Chapter 4: The Oath
1267 Words
He woke to the scent of blood.
Not the metallic stench of death — but old blood, his blood, pooled thick and dark beneath his spine.
Pain throbbed beneath his sternum. A phantom ache where the dagger had pierced, where her betrayal had bloomed like fire across his chest.
He blinked slowly, consciousness dragging him up from the depths.
Stone ceiling. Candlelight. Distant voices.
He wasn’t in the ballroom anymore.
“Sire, you live,” came a choked voice. A servant—young, trembling, eyes wide with devotion and fear. “We feared—”
“Where is she?” Eryndor rasped.
The boy didn’t need to ask who.
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The descent into the dungeon was colder than it had ever been.
And not just because of the stones, or the shadows, or the damp. But because the weight of something wrong coiled around Eryndor's senses — a c***k in the curse, a twist in the fate he’d relived across lifetimes.
She was supposed to die. He was supposed to grieve. That was the pattern. That had always been the pattern.
But this time, she had tried to kill him.
This time, Lyla had driven the blade.
This time, Lyla had looked him in the eye — and chosen vengeance. Why? Was it possible she blamed him for her deaths and wish to rewrite her fate?
“Open the cell,” he said.
“But Your Majesty, she—”
“Now.” His voice echoed through the walls, startling even the servant who should have gotten accustomed to his tone.
The iron door groaned as it opened.
And there she was.
Slumped against the wall in torn silks and ripped lace, silver chains biting into her wrists. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders in disheveled curls, lips dry, eyes watchful.
“Ah. The King lives,” she drawled, voice hoarse. “Pity.”
He took steps inside. Unafraid of what harm she might bring him.
The guards tensed, but didn’t dare interfere.
“You were supposed to die,” Eryndor said softly, as if speaking to himself. “You always die. I buried you in every lifetime.”
Lyla's head snapped toward him.
“Then maybe fate’s finally grown tired of your curse,” she spat. “I’m not who you think I am, King Eryndor Valehart.”
He flinched. Not from the use of his name but from the sharpness in her voice. Her eyes flickered with emotions he had seen far too many times. It wasn't the eyes suffering from a heartbreak. It was hatred. Pure and unadulterated.
“You’ve been calling me Lilith like it’s some kind of... prophecy. Some tragic poem.”
She stood, chains rattling as she rose.
“But I’m not your Lilith. I’m not some reincarnated soul bound to your ancient grief.”
Her voice rose, and the chamber echoed with it:
“I’m just a girl from the South. A girl whose pack was slaughtered when she was fourteen. You rode into my village. You and your army set it on fire.”
Her throat bobbed. Her voice cracked, but the fury stayed steady.
“They begged. They screamed. I watched my father burn.”
She stared at him, tears shining but unshed.
“So no, Eryndor Valehart. I’m not your cursed lover. I’m your punishment.” She stood tall, head held high as though reinforcing the fact that she held no fear in her heart for neither him nor what awaited her after his visit.
Eryndor didn’t speak. He didn’t move. For a moment, he looked utterly human like the boy he once was, when the world was still wide and the curse hadn’t carved holes into his soul.
But then he stepped closer.
“You may not remember,” he said gently, his tone was soft and calm, “but your soul does. Your blood does.”
“You arrogant bastard.” She scoffed, wanting to strike him hard across the face but the chains did a good job in holding her back.
“You looked at me that night in the ballroom and something flickered in your eyes. That’s not vengeance. That’s recognition.”
“No, it was survival,” she hissed. “You were a target. I was a weapon. That’s all this is.”
“Then I’m sorry,” he said, too quietly.
“You’re sorry?” she barked a bitter laugh. “Sorry, would not unburn my house. It wouldn’t bring back my family or my clan.”
She turned from him, gripping her wrists where the silver bit into skin.
“Just kill me and be done with it.”
“No,” Eryndor said.
She whirled around. “Why?”
“Because if you’re truly not my Lilith, then you are something worse.”
He stepped forward until they were inches apart.
“You are a threat. And threats are bound.” His tone was more sharper than before, loosing all the gentleness it had held.
She stared at him in disbelief. “You can’t—”
“I can. And I will.”
From beneath his coat, he drew a crimson vial. Thick. Pulsing with enchantment.
“An ancient oath. Blood magic. If one of us dies, the other follows. If one of us bleeds, the other feels it. We are joined. Until death, or mercy, ends us both.”
Lyla's face twisted. “You can’t force this on me.”
“Then choose. Bind your fate to mine… or rot in here until your bones turn to dust.”
He held out the blade. Small. Ornate.
She looked at it like it might bite.
“This is a prison,” she whispered.
“This is protection,” Eryndor said. “You’ll never again be alone in the dark. You’ll never again be without power.”
Her laugh was soft. Hollow. “That’s what you think this is about? Power?”
He didn’t answer.
She stared at the dagger.
She stared at the vial.
Lyla cut her palm with the blade, and Eryndor mirrored her movement. Their blood hung in the air, trembling between them, as if the magic itself waited for permission.
Eryndor raised his hand, voice low but resonant — a language older than kingdoms, older than death.
“Sanguis meum, animam meam. Vinculum aeternum. Si cor tuum moritur, cor meum cessabit. Si anima tua perit, mea sequitur.”
“From my blood, to your soul — a bond eternal. If your heart dies, mine shall stop. If your soul fades, mine shall follow.”
The moment he spoke the final word, the chamber blazed to life.
Scarlet light burst from the mingling blood — symbols etched in gold spinning around them. The floor shook. Lyla gasped, staggering back as the bond slammed into her chest like a second heartbeat. Her veins glowed for a moment — his magic racing through her bloodstream.
Their gazes locked, breath shared, hearts involuntarily synced.
“You… bastard,” she breathed, clutching her chest.
“You’ll find death harder now,” Eryndor said softly. “And vengeance more complicated.”
“What—what did you do to me?”
Eryndor wiped his hand on his sleeve.
“Now, if you kill me… you kill yourself.”
She stared at him, horror dawning.
“You’ve chained me.”
“No,” he said, voice colder than winter. “I’ve saved you.”
Then he turned and walked away.
Leaving her shaking in the cell, heart pounding in rhythm with his. She was now cursed, not by fate, but by choice.
- Writer
