Episode 10: Ashes and Oaths
1192 Words
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The morning after the gala dawned cold, gray, and unnaturally still. No birds sang. No wind moved. Even the trees around the Leclair Estate stood quiet—as if the earth itself was holding its breath.
Inside, the atmosphere was no better.
Tristan stood in front of the wide glass windows of his study, shirtless, staring at the faint red mark Ariana had left on his wrist. Though Selene had sliced the Velvet Chain and burned it to ash, a scar remained—shaped like a snake devouring its own tail.
The same as the Morrow crest.
The same as the curse carved into his bloodline.
He clenched his fist.
No matter how much wealth he had, how many companies bowed to the Leclair name, or how many secret boardrooms he conquered—he was still nothing but a pawn in a game started long before he was born.
And now, that game was changing.
Selene entered the room silently, dressed in a loose black shirt and worn jeans, her dark hair damp from the cold shower she'd taken to shake off the tension of the night.
"You didn’t sleep," she said softly.
"No."
"Nightmares?"
Tristan shook his head. "No dreams at all. Just silence. That’s worse.”
Selene walked toward him and placed a steaming mug of tea on the window sill.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said after a pause. “About Ariana. And me.”
Tristan turned to her. “I saw it last night. The thing behind her face. She's not entirely… human.”
Selene hesitated. “No. She’s not.”
“And you,” he added, “you’ve been hiding something too.”
She nodded. “I wasn’t just assigned to protect you, Tristan. I was raised in the Order of the Fifth Flame—trained to destroy your bloodline if the curse ever reached maturity.”
Silence stretched between them.
“And has it?” he asked.
She looked him in the eye. “Almost.”
---
Later that afternoon, they met with Myles—Tristan’s head of global security, ex-MI6, and the only non-magical person who truly believed in the war happening beneath the surface of the business world.
In the underground vault, maps of energy spikes, magical signatures, and corporate mergers covered every wall.
Myles pointed to a set of recent data pulled from the Morrow Foundation’s new acquisition in Zurich.
“They’ve begun harvesting souls,” he said bluntly. “Disguised as AI research. Their new biotech subsidiary siphons life force through neural implants.”
“Why Zurich?” Tristan asked.
“Because it’s where the last piece of the Gate Seal lies buried,” Selene answered grimly.
Tristan frowned. “The Gate?”
“The thing your great-grandfather helped close during the Black Moon War,” she said. “If they open it again, the Shadow Realm returns. For good.”
Myles leaned forward. “And guess who’s overseeing the Zurich project? Ariana. She’s not after your heart anymore, Tristan. She’s after your throne—and the key.”
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That evening, as twilight bathed the mansion in gold, Tristan returned to his father’s hidden chamber in the East Wing—a place he hadn’t visited since the funeral.
The walls were lined with ancient weapons, grimoires, cursed tomes, and relics pulsing faintly with forbidden energy. In the center stood an altar made of obsidian and bone.
He placed his palm on it.
It pulsed.
The chamber groaned.
A drawer slid open—and inside was the Oathblade, the ancestral dagger of the Leclair bloodline, said to be forged with a drop of death’s own blood.
Tristan picked it up. It was heavier than it looked.
The moment he gripped the hilt, a voice echoed in his mind:
“To bind an oath is to write your fate. Speak it now, and be chained to your word.”
He stared at the dagger.
Then said aloud:
“I swear on my name, my blood, and the throne I did not ask for:
I will end this curse. I will destroy Ariana, or die trying.”
The blade pulsed once.
Then vanished into his hand.
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Far across the sea, in the icy black vaults of Zurich, Ariana stood in a circle of her elite cult—known as the Red Halo. Men and women in white robes and red masks bowed before her.
She raised the Ashen Sigil, a glowing emblem of fire and shadow, and pressed it to her chest.
The flames licked her skin, then sank in.
Her power doubled.
“The bond with Tristan is weak,” she said. “But it’s there. I’ve tasted his will. It’s…pure.”
One of her followers stepped forward. “Shall we sever him?”
Ariana’s eyes glowed like coals. “No. Not yet. First, we take his companies. Then his cities. Then his mind.”
“And the Gate?”
She turned slowly to face the sealed arch at the far end of the chamber—covered in runes and black ice.
“We open it,” she whispered.
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Back in New York, Tristan gathered the heads of his loyal inner circle in the estate’s war room. Selene. Myles. Javier (his best friend and tech wizard). Dr. Lin (his magical analyst). And Sierra (a high-ranking executive sorceress who once dated Ariana and now wanted vengeance).
They called themselves the Circle of Ash.
Tristan stood at the head of the table.
“We’re not just fighting for companies anymore,” he said. “We’re fighting for the soul of this world.”
He looked at each of them.
“Ariana wants the Gate opened. We stop her in Zurich. We end the Morrow expansion. And if it comes down to it—we kill her.”
Selene looked up. “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”
“I wasn’t,” he said. “But I am now.”
---
Later that night, as the moon reached its peak, Selene stood on the balcony of the west tower, watching Tristan from a distance as he trained alone with the Oathblade.
Each swing of the dagger left streaks of light in the air.
Each breath he took formed a circle of frost around him.
He was changing.
Becoming something more than human.
Something powerful.
Something cursed.
And yet… something beautiful.
Sierra appeared beside her, sipping blood tea. “He’s different now.”
“He’s starting to believe,” Selene whispered.
“In what?”
“In himself.”
---
But deep in the forests outside New York, beneath a ruined cathedral cloaked in illusion and decay, a figure in red knelt before a black mirror.
It wasn’t Ariana.
It was her father.
Magnus Morrow.
The founder of the Morrow Empire. The man who vanished twenty years ago.
He placed a single, ancient coin onto the altar.
The mirror lit with fire.
“Begin Phase Two,” he growled. “Let the curse mature. And when Tristan falls…”
He smiled, revealing teeth sharpened to points.
“…the throne will be mine.”
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To be continued
- Writer
