in two.

Vion swallows back his words. Ramona was right—she always was. The contractors powers are far to great to be used to it's full extent by a mere mortal and doing so would result to terrible consequences. This is because, the contractors were divine beings—not gods, but not mortal either. In ancient texts buried in palace archives, they were called the Middle Ones, proud and reclusive, untouched by time.

Once, they ruled in silence, untouched even by war—until the giants came.

They had tried to fight, but suffered loss after loss. And when a mortal came with a warning, they turned him away. Only after another brutal defeat did they accept his help. In exchange, he asked for one thing: a pact. A bond that would let him call on them—always.

When they returned victorious, they offered not just alliance, but a contract. One that would bind them to him and his bloodline forever. A gift and a curse.

To mark this eternal bond, they gave him the Oracle of Stars—a device that would reveal the lineage of the blessed, lighting up each heir as a star. And when chosen by a contractor, that star would shift in color, a divine acknowledgment

Through the blessings of the contractors, the mortal grew, amassed wisdom, knowledge and wealth and later on built an empire. His descendants, bound by the contract, carried the strength of contractors into every age, all displaying outstanding talents in different fields. But such power naturally came with limitations. To enforce the purely transactional and fairness of the bond. Sacred rules were put in place:

Rule 1. Only descendants of the mortal's lineage are blessed with a contract opportunity.

Rule 2. The contractor and the blessed reserve the right to annul the contract only through mutual consent.

Rule 3. Once a blessed from that lineage annuls a contract, they can never be opportuned with another contract.

Rule 4. The contractor holds the right to choose the child they wish to be bound to and not the other way round.

Rule 5. The descendants will be bestowed with a gift ranging from elemental control to other gifts.

Rule 6. In the event of an annuled contract, the contractor has no business with the former contracted child.

Rule 7. Any rule broken on any side, be it the contractor of the blessed will attract divine punishment.

Yet, over time, the sanctity of the bond began to weaken. As political alliances muddied the bloodline and ambition blurred loyalty, some sought to exploit the contract through illegitimate unions—hoping the power of the contractors might still pass on to those born of mixed heritage.

One descendant, a emperor torn between duty and love, fathered a child by a concubine of no royal claim. The child, chosen by a contractor, suffered a violent rejection from the Oracle itself—his name erased, his star blackened. Desperate to protect others from such tragedy, the king made a plea to the contractors. To preserve the bond's purity, he offered his own life and the legacy of his branch of the family as sacrifice.

The contractors accepted. From that day forward, one final rule was carved into the contract:

Rule 8. Only a blessed of pure royal blood may be chosen. Mixed lineage shall be rejected by the Oracle and punished accordingly.

A young officer jogged toward them, chest rising with effort. "Commander Vion, Brother Haleel—final ship is ready. Winds are in our favor."

Vion gave a slight nod and glanced once more at the coastline, where the ashes of the fallen still danced with the morning breeze. Haleel clapped his shoulder, a silent nudge back to duty. Together, they walked toward the ship, boots pressing into the sand that had tasted both blood and victory.

The crew moved swiftly, ropes tightened, and the main sail—weathered but proud—was unfurled. Wind caught it like a promise, pulling them toward the horizon.

High above on a distant cliff, unseen eyes followed their departure.

Not all who bear royal blood shine in the Oracle.

And some stars burn brightest when they're ready to fall.