"The Broken Oath"
The moon hung like a pale eye in the sky—cold, unblinking, distant.
Aron couldn't sleep. Not after what he saw.
The crackling of fire from the village below still echoed in his bones. Each scream was carved into his mind. Faces—blurry, burned, lost—flashed behind his eyes every time he blinked. His hands shook when he clenched them, but he didn't stop.
He was gripping the sword again.
Its handle was too big for him. The blade, too heavy. But it had weight—and right now, weight meant something.
Beside him, Alia sat quietly, sharpening her knife by moonlight. Her shoulders were tense, posture still. She hadn't spoken in hours. She never did when the nightmares came.
"You still see them?" Aron asked softly.
Alia didn't answer right away.
Then: "Every time I close my eyes."
He swallowed. "What do we do, Alia?"
"We live," she said. "That's what we do."
"But living like this... hiding, starving… it's not enough."
Alia's hand paused over the blade.
"There's something else, isn't there?" Aron asked. "You're not just running."
She finally looked at him. Her eyes were different now—not just older, but sharper. Like she knew something he didn't.
"There's a place," she said. "North of the Ghostwood. Beyond the Vale. A ruined fortress. I heard Father talking about it once… back when we still had a home."
"A fortress?" Aron frowned. "Why?"
"Because it was built by those who fought back," she said. "Warriors. Survivors. People like us. If it's still standing… it might be the only place left."
A part of him wanted to believe. But another part—the part that had watched his mother fall, heard his father scream, saw fire consume everything—didn't trust hope anymore.
"What if it's gone?" he whispered.
"Then we keep moving," Alia said. "Until our legs break, or this world stops chasing us."
---
By morning, they were on the move again.
Through narrow paths and twisted trees, they passed abandoned cabins, bones of forgotten soldiers, broken weapons buried in moss. The wind carried distant voices, but never ones they trusted.
Once, they heard galloping—too fast, too many hooves. They hid in the roots of an ancient tree, holding their breath as riders passed.
Branded with red cloth.
Enemies.
Again.
Always.
---
That evening, as the sun dipped behind ash-gray mountains, they found something that didn't belong.
A boy.
Alone.
Crouched over a corpse, shaking.
Alia stepped forward first, her blade hidden but ready. Aron followed behind her, eyes wide, cautious.
The boy looked up.
He was maybe thirteen. Skin darkened by dirt and sun, eyes wild with grief.
"She was my sister," he said quietly. "They cut her down. I... I didn't know what to do."
Aron looked at Alia, then knelt beside the boy.
"I'm Aron," he said. "That's my sister, Alia."
The boy nodded slowly. "Joren."
Alia watched him carefully, but her voice was calm. "We're going north. There's a place we're trying to reach."
Joren didn't ask why. He only said: "Then I'm coming with you."
Aron held out his hand.
And Joren took it.
---
That night, three shadows sat around a cold camp, no fire, no food, just silence and the distant sound of wind between dead trees.
They were only children.
But the world would remember them.
Because it was in this moment, beneath that lifeless sky, that a pact was formed.
Not just to survive.
But to fight.
To remember.
To become the kind of monsters that preyed on monsters.