No more words.
Steel cracked against stone.
The courtyard behind Castle Valvoral was raw.
Scarred from earlier rounds.
Scarred craters marked the ground where fire had missed, or maybe landed exactly where it was meant to.
Smoke clung to everything. My shirt. My skin.
My breath.
I launched another fireball.
It whirled through the air, barely holding its shape, before slamming into a shimmering wall of water.
It didn't explode.
It hissed. Sizzled. Faded.
Alteria didn't even blink.
She stood at the far end of the ring.
ne hand lazily lifted, controlling a veil of water that hovered before her like a sheet of silk.
Every attack I threw.
Every spark, every burst. She caught without effort.
"Too slow," she said, almost bored.
I exhaled through gritted teeth.
My arm burned—not from mana, from exhaustion.
Sweat carved thin trails down my soot-covered skin.
The tips of my fingers trembled with heat.
Mana still crackled faintly between them.
Eager but unfocused.
"That one almost landed."
"It almost didn't," she replied, and let her veil dissolve into the air.
I narrowed my eyes. "Again."
She raised a brow. "Then focus."
I pulled from inside again.
I felt the pressure build in my chest.
Heat pooling at my palm.
The fire bloomed into a sphere, pulsing, chaotic.
I took a breath, shifted my footing, and flung it forward with everything I had.
She didn't flinch. Just flicked her wrist.
Water responded like a blade, slicing through the fireball and leaving behind nothing but embers.
"Concentrate on the source," she said. "Don't fight the fire. Let it listen to you."
"I'm trying—"
"Trying is not doing," she cut in sharply. "Magic answers clarity, not desperation."
I bit the inside of my cheek and looked away, jaw tight.
Then—horns. Distant. Echoing from the horizon beyond the walls.
The King had returned.
Alteria lowered her hand but didn't take her eyes off me. There was no judgment in her gaze.
Just… measurement. Like she was weighing my soul.
I glanced toward the horizon.
To the clouds stretched across the skyline.
The horns echoed again. My thoughts blurred.
Was that real? Was all of this still real?
"Again," Alteria said.
I didn't answer right away.
My eyes stayed on the clouds. Something felt off.
That sound had pulled something from me.
Something old.
"But what is that in the distance?"
"Raze." Her voice sharpened. "I said again."
Water gathered beside her, not as a veil this time—but something more.
It twisted, coiled. Formed a limb. A tentacle.
It shot toward me like a whip.
I sidestepped, instinct taking over.
And that's when it happened.
Something broke loose in my mind.
Just for a second. A memory. A fight. A fist flying.
Someone hitting the ground. The way everyone watched but said nothing.
The echo of laughter, fear, silence. All the same sound.
My hand ignited.
Not forced. Not dragged.
It lit like it belonged to fire.
I moved.
Fluid, clean. Like silk pulling through thread.
Like water coursing through a pipe.
Maybe like rocks skimming over ice.
The tentacle missed me.
Alteria flinched. Her control faltered.
She hadn't meant to strike like that.
But we were both frozen now.
Her with surprise, me with realization.
We stared at each other, breathless.
"…"
"…"
"Again?" I asked, voice low.
A pause.
Then her chin lifted.
"Again."
—————
Now that the King is here.
All the guards have taken their spots.
The hallway stretched too far for its own good.
Long marble floors polished into near glass.
Walls flanked by gold-veined pillars.
Each one mirrored on the opposite side.
Not by stone, but by actual mirrors.
Tall, thin, and uncomfortably honest.
Raze's footsteps echoed behind Alteria's like a softer echo.
He didn't ask where they were going.
She hadn't said.
And somehow, it didn't feel like it mattered.
He caught his reflection in the nearest mirror.
White hair, loose around his shoulders.
A high-collared tunic.
Snug around his neck like a noose in silk.
The ram sigil rested on his shoulder.
Stitched in silver thread.
His eyes… He didn't look like himself.
He looked like a statue someone was still sculpting.
Another mirror.
This one angled just slightly—enough to catch both him and Alteria in the same frame.
She walked with calm. Precision.
Like the floor had been carved around her stride.
Her posture held command without asking for it.
He looked like a shadow walking beside a sovereign.
Guards lined the corridor in full armor.
One of them glanced at Raze. And held it too long.
"Drakos," the guard murmured. Not a greeting. Not even surprise. Just… labeling.
Alteria didn't slow.
Another guard leaned close to the first.
Whispered something that sounded like "impressive build for a summon" and got shushed immediately.
Raze's jaw tightened, but he kept walking.
They passed another set of mirrors.
In these, his reflection looked like it didn't belong.
A glitch in the corridor. A placeholder.
He dropped his voice.
"Do I look that different to them?"
Alteria didn't answer.
Not with words.
Her hand drifted slightly behind her—just enough to brush his wrist. Not to hold. Not to comfort.
Just to remind him: You're seen.
But only some of you. And never for long.
As they stepped into their destination, Raze noted that this chamber was too clean to be holy.
White stone. White floors.
White banners bearing the Von Rimu crest draped down from spires in the corners like witnesses.
A low brazier burned in the center, not for warmth—but ritual.
At the far end stood a figure robed in slate gray.
Not gold. Not blue.
Neutral.
Beneath the robe's collar, a pendant bearing the Church's sigil: a closed eye with flame beneath it.
Raze stepped in behind Alteria.
The doors closed with a sound that felt like a verdict.
"You were summoned through fire," the robed figure began, voice smooth like polished steel. "You now must be bound by word."
Alteria didn't speak. She stood to the side, formal. Distant. Watching without interfering.
Raze's hands curled by his sides.
The man continued. "A Drakos is not citizen, not weapon, not guest. A Drakos is extension. Flesh bound to oath. Soul tethered to duty. Voice… silenced by command."
He gestured toward the flames.
"Repeat after me."
Raze stepped forward. Not because he wanted to. Because his legs moved like they were told to.
The heat from the brazier wasn't natural. It pulsed—not like fire, but like a heartbeat.
The man spoke:
"I vow to guard without hesitation."
Raze repeated. Voice low. Barely audible.
"I vow to obey without question."
Raze's throat tightened. The words came slower.
"I vow to die without regret."
He stopped.
Silence swallowed the chamber.
Even the flames dimmed. Alteria didn't flinch. But she watched him now—not like a summoner. Like a person. Raze's lips parted. The words hovered.
Then he said them.
Quiet. Brittle. False.
The oathkeeper nodded.
"It is done, the unauthorized summoning by Princess Altaria the Second has been completed."
[Ping!]
[status loading. . .]
[you are now…]
>>>
[OATHLOCKED]
[oath status: sealed (bellistar command)]
[restrictions applied:
- cannot harm von rimu bloodline
- cannot disobey direct orders (rank: vassalord)
- loyalty enforcement: 65% (compulsion) ]
[ "Break the oath, break yourself." ]
A pulse ran through him.
He turned toward Alteria as the room emptied.
She didn't move. Just held his gaze.
"You hesitated," she said. Raze didn't deny it.
"I didn't want to lie," he answered. She looked away—just slightly. Then nodded once.
"You only had to say them," she murmured. "Not believe them."
—————
Scrolls lined the far wall—not dusty, but sacred.
Clean in a way that dared you to touch them.
Knowledge locked behind reverence.
The floor beneath Raze's boots bore an etched combat map, faded from years of footsteps and fire.
The markings weren't ornamental.
They were scarred into the stone by history.
Lessons that had bled, not just been taught.
He stood at the center.
Hands loose. Shoulders straight. Heart uneven.
The man didn't give a name. Didn't ask for one.
He circled like a hawk—not pacing, not wandering.
Measuring. Not his steps. Raze.
"You're not the sword," the man said.
His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. It cut anyway. "You're not the shield. You're not the choice."
He stopped in front of Raze.
"You're the reach of someone else's will. A limb with no opinion. Flesh with no voice. That's what a Drakos is."
Raze didn't answer. But he didn't look away either.
His gaze held not defiant, but aware.
He was listening. Deciding.
The instructor gestured to the wall behind him. Rows of aged diagrams.
Tactical rings, flanking patterns, spell pressure nodes.
Drakos always marked in silver, never gold.
Always behind.
"Drakos don't think," he continued.
"They move. They strike. They obey. That is power—controlled, not questioned."
Raze's hand twitched at his side.
The flame didn't come. But the heat was there, a low thrum just beneath the skin, begging.
He looked at the diagrams. The silver dots. The faceless outlines.
He didn't see himself there.
He refused to.
"And what happens," Raze said suddenly, his voice hoarse but deliberate, "when the Vassalord is wrong?"
The instructor blinked. Just once.
Then he took a slow step forward.
The room felt smaller for it.
"They aren't."
"That's not an answer," Raze replied.
Not sharp. Not angry. Just certain.
The air held still.
The instructor's face didn't change.
Something behind his eyes flickered.
Amusement? Irritation? It passed too fast to name.
"Wrong Vassalords die. And so do Drakos who hesitate."
Raze nodded. Once. Then took a step forward, closing the distance between them.
"So it's not loyalty. It's gambling."
Another silence. This one heavier.
Denser.
"You think too much," the instructor muttered. "Thinking gets Drakos killed."
"Then maybe I'd rather die with my thoughts intact than live as someone else's echo."
That landed.
The instructor didn't flinch, but he turned away.
Not dismissive. Just… thoughtful.
He walked back to the wall of diagrams and pulled one scroll down. It looked newer.
Hand-sketched in ink that hadn't fully dried. At the center of the formation.
A Drakos drawn in gold.
He held it up for Raze to see.
"This was designed by a man who thought like you. Questioned everything. Burned bright."
He rolled it back up. Placed it neatly into a flame.
"And got every soldier under him killed."
The parchment curled in on itself.
The gold ink flared, then turned to ash.
Raze didn't flinch. He just watched.
And when the flame went out, he turned to the diagrams again.
One step behind. Always behind.
His fingers clenched.
This time, the fire sparked.
Small. Quick.
Enough to light the edge of his sleeve.
He put it out with a calm press of his palm.
"I don't want to be remembered," he said. "Not for obedience. Not for rebellion."
"Then what for?" the instructor asked.
Raze looked him in the eye. No pause. No poetry.
"Control."
The instructor nodded slowly. Still unreadable. Still silent.
Then he walked to the door and opened it.
"There's nothing more I can teach until you stop being afraid of your own fire."
"I'm not afraid," Raze said as he passed him. "I'm just not done shaping it yet."
—————
The Three Oaths were inked in neat calligraphy near his bed.
> 1. To guard without hesitation
> 2. To obey without question
> 3. To die without regret
Someone had left them here on purpose.
They had been here before.
But he hadn't understood what they were.
Binding vows are commands that the system registers and makes the speaker obedient to them.
Raze sat at the edge of the bed, shoulders tense.
Standing up, he reread the last line. And again.
Then he picked up the pen that hung with the parchment beside his bedframe. No hesitation.
Just pressure. His mind raced, repeating the same sentence over and over.
I don't owe them that.
I don't owe them that.
I don't owe them that.
The flame at the tip of the candle flickered. He wrote his own addition. He was not angry.
Just… awake.
Moments later, he stood up.
Moments of thinking…
"What the hell did I sign myself up for?"
His vision swam. Heat danced behind his eyes.
And then his legs gave. The floor tilted.
Darkness caught him before the ground did.