Page 130 of The Darkest Oath

Rollant swallowed the lump in his throat as his eyelids fluttered. “Thank you . . . for showing me love again,” he whispered in a stutter as pain ripped through his chest with each breath.

“No.” She shook her head, her grip tightening. “No, no, you don’t get to thank me. You don’t get to say goodbye.” Her voice cracked, thick with rage, grief, and terror.

“You will stay with me,” she whispered, nodding—begging. “You will.”

The afternoon sunlight dimmed, and the sounds and smells faded. Death closed in. His time was fleeting, and his soul met Élise’s in their gaze.

“No—Rollant, please!” She clutched his coat as if sheer will alone could tether him to life.

His breath shuddered and slowed. “You’ll always have me,” he murmured, and the darkness took him.

But in the black abyss, a voice called to him. Soft, familiar, surreal.

"Rollant."

A golden glow bathed the abyss, chasing away the shadows. Rollant turned, and there she stood—Amée, radiant and untouched by time, draped in robes as white as morning mist.

Behind her, Cateline and Ninette stood in solemn reverence among the lost kings of France—Louis, Philip, Charles—all those he had served, with centuries of gratitude etched into their faces.

"You have carried your burdens long enough," Amée whispered in sorrow and pride. Her fingers brushed his cheek, warm and real—not the ghost of a memory, but a promise of something beyond. "Live, Rollant,” Amée crooned. “Live for her as you once lived for me."

The kings raised their hands in solemn blessing, their voices joining hers in a chorus that echoed through the void:

"Live, Rollant. Live as we lived."

* * *

Two days passed,and Élise refused to let Rollant give up. She thought of the first time she’d met him—the quiet strength in his gaze, the fire that had never dimmed. Now, that fire was flickering, and the thought of it going out forever filled her with terror. He had always seemed larger than life, a man untouchable by time. But now, time was clawing at him, and she couldn’t stop it.

She cleaned and dressed his wounds, but she didn’t understand why he was no longer immortal. The family that helped Rollant moved into Hugo’s old home, as they had lost everything in the city. Bertille, the mother, came over regularly to check on Rollant and to force Élise to sleep, though sleep never came easily. Each time she shut her eyes, she feared they might open to find Rollant never breathing again

His pain was evident even in unconsciousness. Low, pained groans accompanied the hard rise and quick fall of his chest. She lifted the cloth on his side, cringing at the angry, jagged wound. The gash across his chest was healing well, but the one on his side looked worse with every passing hour. Élise poured more alcohol over it, the scent making her stomach churn.

“At least Bertille is a good seamstress,” she muttered, trying to lighten the weight in the room, though her voice trembled. She caressed Rollant’s face, her nails scratching the stubble on his jaw. Her hands ran down his neck and arms to soothe the tension in his muscles. His body felt so strong, so solid beneath her touch, but it terrified her how fragile his life had become.

“Don’t you leave me,” she stammered. Her voice cracked on every word. Her tears fell freely onto his chest, tracing unseen paths down his fevered skin.

“Not now. Not after everything. Not when we’ve fought so hard for us.” Her fingers trembled as they curled into his.

The silence of the room mocked her. No whispered reassurances, no teasing quips—just the shallow, ragged rhythm of his breathing.

“You promised,” she choked. “You told me once that I’d always have you. So don’t you dare make yourself a liar, Rollant.”

Still, he did not answer.

Her body shook with exhaustion, her head falling to his chest, listening—waiting—hoping.

“Please,” she whispered into his skin, voice breaking. “I love you. That has to be enough.”

Élise sat up, rubbing the exhaustion from her face. Her mind swam in the haze of sleepless nights. She pressed a warm cloth over his side, hoping to coax the wound to heal, and her tears blurred the sight of his ashen face. It wasn’t fair—not after all they’d endured, all the years she’d waited. He was hers. Hers to love, hers to fight for. But what if that wasn’t enough? What if she was too late?

The first rays of dawn crept into the room, bathing Rollant in a golden glow. Élise froze as his chest rose slower now, steadier, each breath pulling at the quiet stillness of the morning. Had she imagined it? The way his chest moved.

Her breath caught. She leaned in, hands trembling as she pressed her fingers to his wrist. The faintest flutter of a pulse met her touch.

His lips parted, a soft groan escaping, and his hand twitched beneath hers.

"Élise?"

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