Chapter 25: Shattered Oaths
The great bells of Velcrest tolled low, their once-proud chimes now warped by cracks and soot. The cathedral's highest tower—half-sundered—leaked golden mist into the dawn sky. From the scorched rooftops below, smoke clung to the air like a mourner's veil. Daylight fought to pierce the aftermath, illuminating only broken dreams and shattered banners.
Elias von Durell stood atop the western parapet, his armor scorched and dented, his eyes cast toward the remnants of the city. Every breath was a weight. The battle had ended—but victory felt like ash in his mouth.
Behind him, Velena approached silently. She had not changed out of her war-gear, though her armor bore fresh cloth wrappings across her ribs. Her expression, usually steady, was unreadable now. Her pale skin was smeared with soot and dried blood, but her stance remained proud, upright, resolute.
"They're gathering in the Hall of Accord," she said. "The nobles, the Accord, the priesthood. They expect you to speak."
Elias did not turn. "Let them wait."
Velena's voice softened. "You cannot stall forever."
"I know." He exhaled. "But I stood in that hall as a boy, once. Before all this. Before the city burned. I remember the light coming through the stained glass—no smoke, no fear. Just faith."
She moved closer, the chainmail beneath her tunic rustling softly. "And now they look to you to rebuild that faith."
He finally turned. "I don't know if I can."
Her gaze held his, unwavering. "Then lie. Like every other ruler before you. But make the lie beautiful enough that people believe in something again."
A long silence passed between them, filled only by the wind whistling through broken towers. Then Elias stepped back from the edge.
"Let's not keep them waiting."
---
The Hall of Accord was a marvel of old Elarian architecture—its domed ceiling ribbed with star-forged brass, stained glass murals along the walls telling tales of saints, kings, and the divine war. Yet now, scorched edges curled along the windows. Chunks of the western wall lay in ruin. Dust coated the once-polished marble floor.
Seated in a rough semicircle were the remnants of Velcrest's leadership: High Arcanist Ralvarin, robes frayed and beard singed; Lady Magistrate Myrene, flanked by her Iron Scribes; the surviving banners of House Alladren and House Caedmar; and at the far end, cloaked emissaries of the Argent Accord—newcomers with silver-threaded veils and whispered tongues.
Elias entered to murmurs and sideways glances.
"Lord Durell," intoned Myrene. "We grieve our losses. But we demand to know what comes next. The people are afraid. The cathedral's ward is ruptured. The Bastion's followers still chant in the alleys."
"And the gods?" a young priest asked. "Do they speak through you, Durell? As they did when you summoned the skyfire?"
Elias's voice rang clear, though quieter than expected. "No god speaks through me. Only memory. Pain. And a promise not to let this city fall again."
One of the Argent Accord—an older woman with eyes like molten glass—leaned forward. "Then speak your intent, Blood-Marked. What banner will you raise? What throne shall you claim?"
He glanced at Velena, who stood behind him like a shadow of resolve.
"I claim no throne. Only the right to rebuild. To reshape Velcrest as it must become—not a symbol of old pride, but a sanctuary against what stirs beyond the veil."
Murmurs rose. House Alladren's patriarch slammed his palm on the bench. "We need order, not philosophy! A throne stands empty—claim it!"
Elias stepped forward. "Then build your own. I will lead those who still dream—not those who cling to what broke us."
Velena's hand brushed his as he turned. It was enough. They left the hall together, not in defiance—but in determination.
---
That evening, they walked the shattered avenues of Velcrest. Citizens lit candles in windows. Children helped haul buckets of ash. Soldiers—both local and foreign—patrolled alongside summoned constructs shaped from broken statuary.
They passed the charred remnants of the Grand Library. Elias stopped.
"It can be rebuilt," Velena said quietly.
He knelt, brushing ash from a fallen pillar. Beneath it, carved in the ancient tongue, were the words: "Through ruin, resolve. Through fire, form."
He smiled bitterly. "The city remembers. Even if its people forget."
---
Later that night, in the remnants of the cathedral's private sanctum, Elias and Velena found solace.
She stood by the window, bathed in moonlight, wearing only a thin robe of night silk. The fabric clung to her form, revealing the curves shaped by years of war and magic. Her scars—earned, not hidden—glowed faintly under the moon.
Elias approached slowly, touched her shoulder. She turned, and their kiss was long, quiet, without urgency—just truth. His hands slid along her waist, her fingers traced the scar across his chest.
When they moved to the bedroll, it wasn't about lust—it was about anchoring themselves in something real. Their lovemaking was slow, sacred, filled with silence and sighs. She whispered things in the old language; he answered with words lost to time.
And when dawn crept into the ruined chamber, they lay tangled in one another, knowing that morning would bring more war, more talk, more choices.
But for one night, they had chosen each other.
---
End of the chapter 25