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Oath of the Order of the Valiant

Idris

I dris would never forget the day he took his Oath. It had been springtime in Fenrir City, and uncharacteristically warm for the season. Lord Haron had a whole crowd of Oath-takers to get through, receiving the Oaths of each man and woman who knelt before him, then signaling for his squires to bequeath the customary magic-imbued armor and weapons.

Idris had snuck into the ceremony already wearing his brother’s breastplate, sweating profusely in the stuffiness of the chamber. The tall stained-glass windows that lined the long rectangular room emanated heat, casting colorful patterns on the marble tile. He kept his eyes down, waiting patiently in line as Oaths were taken, mouthing the words silently to himself.

I, Idris Togren, hereby take the Oath of the Order of the Valiant, pledging my life to the protection of the realm and the safe keeping of its secrets. I swear unyielding loyalty to the Lordship of Fenrir and the Kingdom of Marona. I will not stray from my duty; I will not falter from the Valiant path; I will not unveil that which seeks to fill the land with fear. I bear my duty with honor, compliance, and bravery.

By the Fates and the arcane power of this Oath, I swear fealty to the Order of the Valiant, never to forsake my duty except in the completion of my sentence or death, whichever comes sooner.

To the rhythms of the folks preceding him, Idris had mentally repeated the Oath some fifty times by the time he reached the front of the line. Staring at the Lord’s spotless orange slippers—embroidered with pastoral scenes in red thread, with silly little bells on the toes—Idris had taken a knee to begin reciting.

But before he could speak, Lord Haron interrupted. “Where did you acquire that breastplate?”

Idris kept his eyes down, head bowed. “My brother, m’Lord.”

“What is your name?”

“Idris Togren.”

“Your name is not on my list.”

Idris cleared his throat. “My brother’s was—is—in the ledger,” he stuttered. “Grinnick Togren.”

“At ease,” the Lord said.

Idris looked up at Lord Haron’s face, almost childlike in its flawlessness. It was a face of high privilege. No sunspots or moles, no wrinkles or scars. His white-blond hair was perfectly styled in a swoop off his forehead. His overcoat was so laden with embroidery and gemstones it appeared uncomfortably stiff. Yet Lord Haron lounged comfortably in his chair, his hands at rest in his lap.

“Grinnick Togren,” he mused, his shrewd voice carrying down the length of the chamber. The perfume he wore was an assault on Idris’s nose.

Idris nodded.

Lord Haron gestured at a hooded figure to his left, who stood at a small podium that supported a thick arcane Oath Ledger, where members of the Order of the Valiant were magically tethered, recorded, and tracked. At the Lord’s prompting, the ledgermaster flipped backward through the pages, presumably to find Grinnick’s name. They eventually paused, hefted the book, and angled it toward the Lord to observe.

“It is as I suspected,” the Lord murmured—presumably to himself—before waving a hand, dismissing the ledgermaster back to the podium. “I remember every name in my charge,” he told Idris, not without a note of smugness.

Idris highly doubted that the Lord could remember the thousands of names bound to the Oath Ledgers, but he said nothing.

“The magic of this ledger,” the Lord went on, “has not marked Grinnick as deceased, nor as having completed his sentence. Have you come to explain his whereabouts?”

“I’ve come to take his place.”

“And why is that, hmm ?” Lord Haron gestured at the podium with a callous-free palm. “Forsaking or breaking his Oath would’ve triggered the ledger’s magic to record him as such.”

“He is not an Oath-breaker,” Idris ground out.

“Then where is he?”

“Dead.” The force with which Idris said the word caused it to echo throughout the chamber, much as it had been echoing throughout the caverns of his heart since that fateful day.

“Oath Ledgers don’t lie, Idris Togren,” Lord Haron said, gesturing at the volume atop the podium. “If your brother were dead, he would be listed among the deceased.”

Idris forced his gaze to hold firm. “He died in my arms.”

The Lord shifted in his seat, eyeing him with more interest, now. “Breastplates are not passed down. Usually, they are lost. In rarer cases, they are brought by a fellow knight of the same Order to the royal forge to be repurposed.”

Just the mere mention of the other knights in the Order of the Valiant had Idris clenching his fists.

“You say you were there when he died. What killed him?”

Idris couldn’t bring himself to say.

“Never mind, I don’t much care. But you took his breastplate, yes?”

“He gave it to me,” Idris said, willing his voice steady. “It was Grinnick’s dying wish that I take his place in the Order of the Valiant.”

“ Ah .” The Lord wagged a finger at him, putting pieces together. “The very act of telling you about the Order means that your brother did break his Oath—not by death or desertion, but defiance. That’s the worst of the three.” Lord Haron stroked his baby-soft chin and glanced at his ledgermaster. “ Curious that the ledger didn’t record death nor Oath-breaking.”

The ledgermaster’s dusky brown and gold robes shimmered faintly as they shifted on their feet. Their voice was reluctant, raspy. “Sometimes when the threads of magic are crossed, it causes an error in—”

The Lord waved a dismissive hand, clearly uninterested the particulars of how the Oath Ledgers worked.

He leaned forward, gripping the armrests of his throne. “You wish to take your brother’s place willingly ?”

“I do,” Idris said.

Gasps rose from the crowd of other Oath-takers—but in his grief, it mattered not that Idris was about to enter one of the most dangerous and secretive Orders in the realm on his own accord. In fact, the threat made the dullness of his inner pain sparkle anew. He felt more alive now than he had since Grinnick died. To take his brother’s place was to bring honor to his memory. To walk Grinnick’s path was the only way for Idris to stay connected to his brother—and keep himself safe.

“I am pleased you feel that way. It makes this so much easier,” the Lord said. “Rarely do I transfer criminal sentences, but these are extraordinary circumstances, aren’t they?” He arched a brow expectantly.

“They are,” Idris replied through clenched teeth.

Lord Haron’s childish smirk was no better than the boys Idris had known growing up on the streets of Fenrir, boys who used to torment stray cats for fun. “Because your brother broke his Oath before a noble death could absolve him, and therefore did not suffer the proper consequences—all for your sake—it seems fitting to pass his full sentence to you,” the Lord concluded. “Idris Togren, you are hereby sentenced to twelve years in the Order of the Valiant. Do you object?”

Idris’s breath caught. Twelve years . His brother’s full sentence.

When Grinnick died, he’d already served half his term. Idris would’ve expected to serve the final six, not the full twelve. But it was too late to object—and Idris didn’t want to. Grinnick had encouraged him to take the Oath of the Order of the Valiant for a reason, and Idris was more than happy to oblige the urging of both his beloved brother and the Lord of Fenrir.

“I do not object,” Idris said firmly, steadily.

“Wonderful.” Lord Haron clapped twice, pointed at the ledgermaster—presumably to tether the magic by recording Idris’s name.

Idris bowed his head again, reciting the Oath aloud this time, directly to the Lord of Fenrir’s ridiculous shoes. As he spoke, he felt an odd pull toward the ledger, magic weaving between himself and its sacred pages.

When the Oath snapped fully into place, it was no more dramatic than a sneeze building and fading in the back of his sinuses. He felt a slight tingle along his neck as his magical leash formed into the customary tattoo that all knights—regardless of territory, Order, or the tenets of their Oath—bore.

While Oaths stemmed from the magic of the ledgers, they were tied to the territory for which a knight served. Lord Haron might’ve currently held Fenrir’s ruling title—and therefore held all the knights’ magical leashes—but the Oaths were ultimately sworn to the land, not the individual who controlled it. Idris was glad his Oath did not bind him to Lord Haron, specifically, but to the realm; the technicality of true fealty was a balm to his hot hatred for his new master.

As the odd sensation of his new tattoo eased, Idris was given vambraces and a hand-me-down sword—Halgren—by one of the nearby stewards and ushered into the lineup of other Oath-takers to await the Lord’s final proclamation and the assignment of his training barracks.

Perhaps Idris should’ve been scared, but he wasn’t; in his youth, Idris had already encountered plenty of hardship and suffering. At least as a Knight of the Order of the Valiant he’d be provided with resources, elite training, and a magic weapon. At least he could turn his guilt, grief, and misery into something useful.

Of course, back then, at barely twenty years of age, Idris hadn’t fathomed the full extent of the Oath he’d taken that day. He’d reflected on it many times since then. His fellow Valiant Knights had questioned his sanity in those early days, but not once in the past fifteen years had Idris ever regretted his decision to take the Oath—and stay past his required sentence for further atonement.

Until now , he thought miserably.

Anya’s full hips and rump rocked back against him with Briar’s every stride, a sweet torture he hadn’t experienced in all his years with the Order. The scent of her filled his nostrils with every inhale, bright and intoxicating. No matter how inappropriate it was to lust after a prisoner of the realm—one he was, by the honor of his Oath, responsible for depositing in Fenrir City—he couldn’t find a way to master the thrill he felt at her nearness.

He was beginning to regret the horse, practicality be damned.

His Oath in no way hindered his freedom to take lovers, but he was forbidden from marrying, and given his isolated lifestyle, no self-respecting woman would tolerate his long absences and the secretiveness of his duty. He’d long since grown accustomed to a semi-celibate existence.

Now, however, he wondered if he’d simply been deluding himself.

Not that he thought of Anya as a potential lover. Fates above , after what she’d seen in the Mirror of Death, he felt guilty for even thinking about her in that way. No, the torture of this ride couldn’t possibly be about Anya specifically, just…friction.

She wasn’t impervious to the friction, either though. Reading her pheromones with his magic, Idris scented the faintest trace of… Fates . It was musky like desire, but sharper, almost agitated. The more he tried to understand it, the more confused he got, so he clamped down his magic and stared out across the rolling hills, jaw clenched.

“Please tell me you’re hungry,” Anya said, yanking him out of his wretched thoughts.

“Why? Are you?”

“Can’t you hear my stomach grumbling?”

He hadn’t noticed, what with his preoccupation with her scent. “There’s jerky in my pack.”

He twisted around, his leg pressing into hers and his breastplate pinching under his arms as he rifled through the exposed pockets of the saddlebags behind him. When he found the provisions he sought, he swiveled forward again, handing a few scraps of jerky over her shoulder.

He tore into his own meager bites, just for the distraction.

Anya snacked for a while in silence, then began to shift in the saddle, grinding uncomfortably against him. “ Ugh , I’m uncomfortable,” she complained. “I think my ass has fallen asleep.”

Idris choked on his mouthful.

“Can we take a break?” Anya asked, leaning forward over the pommel in an effort to adjust. “You can’t possibly be comfortable, either.”

He wasn’t, but: “The fewer breaks we take, the faster we get to the capital.”

“What happens when we arrive, and I’m incapable of curtsying for the Lord because my legs don’t work?”

“We’ll rest at high noon,” Idris said, pointing at the sun, which was still on the rise.

Anya tugged on Briar’s reins, slowing their horse to a halt.

Idris knocked his heels gently against Briar’s side, encouraging the horse forward.

Only for Anya to pull his reins again.

Idris was a Knight of the Order of the Valiant. Honorable. Dutiful. Therefore, he should not stoop to childish games. And yet—

He kicked his heels again.

She pulled.

He kicked harder.

Briar threw his head and stomped a foot, frustrated by the mixed signals.

“You’re irritating the horse,” Idris scolded.

“You’re irritating me ,” Anya fired back. “Let me down.”

“We aren’t stopping,” Idris said.

“Then let me walk .”

“I’ll walk,” Idris countered.

“But I’m the one who’s sore!”

“A gentleman shouldn’t ride while a lady walks.”

Anya barked a laugh. “ You ? A gentleman?”

Idris was mildly insulted. He might’ve been an urchin-turned-monster-hunter, but that didn’t mean he didn’t possess decorum—in fact, his background made him even more eager to prove his goodness. More than that, though, he didn’t want Anya feeling threatened by him, thinking him uncouth.

“I think I’ve been perfectly kind so far,” he protested, “what with the—”

“For the love of the Fates,” Anya exclaimed, “would you please let me down? Else I’ll be adding new crimes to my growing repertoire.”

Idris sighed. He wasn’t sure why he was acting so hurried. He supposed a noble knight would rush to the capital to share news of the encroaching monsters, but his haste wasn’t just about duty. He was desperate to restore order to his life by getting Anya out of it.

Even so, it wasn’t fair to take his frustration with his role out on her. He decided a gentleman wouldn’t deny a lady, either.

Idris grunted. “Fine. Walk.”

Anya needed no further permission. She swung her right leg over Briar’s neck and slid to the ground. She landed with a thud and a wince, but stood tall, jutting her chin smugly up at Idris.

Idris settled into the cradle of the saddle with a sigh, grateful for the extra space—and relieved by the absence of her contact. The atmosphere was less heady without her so close, too. As much as he wanted to complete their journey efficiently, at least he was now free of the torture of her nearness.

Anya practically skipped down the road, clearly enjoying her freedom from his touch, too. Her dark auburn hair fired copper in the autumn sunshine, her tidy braid bouncing against her back with her cheerful gait. Her dress was still filthy, but she looked so…at ease, compared to the shell she’d been last night.

Her ankle must’ve been feeling better, too.

In spite of her irritable threats, Idris couldn’t imagine her committing a crime of death, nor could he imagine her being found guilty—but Idris knew how the Mirror trials usually went.

He ought to put all that out of his mind, before his compassion made this trip even harder—but as he took up the reins and eased Briar into a slow walk, watching Anya frolic ahead of them, compassion crept in, anyhow. The weakness he’d felt building inside him in recent years only became more potent with her presence.

So what if her being on foot will slow us down? Idris thought indulgently. At least it would delay her inevitable sentence and his imminent return to his lonely charge.