Page 115 of The Darkest Oath

The birds scattered again, and the underbrush rustled with unseen movement as if every living thing fled at her intrusion. Élise tightened her grip on the reins.

“I’ll be back,” she whispered to the mule, leaving it by the gate as she stepped through.

Grass had overtaken the cobblestone path, and roots clawed at the stones beneath her boots. She knelt to clear a patch of the pathway, revealing the once-proud road leading to the house, now a crumbling husk of its former glory.

The sight of the manor sent a pang through her chest. It wasn’t just the decay—it was the weight of time, of loss. The roof had collapsed in on itself, and the walls leaned precariously, gaping where solid stone had once stood. Windows that might have gleamed with candlelight and life were now dark voids, staring blindly into the world.

"Chevalier Rollant de Montvieux?" she called, half-expecting a shadow to emerge, half-dreading what she might find.

No answer came.

She sighed in relief as she passed by what had once been a garden. The outlines of beds were faintly visible beneath the wild overgrowth, and she spotted the crumbling remains of a dilapidated well half-sunken into the earth. Beyond the house, a small creek bubbled quietly, its serenity at odds with the ruin surrounding it.

And then, beyond the creek, she saw it: a patch of vibrant grass and wildflowers that seemed untouched by the decay around it. The sight drew her in, a bright, living space in a world of shadows.

Her foot caught on something hard, and she stumbled forward. A sharp corner jutted out of the earth—a headstone, hidden beneath the tall grasses and flowers. Kneeling, Élise began clearing the overgrowth, her fingers brushing against the cold stone as she uncovered the engraved name:

"Cateline de Montvieux et de Conti | Beloved Daughter of Chevalier Rollant | Beloved Spouse of Chevalier Serge de Conti | Born to Noble Lineage | A Light of Love and Devotion | May Her Soul Rest in Peace | 1143 to 1203.”

The words swam before her eyes. She glanced around, spotting another stone nearby. Clearing it with trembling hands, she revealed:

"Amée de Montvieux | Beloved Daughter of Chevalier Thibaud de Toussaint | Beloved Spouse of Chevalier Rollant | Daughter of Honor | Departed in the Service of God | Resting in the Lord’s Peace, Awaiting the Return of Her Knight | 1126-1188.”

She fell back on her heels, her heart hammering in her chest as she scanned the field. More graves dotted the space, each covered in a thick shroud of grass and time. She began uncovering them one by one, reading names, dates, and the legacies of Rollant’s family etched into the stone.

The last headstone bore the date 1344: Ninette de Conti. After that, the field was empty.

Her gaze returned to Amée’s grave, the flowers growing wild around it. “1188,” she whispered. “Six hundred years.” She stared at her name, the dates, and the unshakable proof of Rollant’s tale written in stone.

The realization hit her like a blow. Every word Rollant had ever spoken about his past, his curse, and his family—it was all true.

She sank into the grass next to Amée’s headstone, reclining beside her grave as the flowers towered above her. The petals brushed against her cheeks, framing her vision with their vibrant colors as she stared up at the sky.

"Is my Rollant also yours?" she whispered as she turned toward Amée’s headstone. “Why did you choose to stay married to him? Were you happy with your choice?”

The silence that followed was both comforting and maddening. There was no answer, no voice from beyond the grave to soothe her doubts or confirm her hopes. Only the gentle rustling of the wind through the flowers echoed through the meadow.

She lay there for a long time, the weight of six hundred years pressing down on her as she envisioned the struggles, the obstacles, and the sacrifices that would come with being Élise de Montvieux.

Her arms wrapped around herself as though trying to hold the pieces of herself together. Her gaze drifted to the flower blocking the sunlight from reaching her eyes, and a sudden thought struck her.

Her hands stilled.

The memories came to her—Rollant, waking before her each morning in Le Marais and Charonne, carefully preparing her meals. It wasn’t much, just bread and cheese or whatever provisions they had managed to secure, but it was his way of caring for her. She had thought nothing of it at the time, assuming it was practicality, nothing more. But now, as she lay by Amée’s grave, she understood.

It was his love.

Rollant, the man who could never embrace her, who could never hold her without risking her life, had shown his love in the only ways he could. He had given her his knife and taught her to fight, ensuring she could protect herself. He had drawn her baths and brought her clean clothes, his hands trembling with restraint as he handed her the simple comforts she needed. He had kept her safe, over and over again, because he couldn’t give her the one thing he wanted most—his embrace.

Tears welled in her eyes as her hands covered her face. He had loved her all along in ways she hadn’t even noticed. His love had been in the quiet gestures, the unspoken actions, the things that had seemed so ordinary at the time.

And now, knowing that, she couldn’t imagine a life without him. A quiet determination took root in her heart. The sacrifices would be worth it. Rollant was worth it. She would make him see.

She closed her eyes, letting the moment’s peace wash over her.

For better or for worse, she had made her choice.

CHAPTER43

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