The Blood Oath Awakens
1440 Words
By dawn, Blackridge was humming with rumor.
“The Vitale princess lives,” the whispers said.
“An ambush at the docks.”
“Someone fought like ten men and walked away without a scratch.”
They called him the dog who bit back. The newspapers wouldn’t print his name, but the underworld already had one for him: the Ghost Soldier.
Inside the Vitale mansion, silence reigned. The marble gleamed as if nothing had happened, but everyone moved a little slower, as though waiting for a storm that hadn’t finished breaking.
Ethan stood by the tall window of Don Vitale’s study, hands clasped loosely behind his back, eyes tracing the gray veins of rain across the glass. He’d been summoned. Again.
Behind him, the Don sat at his desk, cigar trembling slightly between his fingers. Elena occupied the armchair opposite her father, perfectly composed, though her eyes betrayed the exhaustion of a sleepless night.
Finally, the Don broke the silence. “You have some explaining to do, boy.”
Ethan turned, face unreadable. “If I hadn’t moved, your daughter would be dead.”
“That’s not what I mean.” The Don’s tone carried the weight of authority that had built an empire. “My men said you fought like a demon. You threw a steel rod through a sniper three stories up. You—” He gestured vaguely, frustration mounting. “You moved faster than the human eye could track. So tell me, Ethan Cross, how does a mechanic do that?”
The room’s air seemed to thicken.
Ethan said nothing.
Elena’s gaze flicked to him, her voice a soft, dangerous whisper. “Father, maybe he—”
“Quiet,” the Don snapped. He leaned forward, studying Ethan the way a hunter studies something that shouldn’t exist. “Who trained you?”
Ethan’s eyes met his, steady and gray as storm clouds. “You don’t want to know, sir.”
The old man’s chuckle was low and humorless. “You think you can threaten me?”
“I’m telling you the truth,” Ethan said. His voice wasn’t raised, but the silence that followed it was deafening.
Something cold crept down Elena’s spine. She had seen her father face rival dons and armed assassins without flinching, but in that moment, something in Ethan’s calm unsettled even him.
After a long pause, the Don waved a dismissive hand. “Get out. Both of you. I’ll decide what to do with you later.”
Elena rose at once, but Ethan didn’t move until she touched his sleeve. Only then did he turn and walk out, the heavy door closing behind them with a final click.
The hallway was dim, lined with oil paintings of men who had built empires on other men’s bones. Ethan’s footsteps echoed as he walked beside her, the tension between them as sharp as broken glass.
“You should tell him something,” Elena said. “Anything. He thinks you’re hiding a crime.”
He gave a dry laugh. “I am.”
Her brow furrowed. “Then tell me what it is.”
Ethan stopped at the top of the stairs, looking down at her. “You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
He looked away, eyes unfocused. “What would you say if I told you I remember killing gods in another life?”
Her lips parted, confusion flickering across her perfect composure. “You’re joking.”
He wasn’t.
The way he looked at her—tired, haunted, deadly serious—made her heart trip in her chest. For the first time since she’d known him, Elena realized she had no idea who her husband really was.
That night, Ethan couldn’t sleep.
He sat on the balcony outside their room, cigarette glowing in the dark like a single ember. Below him, the garden swayed under the rain. Somewhere deep in the estate, a clock chimed two.
He exhaled smoke and thought about the moment at the docks—the impossible speed, the way time had stretched and bent around him. It hadn’t felt foreign. It had felt familiar.
The rain whispered against the stone balustrade. Then, beneath that whisper, came another sound—a hum, soft and steady, like distant chanting.
Ethan frowned and leaned forward.
The courtyard below shimmered faintly. The puddles of rainwater glowed, the light rippling like molten gold. Then, slowly, the lines began to form—thin, deliberate strokes carving themselves across the wet stone.
A sigil emerged, ancient and blinding: a sun with twelve blades, each pulsing with a heartbeat that wasn’t his but somehow matched his own.
Ethan froze. His breath hitched as a tremor ran through his chest. He knew that shape. He had seen it in his dreams, burning into the sky above the red dunes.
He yanked open his shirt. The skin over his heart looked normal—but the heat was there, searing from the inside out.
And then came the voice.
“Do you remember me?”
Ethan spun around, hand reaching for the knife on the table. A man stood at the far edge of the balcony, impossibly dry despite the rain. His coat was the color of ash, and his eyes carried the calm of eternity.
“Who are you?” Ethan demanded.
The man smiled faintly. “I am the echo of your oath.”
“What oath?”
“You once called me brother,” the stranger said. “You swore to guard the Sun King’s legacy. When you fell, the gods buried your name. But the world bleeds again, and war has called for its champion.”
“You’ve got the wrong man,” Ethan said, voice sharp.
“Then why does the blood oath burn?”
The stranger’s outline flickered—then vanished, dissolving into the mist like smoke.
Below, the sigil flared one last time and then went dark, leaving only the rain.
Ethan dropped to his knees, heart hammering. The world spun between two realities—the quiet night of Blackridge and the memory of another world made of fire and gold. For a moment, he saw it all again: towers of molten stone, soldiers kneeling in radiant armor, skies torn open by light.
He gasped, gripping the railing until his knuckles whitened. The vision faded, leaving him trembling.
Behind him, the door creaked open.
“Ethan?”
Elena’s voice was soft but uncertain. She stood barefoot at the threshold, robe loose around her shoulders, eyes wide. “Who were you talking to?”
He turned, forcing his breathing to steady. “No one,” he said. “Just… a dream.”
She looked past him toward the courtyard, where faint traces of the symbol still glowed under the rain. Her eyes widened. “I saw that. It was coming from you.”
He said nothing.
“Ethan, please,” she pressed, stepping closer. “What’s happening to you?”
He met her gaze, his expression carved in stone. “Go back to bed, Elena.”
But she didn’t move. Her eyes searched his face, desperate for something human to hold onto.
Finally, she whispered, “I’m scared.”
Ethan’s hand twitched, almost reaching for her, but he stopped himself. “You should be.”
She flinched, not from the words but from the truth in them.
When she finally turned away, she caught one last glimpse of him—kneeling in the rain, the faint golden light pulsing beneath his skin.
By morning, the sigil was gone, but its echo lingered in Ethan’s bones. He moved through the day like a man haunted by something only he could see. Every sound—the hiss of coffee pouring, the whisper of silk against marble—felt sharper, too clear.
Downstairs, the Don barked orders into his phone, furious that word of the ambush had reached their rivals before he’d spun the story. Elena avoided her husband’s eyes all through breakfast.
But when she finally glanced up, she caught him staring out the window again, expression blank, eyes distant as thunderclouds.
For a heartbeat, the morning light reflected gold against his irises. Then it was gone.
That night, while the Vitale guards switched shifts and the house sank into silence, Ethan sat awake again, tracing the faint scar of heat over his heart.
The world bleeds again, and war has called for its champion.
He didn’t know what that meant—but deep down, he knew one thing.
The man he had pretended to be—the obedient husband, the harmless dog—was dying.
And something far older was beginning to wake.
- Writer
