The bells wouldn't stop.They tolled slow, patient, accusing — as if the whole city had decided to witness my shame.
The corridor outside my door was a hive of boots, whispers, and the stink of curiosity. I could feel it pressing through the walls, thick as smoke. I tried to rise, but the world spun, and every motion seemed to announce me guilty.
When Serenya entered, silence followed her like a cloak. She didn't have to shout. Her presence dismissed people.
"Out," she said, her voice quiet but terrible. "Now."
The guards scattered. Even their armor seemed embarrassed by the noise it made.
She closed the door and turned toward me. No fury, no tears — just that sharp, unbearable disappointment that could strip the pride from any man.
"Get dressed," she said softly.
I looked down — the sheets tangled around my waist, the imprint of another body already gone cold beside me. For a moment I thought I'd dreamt it all. Then I saw the dent in the pillow, the faint smell of jasmine, and something beneath it — iron and wine and dread.
"She's gone," Serenya said. "The princess."
The room tilted again, this time without the drink. My tongue felt like it belonged to someone else. "Gone," I echoed. "You mean she—?"
"She vanished before the guards arrived. Her attendants are searching. Half the palace already knows."
Her words came steady, but I heard the crack beneath. It wasn't anger. It was fear — the kind reserved for things that cannot be undone.
"I didn't—" I stopped. Whatever word I might've chosen next would've sounded pathetic, rehearsed, or worse — a lie. "I don't remember. Not clearly."
Serenya folded her arms. "Then remember quickly."
I laughed, but it came out strangled. "You think I wanted this? You think—"
"I think," she interrupted, "that truth won't matter once the whispers start."
The truth. Gods, what was it? Fragments swam behind my eyes — laughter, a hum, the press of hands, the taste of something sharp and wrong. Then her face — frightened, or was it pitying? I couldn't tell. My memory twisted like smoke.
Outside, someone shouted orders. The word inquiry drifted through the walls. My chest tightened.
"I felt it again," I said suddenly. "The hum — the same one from before. Like the world vibrating through my bones."
Serenya's gaze flicked toward me, searching, calculating, but she didn't speak. She didn't have to. I could see it in her eyes — even she wasn't sure whether she believed me or pitied me.
I pressed my palms to my face. They still smelled of wine.And maybe guilt.
"Stay here," she said quietly. "Don't speak. To anyone."
Her footsteps receded, leaving me with the echo of the bells and the taste of metal in my mouth. The silence that followed felt heavier than any verdict.
I looked at the pillow again — at the hollow she'd left — and something inside me cracked.
Whatever happened last night, it had followed me here.And it wasn't done.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
They came for me at dusk.
The questioning ended not with judgment, but with chains.
They didn't drag me — no, that would've been mercy. They simply escorted me, wordless, through halls I'd once strolled as a bored guest. Every clink of the guard's armor felt like punctuation to a sentence I hadn't realized I'd written.
The Hall of Inquiry emptied fast. Even the Chancellor didn't bother to gloat — he just whispered to the guard captain, and that was enough. I was already guilty in their eyes.
Serenya wasn't allowed to follow. I caught her gaze for a heartbeat before they turned me away — something between fury and fear flickered there. And then she was gone.
The corridors to the dungeons were colder than memory.Old stone, older secrets. I'd laughed once at the notion of Solmaris having a "royal prison." Turns out it was very real — and very personal when the cell door closes behind you.
The guard's torchlight faded, and I was left with nothing but my own breathing — uneven, guilty, too human.
That hum again.Low, distant, barely there — like a sigh through the stone.
I pressed my palms to my ears, but it came from within…
Night blurred.
I must have fallen asleep — or into something like it.
The world around me became mist and ruin. A plain of ash and wind stretched beneath a black sky, and in the distance stood the Wall — the Banewall — vast, alive, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Figures stirred in the smoke, faceless but furious.
Oathbreaker.
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere.It didn't sound angry. It sounded disappointed.
You were chosen once, it whispered. You swore to hold the line.
"I don't understand!" I shouted into the void. My voice echoed back, smaller than before. "What line? What oath?"
The same you broke.
The Wall trembled — cracks of light crawling up its surface like veins of fire. From behind it, something vast stirred, pressing against the fissures. A shadow older than language. I fell to my knees, hands over my ears, but the sound became a storm — a thousand voices hissing my name like a curse.
Arlen Valebryn. Oathbreaker.
The light burst — and the world collapsed.
⸻
I woke to the rattle of iron.
The dream's voice still clung to me when the rattle of keys pulled me back.
The cell door groaned open, and torchlight spilled across the stones. I blinked against it, expecting another guard — maybe another round of questions I couldn't answer.
Instead, the guards stepped aside.
A chair rolled forward — wheels whispering over the stone — pushed by a solemn servant in House Vale livery. And seated within it was the man whose shadow I had never escaped.
Lord Valebryn. My grandfather.
Age had not softened him; it had refined him into something sharp and pale and enduring. His hair, once iron-grey, had turned white as frost. His eyes — cold as the rivers that cut through the Vale — studied me for what felt like a lifetime.
"Leave us," he said. His voice, though thin, still carried the weight of command.
The guards withdrew without a word. The heavy door sealed us in.
He sat there for a long while, staring at me. The only sounds were the faint creak of the chair and my own breathing.
When he finally spoke, it was quiet — too quiet."So. This is where the youngest of my line finds himself. In chains, in shame, and accused by the Elven Court itself."
"Grandfather—"
He raised a hand. "Do not insult me with denials. Half the city already knows. The elf princess's attendants have declared her violated, her crown enraged. The Dwarven prince is threatening to withdraw his envoys unless justice is swift and public. The king is on the verge of a diplomatic collapse… and your father—"
He stopped. His gaze faltered, just once. "Your father cannot even bear to look upon you. He sits now with His Majesty and the council, begging that your punishment not bring ruin upon the Vale."
The words cut deeper than any blade.
I swallowed hard. "He refuses to see me?"
Lord Valebryn's fingers drummed once on the arm of his chair. "He refuses to see a son who may cost him a realm."
The torch sputtered. Shadows twisted across the walls like ghosts.
"I don't remember, Grandfather," I said. "I swear it. I had one cup. One. Something was wrong with it. I—"
His stare stopped me. "The elves do not care what you remember. They care only that their princess is missing and that you were found in her bed."
"I didn't—"
"Enough." The single word froze the air. "You have always spoken as though excuses could rewrite truth. They cannot."
His voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper."You have brought House Vale to the edge of ruin. If this breaks, if war follows, every death will trace back to you."
I had no words left. Only silence.
Lord Valebryn exhaled slowly, the sound like a tired wind through a ruined hall. "They will hold a tribunal when the moon turns. Until then, you will remain here. For your protection—" he gave a bitter laugh "—and the kingdom's."
He turned his chair slightly toward the door, signaling his servant. Then, softer, almost against his will, he said:"I will do what I can. You are still of my blood, however much I wish you were not."
As he rolled toward the threshold, I heard him murmur — perhaps to himself, perhaps to the ghosts of our ancestors:"Maker help us. The Vales were meant to guard the realm, not damn it."
The door closed.
And in the silence that followed, the hum returned — faint, deep beneath the stone, like the echo of judgment waiting to be spoken.
I sat there long after his footsteps faded, staring at the iron door as if it might open again — as if he might turn and say he didn't mean it.But he did. He always meant it.
The torch outside guttered, throwing the bars' shadows across the wall like claws. The silence stretched too long, too loud, until voices leaked through the stone.
"They say the princess bled.""Aye. The elves are calling it defilement. Their envoys ride for the capital tonight.""What about the dwarves?""They're demanding restitution — or war. They say it's the curse of the Banewall made flesh."
A pause. Boots scuffed."His father begged clemency. The king wouldn't listen.""Can't say I blame him. Oathbreaker's blood always runs thin."
Their laughter — low, nervous — scraped across my nerves like iron on bone.
Oathbreaker. The word burned, familiar as a wound.
I pressed my hands against my temples, trying to block the sound, but another memory broke through instead — soft, golden, and cruel in its tenderness.
The Festival of Dawns. Lanterns drifting over the Vale's river. Music, bright and careless. Lirael beside me, veiled in silver thread, her eyes reflecting the flame of a hundred lights. She had asked if human hearts always beat so loud."Only when we're near trouble," I'd said.And she'd smiled — that quiet, knowing smile.For a heartbeat, she'd looked less like an heir of the Veilwood and more like a girl pretending to understand mortality.
Now she was gone. Or worse.
The hum stirred again — beneath the stone, beneath thought — steady, patient, endless. It thrummed through my bones like the echo of some old promise.
I whispered into the dark, not sure to whom:"I didn't break it. I swear I didn't."
But the cell didn't care. The hum didn't answer.Only the stones did — whispering, faint and cruel, like they knew the truth before I did.
Tomorrow, they would judge me.Not just for what I'd done — but for every sin my blood had carried since the Wall first rose.