The war god's vow

Untitled Episode3

Part 1: “The Escape to Paris.”

The sound of engines crawled up the valley like thunder rolling through a gorge. From the upper floor of the glassworks, Bill watched headlights sweep across the trees — a moving wall of light and steel. “Council patrol,” Rafe said from beside him. “Too many for a stand-up fight.” Bill’s jaw tightened. “Then we don’t stand.” The Withdrawal Within minutes the crew was in motion. Rafe’s men stripped the safe house of anything that could trace them—maps burned, shell casings swept into sacks. Bill moved through the wreckage with silent precision, checking each exit twice. He found Elara by the stairwell, clutching the small silver coin. Her eyes searched his face. “Will we make it?” He paused. “If you follow my voice and don’t look back.” She nodded once. “Good.” He pressed a compact radio into her hand. “Channel three. If we get separated, don’t call until you hear gunfire stop.” She looked at the device as if it were a lifeline. “What happens if it doesn’t?” “Then you keep running.”

Into the Rain They slipped out through the rear passage just as the first trucks reached the main road. The forest swallowed them—dark, wet, and cold. Rafe led the way with a dim red lamp, its light barely cutting through the fog. Behind them, the valley erupted with shouts. Bill kept his pace steady, listening. Every distant c***k told him exactly where the patrols were, how many seconds they had. His mind mapped the terrain like a chessboard. At the river crossing, a flare burst overhead. “Go!” he hissed. The group scattered, wading through knee-deep water. The current was bitter and strong. Elara stumbled; Bill caught her wrist, pulling her upright. “Don’t fight the water,” he said quietly. “Let it move you.” When they reached the far bank, engines roared closer. A spotlight swept across the trees. “Rafe!” Bill shouted. From somewhere uphill came the answering growl of their hidden transport — an armored utility truck. The back doors swung open.

“In!” Rafe yelled' The Chas. The truck shot forward, tires slipping on the wet road. Behind them, the Council convoy gave chase. Muzzle flashes sparked in the night. Elara clung to the seat beside Bill, every turn throwing her sideways. “They’re gaining!” Bill grabbed the comm. “Rafe, the bridge?” “Three klicks ahead. If we reach it first, we can drop it behind us.” “Then push the engine.” The truck lurched faster, the sound of pursuit growing louder, sharper. Through the windshield, lightning forked across the clouds, revealing the outline of the old suspension bridge spanning the ravine. Rafe’s voice was grim. “We cross or we die, boss.” Bill looked to Elara. “Hold on.”

The Bridge Bullets struck the metal rails as they sped across. The bridge groaned, ancient cables swaying. When they reached the far side, Bill grabbed the detonator wired to the undercarriage. “Now,” he said. Rafe hit the switch. A burst of light split the sky, and the bridge behind them collapsed in a roar of twisting steel. The pursuing trucks screeched to a halt, the first two plunging into the dark. Silence followed—only the rain and the slowing heartbeat of the engine. Elara exhaled shakily. “We made it.” Bill didn’t answer. His eyes were on the road ahead—black fields, broken fences, and in the distance, a faint orange glow on the horizon.

Rafe slowed the truck. “Boss, you seeing that?” Beyond the rain, the skyline of Paris emerged—its towers ghostlike under the storm clouds. But one light stood out: a tall building near the river, its rooftop burning with a crimson emblem—the half-burned rose. Bill’s voice was low. “They know we’re coming.” Elara stared at the symbol, the reflection flickering in her eyes “What is that place?” “Their house,” he said. “And our next battlefield.” Thunder rolled again, closer this time, as the truck descended into the dark toward the sleeping city.

End of part 1

Part 2 : The House of the Rose

The city of Paris slept beneath a bruised sky. Rain washed the streets clean, but it could not touch the rot that ran beneath — the secret arteries that pulsed with power, money, and fear. From the truck window, Elara watched the lights blur. To her, Paris had always been a dream whispered in magazines and television screens — beauty and grace, a city of romance. Tonight, it looked like a battlefield wrapped in gold. Beside her, Bill sat still, a shadow carved from silence. His presence filled the space — calm, heavy, and unreadable. The dim glow from the dashboard traced the faint scar along his jaw. He hadn’t spoken in miles. Elara wanted to ask a thousand questions. About where they were going. About who was after them. About him. But every time she looked at his face, the words froze in her throat.

Arrival The truck slowed as they turned into a narrow street along the Seine. It was almost dawn; the fog thickened over the river, veiling the city in a cold mist. A wrought-iron gate loomed ahead — black, ornate, crowned with a crimson emblem: a half-burned rose. Rafe killed the engine. “We’re here, boss.” Elara’s pulse quickened. “Here” was no sanctuary — it was the House of the Rose, the rumored heart of the criminal empire she’d only heard whispered about at her father’s meetings. Bill stepped out first. The guards at the gate didn’t move. They bowed their heads — not in fear, but in recognition. “El Commandant,” one murmured. Elara followed him through the gates. The mansion that rose beyond them was unlike anything she’d seen — towering marble columns, windows draped in shadow, the faint music of a violin drifting from somewhere deep inside. It was beautiful. And terrifying.

The Mistress of the House In the grand hall, a woman waited. She was tall, elegant, wrapped in a black silk gown that shimmered like oil. Her hair was silver though her face was ageless, her eyes sharp enough to slice through steel. “El Commandant,” she greeted softly, her voice like wine poured over glass. “Ten years, and still you return unannounced.” Bill inclined his head. “I don’t owe anyone notice anymore, Madame Viora.” Her smile deepened. “You owe me everything, my child.” The air between them was electric — respect mixed with danger. Elara stood still, feeling invisible yet completely exposed. Viora’s gaze slid to her. “And who is this delicate creature you’ve brought into my house?” Bill’s tone was cool. “A survivor. She stays.” Viora took a slow step forward, her heels clicking like gunshots on marble. “Ah. So the War God brings home a flower.” She tilted Elara’s chin up with one painted fingernail. “Be careful, dear. In this garden, roses bleed.” Elara met her gaze, trembling but defiant. “Then I’ll learn to stop the bleeding.” For a brief moment, Viora’s eyes glinted with approval — then she turned away. “Very well. Rooms will be prepared. And you, Bill… the Council has already placed a bounty on your head. They call you a traitor.” Bill’s jaw tightened. “They can call me whatever they like. I only care about what’s left to destroy.”

The Gathering Storm Later that night, as the mansion quieted, Elara found herself staring out at the city from the balcony. Below, Paris glimmered — fragile, untouchable. She wondered if she’d ever see it in daylight again. Footsteps approached. Bill leaned against the railing beside her, his voice low. “You shouldn’t be alone out here.” “Shouldn’t, or can’t?” she murmured without looking at him. He didn’t answer immediately. “Both.” Silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken things. The night air was cold, but his nearness felt warmer than fire. “Why did she call you her child?” Elara asked finally. Bill’s expression darkened. “Because she made me what I am.” Elara turned to him, eyes searching. “Then why come back?” He looked out over the city, eyes reflecting the distant glow of the Eiffel Tower. “To end what she started.”

From inside the house came a sudden, echoing sound — the shatter of glass, followed by a scream. Bill’s hand went to his gun in one motion. “Stay here,” he ordered, already moving toward the sound. Elara hesitated only a second before following, barefoot and silent. Down the corridor, shadows twisted like smoke. At the far end, she saw a man pinned against the wall, a dagger at his throat — and the blade was in Viora’s hand. Her voice was a whisper of thunder. “They’ve already found us.” The House of the Rose trembled as alarms began to blare, red lights flashing through the hall. Bill stepped into the open, his eyes hard as iron. “Then let them come.”

End of chapter 3