Page 93 of Oath

Aerion’s whisper vanished into the vast bailey, swallowed by stone.

The flag did not stir.

His steps quickened, no longer measured, no longer an Archduke’s procession but a man running through his own ruin. Fabric hissed against the stairs as he descended, his hand gripping the banister so tightly the carved wood bit into his palm. Courtiers called after him, softly at first, then louder, as if their voices could soften what waited at the bottom of the stairs.

He did not hear them.

When he reached the carriage, he stopped. For a heartbeat—just one—he stood motionless, eyes fixed on the black-draped shape. His hands trembled at his sides. His lips moved soundlessly, as though trying to form Clyde’s name and failing.

Then his voice tore loose, ragged and desperate:

“Open it.”

No one moved.

The guards flanking the carriage exchanged uncertain glances. The chamberlain half-stepped forward, shaking his head. “My lord—”

“I saidopen it!” Aerion roared, voice cracking against the stone walls. The sound rang through the hall like a whipcrack. Servants flinched. The steward dropped his ledger.

The guards obeyed.

The flag was pulled back with slow, reluctant hands. The fabric slithered across wood like a shroud being peeled from a tomb.

Clyde lay beneath it.

Armor shattered, chestplate dented, blood dried in ugly black patches across leather and mail. His face was pale, too pale, lips parted slightly as if he’d breathed his last hours before. His hair, once gold-brown, was matted with mud. His hands lay at his sides, fingers curled faintly toward his palms, as if they’d been holding a sword that was no longer there.

For Aerion, the world collapsed.

“No,” he whispered again. Then louder. “No, no, no—”

He stumbled forward, seized the edge of the carriage, and hauled himself up with a strength born of madness. His rings scraped against the wood as he half-fell inside.

And then he was on Clyde’s body.

He clutched at him, shaking him, gathering him into his arms as though the sheer ferocity of his grip could summon life back into those still limbs. His sobs ripped out raw, unpractised, animal. He buried his face against Clyde’s chest, heedless of the blood stiffening his silks.

“You can’t die!” he screamed, voice breaking in the hollow hall. “Do you hear me? You are mine! I am your master, and I do not give you permission!”

The courtiers gasped. A priest dropped his censer. No one dared move closer.

Aerion’s tears streaked down his face, falling hot against Clyde’s cold cheek. He rocked him like a child, like a lover, like a man drowning and clutching driftwood. “You swore to me,” he whispered, voice splintering into something fragile. “You swore to me, Clyde. You promised.”

And then—

A sound.

Faint. Rough.

Not the rattle of death, but words.

“I would never… betray my oath.”

Aerion froze.

His head snapped up. Clyde’s eyes were still closed, lashes clumped with sweat and ash, but his lips moved. His breath came shallow, torn ragged from a chest that struggled butstill lived.

For one suspended moment, Aerion could not breathe. Could not move. The world narrowed to that faint rasp, that oath clung to even in near-death.