Chapter 12: Shadows of the Oath
The night bled into dawn, but Lucien did not move from where he stood. The blade still hummed faintly, as though whispering in a language just out of reach. His body trembled—not from exhaustion, but from the memory of what had just happened. Those corpses hadn't simply risen; they had obeyed something. And the herald had known.
The village of Kareth was gone. Only charred ruins and scattered corpses remained. Yet as Lucien looked upon them, he couldn't escape the thought that their souls had been devoured, pulled into Requiem.
He sheathed the sword slowly, forcing the hunger back into silence. The air was heavy with smoke, but beneath it lingered something worse—the smell of betrayal. He remembered the words of his fallen commander, remembered the night his own people turned on him, branding him cursed, exiled, forsaken.
Every step he took away from the ruins felt heavier. He had no home to return to. No brothers-in-arms. Only the blade.
---
By midmorning, he reached the edge of the Withered Plains, where the grasses grew dry and brittle, and the sky always seemed too wide. Travelers avoided the plains, whispering of spirits that devoured the lost. Lucien cared little. The living hunted him with as much malice as the dead.
A lone rider appeared in the distance, kicking up trails of dust. Lucien's hand hovered near his sword, but he waited. The rider drew closer, revealing a woman clad in dark leather armor, her hair braided tight against the wind. A scar crossed her left cheek, and her eyes burned with the sharpness of someone who had survived too much.
She reined her horse a few paces away. "You're Lucien, aren't you?"
He tensed. "Who's asking?"
The woman dismounted, her boots crunching against the dry earth. "Liora. Once of the Crimson Blades. Now…" She hesitated, then lifted her chin. "Now, like you, an exile."
Lucien studied her. He had heard of the Crimson Blades—a mercenary company known for their ruthlessness. If she had been cast out from them, she was dangerous indeed.
"What do you want?" he asked flatly.
Her gaze dropped to the sword at his hip. "That blade. Word spreads fast when corpses rise from their graves. Some say you carry a relic older than kingdoms. Others say it carries you."
Lucien's jaw clenched. "And you? Which do you believe?"
She gave a half-smile, bitter and tired. "I believe I've seen too many men destroyed by their own power. And I believe you'll need someone who can remind you what it means to be human when that sword tries to strip it away."
Lucien almost laughed. Almost. But the sincerity in her voice struck something deep. Still, trust was a luxury he could not afford.
"You'd follow a man cursed by his own weapon?" he asked.
Her eyes hardened. "Better than rotting in exile, waiting for death to find me."
The silence stretched. The blade pulsed faintly at Lucien's side, as though irritated by her presence. He ignored it.
Finally, he nodded once. "Fine. Walk beside me if you wish. But understand this—if you betray me, I will cut you down without hesitation."
Liora's lips curved into a grim smile. "That makes two of us."
---
They traveled together through the plains, their words few, their silences heavy. Lucien found himself glancing at her more than once. She walked like a soldier, ate like a soldier, kept her eyes always scanning the horizon. Yet at night, when the fires burned low, she would hum soft tunes under her breath—songs of home, perhaps, or of battles long past.
On the third night, as the stars shimmered like scattered shards of glass, Lucien awoke to find Liora awake, sharpening her blade. She paused, staring into the firelight.
"You're not the first to carry a cursed weapon," she said quietly. "Long ago, my company took a contract to hunt a man wielding the Spear of Blackwater. It fed on blood, just like your sword. By the time we found him, he was no longer a man. Just a vessel, screaming while the spear drank everything he was."
Lucien said nothing, but the words dug deep into his chest.
Liora looked at him sharply. "If you keep feeding that thing, it will hollow you out. Until there's nothing left but the blade's will."
Lucien's hand touched the hilt unconsciously. The runes glowed faintly beneath his fingers, warm, almost comforting.
"I don't intend to be consumed," he said at last.
She shook her head. "No one ever does."
---
By dawn, the plains gave way to jagged cliffs, and in the distance rose the shattered spires of Aranthor, an abandoned fortress city. Lucien felt the blade stir as they approached, its whispers growing louder, hungrier.
Liora noticed. "Something's there. Something the sword wants."
Lucien gritted his teeth. "Then we'll find out."
As they descended into the ruins, the air grew colder, heavier. Shadows clung to the broken walls, and an unnatural silence smothered the city.
Then they heard it—a low, guttural chant, echoing from the depths of the fallen citadel.
Lucien's grip tightened on Requiem.
Liora unsheathed her blade. "Looks like we're not alone."
And as the chanting grew louder, Lucien knew the herald's words were coming true—ruin was following him, step by step.
⚡End of chapter 12⚡
Thanks for reading this chapter.The next chapter will be amazing. Thanks you