Chapter Four: Embers of Oaths

The road east reveals the fractured legacy of the fallen gods, and Vaelen finds the first true ally—though not without blood.

The ruins of Mireend Hollow smoldered behind them, swallowed slowly by mist.

Vaelen did not speak. He hadn't spoken since he buried Kaelric beneath the roots of a dead marsh tree, sword held against his chest in silent honor.

Ashryn followed closely, wrapped in a torn cloak too large for her, her eyes red but dry. Grief was a familiar taste to her. Familiar, but no less bitter.

She was slight, no older than sixteen, with dusky skin kissed by sun and shadow. Her black hair hung in uneven strands, hacked short for survival, not style. A jagged scar crossed the bridge of her nose—a memory of someone who hadn't aimed to miss. Her eyes were fierce, a storm-gray that seemed too sharp for her age, and beneath her ragged clothes, she moved with the wary tension of someone who had run too long and bled too often.

They traveled eastward beneath the hanging trees, past still lakes and whispering shadows. The world around them had changed—less wild, but no less dangerous. The air carried the scent of forgotten iron, the residue of magic long broken.

Vaelen's fingers gripped the Veilsteel blade tightly, hidden beneath oiled cloth. Even wrapped, the weapon pulsed with awareness.

It was not silent.

It remembered.

By the third night, they reached the edge of the marshes.

There, the land gave way to the Braerind Hills—rolling terrain, soft and green underfoot, scattered with the crumbled bones of ancient watchtowers. Beyond them lay Cindrel Vale, the merchant valley, a place Vaelen had not walked in years.

They would need supplies. Rest. Names.

And he needed to know if the Empire had caught wind of him yet.

Cindrel Vale — The Market of Sighs

The market was louder than Vaelen remembered. Bells rang from every tent, colorful banners snapped in the wind, and vendors barked in five tongues.

Ashryn marveled at the noise. She had never seen so many people in one place. Her mismatched clothes—patched tunic, muddy boots, and a too-large belt—marked her as out of place among the glittering silks and braided traders of the Vale. Still, her posture didn't waver. She stood like a dagger half-drawn.

"Stay close," Vaelen murmured. "They'll see you as prey."

"Let them try," she said, gripping her dagger. Her small defiance drew the shadow of a smile to his lips.

He needed that—the reminder of humanity.

They stopped by a blacksmith with a forge shaped like a lion's maw.

Vaelen's old armor was beyond repair. He needed leather, reinforced at the joints, flexible enough for marshland and mountain alike. The smith, a grizzled man with molten scars, raised an eyebrow at Vaelen's request.

"You a sellsword?"

"No."

"Then why wear the face of one?"

Vaelen dropped a silver coin on the table. "Because dead men don't ask questions."

The smith paused. Nodded once. "Come back in two hours."

They found a quiet tavern built into the bones of an old warship. The name above the door had long faded, but people whispered it was once called The Silent Keel.

Vaelen bought a room. No windows. One exit. He would not sleep deeply.

Ashryn sat on the bed, watching him remove his boots.

"Will we always be hunted?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Even if we run far away?"

"There's no such place."

Before he could answer further, the door creaked open.

He moved instantly—blade in hand, cloak swirling, eyes cold.

But the man who entered raised his hands.

He wore silver armor—dented, travel-worn—and a red sash across his chest. His hair was braided back, eyes gold like autumn leaves.

"I'm not here to fight," he said. "I came to offer my sword."

Vaelen didn't lower the Veilsteel.

"Name."

The stranger smiled. "Theren Malric. Once of the Ember Guard. Now… a man in search of purpose."

"Then you've come to the wrong man," Vaelen said. "I destroy purpose."

"And yet," Theren said softly, "you protected a child, saved a cursed town, and carry a blade meant for angels. That's not destruction. That's war."

Ashryn tilted her head.

"He doesn't trust anyone."

"I wouldn't either," Theren replied. "Not after what they did to him."

Vaelen's jaw tightened.

"What do you know of me?"

"Enough. Enough to follow your trail since Mireend. Enough to watch you fight a veiled spirit in Hollowlight and survive."

"Then you know I'll kill you if you lie."

"Then I won't lie."

Vaelen hesitated—for once, caught between instinct and reason.

Theren stood tall, but not proud. Calm, but not cowardly. There was something behind his eyes. A story, perhaps.

A pain.

Vaelen understood pain.

He lowered the sword.

"Then eat. Speak. And prove your worth."

Nightfall — The Campfire Pact

They sat around a fire outside the vale, where travelers sometimes made camp before crossing into the southern highlands. Theren spoke of the Ember Guard, once the personal knights of the Sunborn King. They were disbanded when the new Empire rose, accused of heresy for refusing to kneel to false gods.

"I watched my brothers burn," he said. "Our temple shattered. I swore I'd never follow another."

"And yet you follow me."

"I follow the truth," Theren replied. "You carry it like a curse."

Vaelen said nothing.

Ashryn looked between them. "Are you going to kill each other?"

"Not yet," Vaelen muttered.

Later that night, Theren approached while Vaelen was sharpening the Veilsteel.

"What do you want?" Vaelen asked.

"To help."

"Why?"

"Because I believe in justice."

Vaelen chuckled darkly. "Justice died the day the gods fell."

"Then let's remind the world how they died."

Something in that answer sparked inside Vaelen.

A flicker. A memory.

And a decision.

"You ride with us," Vaelen said. "But know this—loyalty to me is a sentence. Not a reward."

"I accept," Theren said.

"And if you betray me…"

"I won't."

Elsewhere — The Imperial Spire of Solmera

General Rhyen Drex stood before a circle of masked war-priests. The sigil of Vaelen Drayce burned on the obsidian map between them.

"He has the Veilsteel," Drex said. "He's heading east. Possibly toward Daggerfall or the Isles."

One of the war-priests hissed. "He must not reach the relic cities."

"The Emissaries awaken," another whispered. "The Reclaimers stir in their crypts."

Drex clenched his fist.

"Send the Black Sons. All of them."

Back on the Road — Dawn over Cindrel Vale

With Theren now riding beside them, their group of three moved faster. The knight knew the roads, the safe villages, and the places where the Empire's grip had weakened.

They passed by a ravaged chapel, its altars desecrated, old prayers carved over with blood-markings.

Theren paused. "This was once sacred."

Vaelen knelt near the altar.

The markings were fresh.

He stood quickly. "They're tracking us."

"Empire?"

"No. Worse."

That night, they were attacked.

Not by soldiers—but by things that wore soldier's skin.

Twisted creatures with hollow eyes and silver cords leaking from their mouths. Ashryn screamed as one nearly reached her, but Theren cut it down with a twin-bladed glaive.

Vaelen faced two alone.

They moved like men, but bled like ink.

He drove the Veilsteel into their chests—and their souls screamed as they died.

Afterward, Theren touched one of the corpses.

"This… this is god-flesh."

Vaelen's face darkened.

"We were never meant to be free."

The Dream That Wasn't Meant for the World

That night, Vaelen dreamt.

Of fire. Of a throne made of wings. Of a voice whispering beneath his ribs.

It said,

"Do you remember who you were before the fall?"

He saw a child. A boy with gold eyes and ash-white hair, weeping beside a pyre.

The voice whispered again,

"You are not reborn. You are returned."

Vaelen awoke gasping.

The sigil on his chest burned like it had remembered something before he did.

At Last—

Vaelen stared at his hands as dawn broke.

"I wasn't made for vengeance," he whispered. "I was made for war."

End of Chapter Four — Embers of Oaths