Chapter 7 – The Bodyguard’s Oath

The wind howled through the broken branches, stripping leaves from the bone-white trees on Hallowbrook's edge. Dusk set everything aglow—the fields, the muddy lanes, the faces of those gathered by firelight. But a hush had settled, laced with wariness. Kael, arms folded tight across his chest, watched as shadows slipped long over the ground. He knew the feeling: a world holding its breath.

He was tired. Bone-deep, soul-fraying tired—yet vigilance kept him standing straight. Too much hung in the balance. The regent's men had swept through neighboring villages. Word of their search reached Hallowbrook before sunset: the prince was wanted, and the price on his head would feed a dozen families for a year.

Inside the safety of Mera's hut, secrets and intentions had been weighed all afternoon. Kael's supporters were few but loyal; their silence was his shield. Still, suspicion reigned in the air like the coming storm.

Jorin, nestled by the dying embers, looked up with a small, hopeful smile Kael did not deserve. The boy wore yesterday's bruises, but courage outshone them. "You're not leaving, are you?" he asked, voice trembling.

Kael ruffled his hair. "Not tonight."

A knock startled them both. Kael's hand went unconsciously to the knife at his belt. Mera answered. Framed in the doorway, lantern-light glimmering on her blades, stood Lira Voss.

She was all sleek lines and sharp edges—her presence as direct as an oath. Her dark hair was twisted back, face streaked with road dust and resolve. Kael had met Lira for the first time only days ago, arranging for a messenger to fetch her from the capital's fringes. He hadn't expected her to come. Now, the infamous bodyguard—once an assassin—stood in the threshold, cloak bristling with rain.

Without a word, Lira closed the door behind her and crouched beside the fire, warming her cold hands.

Mera sniffed. "You took your time."

"Roads watched. I crossed two checkpoints," Lira replied, baring teeth in a thin smile. "Would have lost them if they were worth half their salt. Your name is fire, Kael Thorne."

Kael took measure of her—ragged but unbowed; eyes the color of wet stone. "Will you help us?" he asked quietly.

Lira sat back, the flickering light sharpening every scar on her hand. "You saved my brother from a slow death with your potions. Debts must be paid. But this is bigger than healing. Regent Malric's sent his best. Tomorrow there will be iron, not words."

Kael looked from her to Mera, unease growing. "So what are you offering?"

With a flick of her wrist, Lira produced a slim dagger—strange runes etched along the blade. She laid it carefully across her palms. "An oath. For as long as you fight, I stand by your side. When you fall, I fall."

Jorin's eyes widened. "A proper oath?"

Lira nodded, holding the blade out to Kael. "You give the word. Let the regent's hounds come. They'll learn we have claws."

For an instant, Kael hesitated. Every lesson at court, every betrayal, had taught him caution. But here—among the wary, the bruised, the loyal—old instincts stirred.

He took the dagger, gripping Lira's calloused hand with his own. "Then let it be sworn. Together."

The oath was made. It was not showy—no blood spilled, just truth passing from palm to palm, conviction twining tighter than iron.

Mera watched, chin high. "We'll make this village a trap for those who come hunting. They won't find easy prey."

As the evening deepened, whispers of strategy curled like smoke above the fire. Lira mapped out the ground, describing sentry posts, hiding places, and silent signals. Her voice was velvet over steel as she assigned tasks—her cruelty, once harrowing, was now a weapon aimed outward.

Kael listened and learned. He was no stranger to tactics, but Lira's methods were built for ragged survivors, not palace guards.

"We'll need more than hope if a fight breaks," he said quietly when they paused.

Lira's smirk was sharp. "That's why you have me." She looked at him—studying, weighing. "I need to know you're ready to do what's needed. That you'll protect, or destroy, for the ones who follow you."

Kael felt the chill settle in his chest. "If I must."

She nodded, accepting the answer—for now.

Night fell thick, heavy with the taste of rain. Jorin drifted off to sleep beside the embers, Mera slipped away to check on the other villagers, and Kael sat with Lira in the half-light.

She drew a flask from her belt, uncorked it, and passed it to him. The liquid burned his tongue—an alchemist's brew for courage and clarity.

"Tell me truthfully," Lira said. "Are you still a prince, or just a healer?"

Kael's voice was as quiet as the night. "I'm someone who can't watch more innocents die."

She regarded him for a long moment, then nodded approval. "That will do."

Above them, thunder rolled. The world trembled between what it had been and what it might become.

Kael drifted into a fugitive's sleep—light, never whole. He dreamed of the palace: golden, unreachable; of his father's shattered voice; of poison and judgement and escape. He woke before dawn, heart hammering with unnamed dread.

Outside, Hallowbrook was still. Shadows stretched further than usual, the silence broken only by the occasional bark or distant owl call.

Kael found Lira sharpening blades. "Morning comes fast," she said, not looking up. "And so do your enemies."

He nodded. "Are you afraid?"

She paused, blade glinting silver. "Only of wasting my life on someone who won't fight back." She slid him a short sword. "Keep it close."

He did. They moved together—checking the exits, memorizing the routes, posting villagers loyal enough to warn, brave enough to try.

Despite himself, warmth kindled. He was not alone.

By sunrise, Kael had checked every house, offered medicine and reassurance, touched trembling hands. Where suspicion lingered, he did not argue; trust was now action, not words.

He returned to the square where Lira waited, stance relaxed but coiled with intent. Jorin was at her side, stick in hand—a sentinel, fierce beneath the smudges.

"Ready?" Lira asked, her brief smile dangerous as a blade.

Kael looked at the village—at his people, for better or worse. "Let them come."

He stood, a healer and outcast, prince and protector, with Lira's oath as his shield. Together they watched the road for silhouettes on the rise, for glints of steel, for the first trace of tomorrow's danger. Whatever storm might break, they would greet it—united in resolve.

For the first time in weeks, Kael allowed himself to believe not just in survival, but in something more: the strange strength forged when loyalty is sworn not by blood, but by choice.