Chapter XXVII – The Vows of Dawn
The lamps in Auron's room burned low, their golden light pooling over stone walls and the edge of his sword. Beyond the window, the city stretched endlessly; a sprawl of rooftops and rune-lit towers glowing like veins of fire under the night sky.
Auron sat by the window, Vowkeeper resting across his knees.
He moved a cloth along the blade, slow and methodical. Each pass caught the lamplight, silver lines sliding down the steel. The rhythm calmed him. It was something he could control; the motion of his hands, the clean weight of the sword, the quiet scrape of metal.
But his mind was not still.
The image of that strange shop haunted him. The scent of ozone and spice. The flicker of red hair. The woman's eyes, bright as lightning. And that voice, calm yet absolute.
This is not a place for the newly forged, Auron Stromrider.
The name still echoed inside his skull.
He didn't know what it meant, but when she said it, something inside him had shifted; as if the world had started to watch him more closely.
He clenched the cloth until his knuckles went white. The memory of the vision bled back through his thoughts: the roar of fire, a city breaking apart, and himself; older, harder wielding Vowkeeper not as a knight's weapon, but as an executioner's blade.
He had fought monsters before. He had bled in snow. But that vision felt heavier than anything he had faced because it wasn't someone else's nightmare. It was his.
He took a slow breath, forced the tremor out of his hands, and whispered, "Forget it. Whatever comes, I'll deal with it."
The sword gleamed faintly in the lamplight, its carved runes alive with quiet frost.
He could almost hear Godfrey's voice again; calm, weathered, steady as winter wind.
Control is not denying the storm, boy. It's steering it.
Auron set the cloth aside and pressed a hand to the flat of the blade. The steel was cold beneath his fingers. "Grandpa," he murmured, "You'd have wanted this for me, wouldn't you? To walk into the place where legends are made."
He rose, crossing to the window. Ashford pulsed below; streets of gold and smoke, wagons running on blue mana tracks, towers humming with power. Somewhere beyond that maze of light stood the Academy, its spires lost in mist.
"I'll make it," he said softly. "I'll master this spirit. I'll find who killed you. And when I do…"
He paused, jaw tightening. "They'll remember the name Auron."
He sheathed Vowkeeper and turned away. The lamp flickered once, then went out.
*******
A floor above, laughter echoed through the narrow hall.
Finn was jumping on his bed, the old mattress squealing in protest beneath his boots. His grin was wide, boyish, unguarded. "Clean sheets," he said out loud, kicking at the pillow. "Clean sheets and no frostbite. I could die happy."
He dropped backward with a thump, arms spread wide. The ceiling above was painted with faint gold stars, the kind cheap inns sold to travelers hoping for a bit of magic. The room smelled of candle wax and bread.
His boots sat neatly by the door. A wash basin stood half-full. The little luxuries of a world that didn't hate him.
He thought of nights in the cold; of snow sticking to his hair, of waking to ice in his blanket seams. He thought of hunger and the endless roads that led nowhere. Now there was warmth. A roof. Friends who didn't look at him like a burden.
For the first time in years, he didn't feel like the world was trying to bury him.
"I'm really doing it," he whispered, grinning to himself. "Finn, the dock rat, walking into a royal academy."
He closed his eyes, picturing the place. Training halls, glowing wards, rows of bright uniforms. He'd imagined this a thousand times as a child, watching nobles ride through the harbor gates. Now it was real. He could make something of himself; something that lasted.
A knock broke the thought.
Finn sat up, frowning. "Auron? Lucian?"
No answer.
He stood, crossed the room, and pulled open the door.
The hall was empty. Only a faint chill lingered; a whisper of air against his face. The lanterns burned steady, unmoved.
Then he saw it.
An envelope lay at his feet, black wax sealing its edge. The imprint was unmistakable: a spider with its legs curled inward.
Finn's smile fell away.
He crouched, staring at it. The candlelight caught the seal's shine. His chest felt hollow.
"Not here," he muttered. "Not now."
He picked it up and turned it over once, thumb tracing the symbol. The paper was thick, expensive. No name. No mark. Just that spider.
He slipped it under the floorboards, shoving the plank back into place. His hands trembled slightly as he pushed a rug over it.
"Stay gone," he whispered, forcing a weak laugh. "You don't exist anymore."
But when he blew out the lamp, he could still feel the seal burning behind his eyes.
*****
Morning came cold and clear. The capital stirred before dawn, streets alive with the sound of carts and voices. The smell of bread and metal filled the air.
Outside the inn, Auron, Lucian, and Finn stood with their packs ready. Frost clung to the cobblestones.
Rodrik met them in full armor, cloak trimmed in gold. His expression was hard but proud. "You'll head for the Academy gates by first bell," he said. "I'll be reporting to Lord Arvel about the Ursa incident and this whole northern mess."
He paused, looking over the three of them. "You've done well to make it this far. But remember — the capital eats the unready."
Finn smirked. "We'll try not to be lunch, sir."
Rodrik's mouth twitched. "See that you don't."
The sound of boots on stone made them turn.
Rhel and Taren approached through the crowd: clean uniforms, polished armor, and the same quiet gravity they'd carried in the North. Behind them came Garrick, leaning on a carved cane. His limp was heavy, but his eyes were clear.
"Lord Lucian," Rhel said, bowing his head. "We couldn't let you leave without a proper farewell."
Lucian blinked. "You didn't have to—"
Taren cut him off with a firm shake of the head. "You led us when no one else could. You gave us a reason to fight. If you ever need blades within these walls, we'll be there."
Lucian's jaw tightened. "You owe me nothing."
Rhel smiled faintly
They turned to Auron next. "And you," Taren said, voice steady, "our Sword in the North. You showed us what true bravery and hope looks like
Auron inclined his head; a small, wordless acknowledgment.
Then Garrick stepped forward. His face, once lined with doubt, carried something gentler now. "I misjudged you both," he said to Lucian and Auron. "I doubted you both in that moment and I was very wrong."
He turned to Finn, his tone softening. "And you; you've got more courage than sense. Don't lose that. The world's cruel enough without people like you in it."
Finn rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Thanks, I think."
A ripple moved through the crowd. The remnants of their caravan: soldiers, squires, even the stable hands, gathered behind Rhel and Taren.
They bowed together, voices low but unified.
"Please return victorious," they said.
The words hung in the cold air, sharp and clear.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Auron felt the weight of it all; the promises, the blood, the faces they'd left buried in snow. Every victory and loss that had brought them here pressed against his chest.
He met Lucian's gaze. The young lord gave a slight nod. Finn's grip tightened on his pack straps.
Rodrik stepped forward one last time, resting a hand on Auron's shoulder. "You've earned this chance," he said quietly. "Don't waste it."
Auron nodded once. "I won't."
The three turned toward the east, where the sun had begun to climb over the spires of Ashford.
Past the crowds. Past the banners of gold and crimson.
Toward the gates of the Academy, where ambition waited like a blade drawn in silence.
Behind them, the echoes of loyalty faded into morning.
Ahead lay the trials that would decide the men they would become.
And for the first time, Auron felt not the chill of the North; but the heat of purpose burning steady beneath his skin
Author's note- this mini arc has ended and we are offically about to start the academy arc. if you have enjoyed the story till his point please write a review.