Page 127 of The Darkest Oath

She nodded.

He caressed her hand. “I just want a simple life with you right here in Charonne. I want children and grandchildren, and when we are old, I wish to die together.”

“You are my home,” she whispered.

“And you are mine.”

It was then that Rollant realized loving and losing are part of what it means to be human and that he had shut himself off from both for far too long.

“Then maybe we stay here for a while and see what becomes of the new king,” she said, threading her fingers through his hair and brushing away his tears. “And in the meantime, if you want to, an orphaned girl is still at the Temple.”

“Marie-Thérèse,” Rollant whispered the royal daughter’s name.

Élise nodded. “She has lost everything, Rollant. She is a victim of circumstance, just as her brother was. You’re the only one she has left.”

Rollant closed his eyes, letting the memory of Élise’s fingers through his hair imprint upon him.

“She deserves a chance,” he said, his voice steadier now. “And I’ve spent too long letting this duty dictate my life. If I can’t leave it behind, maybe I can reshape it. On my terms.”

Élise kissed his brow.

“She is not in danger, and I believe most have forgotten she is there,” he continued. “I can take fewer days at the Temple and be with you most of the week. And I promised the former king I would watch over his family,” he said.

“And you are a man of your word,” she said with a smile.

He grinned as he stared up at her. “The exiled king can wait,” he said. He exhaled, a breath so deep it felt like centuries of sorrow peeled away.

For the first time since he began training as a knight, his duty did not feel like a chain around his neck or the weight of a servant’s pierced ear. His new path had not been forced upon him. It was something he chose.

CHAPTER46

The End of Oaths

RUE DE SAINT-ROCH, PARIS, OCTOBER 1795

The cannons roaredlike the trumpets of judgment, shaking the cobblestones beneath Rollant’s boots as he sprinted through the smoky streets, caught in the revolt on his commute to the Temple. Screams of the dying mixed with the thunder of grapeshots. He ducked behind an overturned cart as royalists rushed past him, their muskets raised and their faces grim with determination. They were emboldened by the aristocrats’ return and their hope to rid France of the corrupt Convention, which had done nothing but make life worse. Rollant knew, deep in his soul, that this battle would mark the end of something far greater than the uprising itself.

Twenty-five thousand Parisians raised arms against the new French Republic and marched toward the Tuileries Palace, where the National Convention met, to overtake it. But their objective wouldn’t be gained so easily.

The Republic Guardsmen had cannons and blasted grapeshots at the royalist insurrection, ripping men apart. Civilians lay dead, caught in the crossfire. The acrid smell of gunsmoke clawed at Rollant’s throat.

He stayed crouched, watching the chaos ensue. The wood splintered just above his head, hit with an iron shard.

The royalists were the remnants of the monarchy he swore to protect, but their violence felt futile and dishonorable. Where were they when the king needed them? But the French Republic had only left blood and brutality in its wake. He’d seen people starved to death and frozen in the streets the prior winter, rotting because their families could not afford a burial. He no longer knew where he stood or where his loyalty lay. Duty compelled him to act for the royalists, but witnessing the civilians’ plight tore at his heart. Families tried to run; some made it whole, while others were not so lucky.

A young boy tripped as he followed his parents; his father held a baby. A grapeshot blasted, tearing the side of the building and causing its stones to fall on the boy’s foot. He called for his father, but the father did not hear amid the ruckus.

Rollant bolted for the boy, ripped the stone off his foot, and carried him. He took a bullet in the back but pushed through the pain, clutching the child as tightly as possible to prevent stray bullets from catching a limb. He wore the blue coat of the National Guardsmen, and it drew attention. He caught up to the family, handing them their boy, when a shot ripped past the side of his face.

“Republic Guardsman!” The royalist shouted as he reloaded. His shout summoned four more royalists.

“Run,” he told the father, who took off with the child.

“I am Captain of the King’s Bodyguard,” Rollant shouted as he approached them, hoping not to spill blood that day.

But he was met with a volley of bullets. He dodged two, but one caught his arm and the other his hat, knocking it to the ground beside a civilian woman with lifeless eyes. Rollant’s gaze ran down her bloodied dress.

For centuries, the crown had been his compass, his reason for enduring. But now, staring into the eyes of the rogue men who fought for a crown already lost, putting innocent lives in danger, the weight of his oath crumbled like ash in his hands. These men didn’t fight for a king—they recklessly fought for vengeance. And vengeance had no honor.

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