Page 133 of The Darkest Oath

Cassandre shook her head, clutching the deed. “A noble lineage. Hidden fortunes. A mysterious estate in the Alps. A story about an immortal knight. Your history! Your ancestors! How are you not more excited about this?”

Rollant chuckled, his eyes fixed on the winding road ahead with fingers tight on the steering wheel. “They lived, they died. Same as us. That’s all there is to it.” His tone was light, but Cassandre caught the faint shadow of dismissal behind his words.

Cassandre leaned back, crossing her arms with exaggerated frustration. “You’re impossible,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I married the least romantic man in France.”

Rollant reached over and squeezed her hand, his smile tugging at his lips. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Cassandre huffed but couldn’t keep from grinning. “Fair enough.”

As the road signs pointed toward Saint-Pierre-d'Entremont, Cassandre straightened in her seat, her excitement bubbling. “That’s it! We’re getting close!”

Rollant turned the car onto a narrow dirt path, and the couple parked at the foothills of the communal forest after grabbing a bite to eat in the small mountain town.

With backpacks slung over their shoulders, they followed the map into the trees off the beaten path. Cassandre carried the map like it was the Holy Grail, her eyes darting from the paper to the path ahead. They crossed an ancient stone bridge that groaned beneath their steps and dribbled crumbled stone pieces into the creek below. The air smelled of pine and earth, heavy with the whispers of history.

“Do you think it’s still here?” Cassandre asked, glancing around at the overgrown forest.

“If the map is right, it should be,” Rollant replied. His tone was calm, but a faint quiet anticipation stirred in his chest.

They walked for what felt like hours before the trees thinned, revealing a stone wall clearly reconstructed. Ivy vines climbed its surface, clinging to the past like fingers unwilling to let go.

“This is it,” Cassandre whispered, her voice reverent amid a hitching breath.

They followed the wall until they came to an archway, its keystone etched with faint markings: a mountain with three stars above it. Beyond it, the overgrown cobblestone path stretched to a pavilion with a memorial stone beneath its roof. Beyond it, the shadow of the mountains tucked a graveyard away, covered in wildflowers.

Cassandre folded the deed and map and secured it in its metal case as they stepped through the archway, the weight of history settling over them like a tangible presence. She approached the memorial.

“Memorial Erected in 1879,” she read. “You are standing on the original estate of Chevalier Rollant de Montvieux, a gift from King Philip II Augustus (1180-1223). It was cared for by the village of Valmont two kilometers to the east (now abandoned) until well after the land was made public in 1827.”

Rollant had moved to the graves and brushed away the dirt and moss from a few headstones to view the weathered engravings.

Cassandre came up behind him. Her gaze swept across the field of wildflowers. “Rollant, your whole family is here!” she exclaimed, her voice tinged with awe. She knelt beside Rollant and traced the weathered names etched into a stone:

“Rollant de Montvieux and Élise de Montvieux | Life is Love, and Love is Eternal | The Faithful Guardian and the Radiant Flame Together in Rest | Died 1842.”

Cassandre leaned her head against Rollant’s shoulder. “Faithful guardian . . . like an immortal knight,” she mused. “And a radiant flame. Oh, they must have been extraordinarily in love, just as your grandfather told us.”

Rollant ran his thumb over his ancestor’s engraved name, stirring a strange connection twisting in his chest. “It’s just a story,” he said more to himself than to her. “A fairytale passed down through the generations that ends the same for everyone, as I said.”

Cassandre turned his face to him with a soft grasp of his chin. She placed a kiss on his lips. “You are such a cynic,” she said with a smile, but the adjacent headstone caught her eye. She gestured to it. “But isn’t it interesting: see here on Amée de Montvieux, Beloved Spouse of Chevalier Rollant, the same Rollant de Montvieux who owned the estate in 1180, and there is no other Rollant except here, in 1842. And then, he happens to have six generations of Rollant’s?” Her eyebrows lifted in positive suspicion, letting him draw the conclusion.

“And,” she said, holding a finger in the air, “Amée’s grave is next to Rollant and Élise’s.”

Rollant opened his mouth to speak, but Cassandre cut him off.

“And,” she said with a gleam in her eye, “there are no dates of birth for Rollant de Montvieux in 1842. What if the first Rollant really did live through it all—what if he really was immortal for a time, just as your grandfather said at Christmas?”

Rollant laughed, shaking his head. “No one lives six hundred years, Cassandre.”

Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. “But what ifhedid? What if he survived wars and revolutions only to choose to die in love’s embrace at the end?”

Rollant stared at the gravestone, his fingers brushing over the wordsLife is Love, and Love is Eternal. For a moment, the idea didn’t seem so far-fetched. He thought of the stories his grandfather had told him as a child—the faithful knight, the fiery revolutionary, a love that endured beyond time.

“Well, I’ll give you one: it’s an interesting thought,” he admitted, his voice softer.

Cassandre patted his cheek. “I knew you had a romantic side.”

He stood and pulled her to her feet with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, though his lips curved into a smile. “But if it’s true, I’d say he made the right choice.”

---