Page 3 of The Darkest Oath

Rollant’s heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out all other sounds. The rush of satisfaction he had expected, the moment of triumph—none of it came. He had expected to feel free—freed from the betrayal, from the pain, but there was no glory there, only emptiness.

A hollow victory.

Arnoul, once his brother-in-arms, was now nothing more than a body like all the rest.

“Reap what you sow,” he said to Arnoul’s spirit. “He deserved to die,” he whispered in an attempt to ease the vengeful monster back into the black pit of his belly. The urge to vomit remained in the monster’s descending path. His breaths were ragged—colder than the breaths before.

His fingers still gripped the sword hilt, but its weight felt wrong, as though it no longer belonged in his grasp. He threw it down by the traitor’s feet. He shivered, now able to feel the icy winds of the night. His breath turned to fog before his face.

The whisper returned—so faint he almost missed it. But it wasn’t coming from the wind or the battlefield—it came from deep inside himself. The familiar voice, thin and cold, curled the edges of his mind. His heart faltered as her power sent him to his knees. His hands caught his body from the drop. Arnoul’s dark blood coated his fingers. He had killed a man in a coward’s act of revenge. It was not justice. It was not honor. It was not pure.

It was savage.

He lifted his quivering fingers to his face. Arnoul’s blood ran down his finger like a tendril of darkness racing toward his heart and chasing away the rage that had consumed it.

The sorceress’s voice drifted through him, her tone no longer alluring but dripping with disappointment. “You have chosen a path darker than even death.”

She appeared before him again, her form solidifying out of the shadows. Her celestial hair floated in the night, but her gaze did not evoke the warmth of starlight. Her lips curled into a smile, though it was far from kind. “You have taken more than his life, Chevalier. You have forsaken the honor that once defined you.” Her eyes glowed faintly in the dark. “And so, your punishment will be as eternal as your immortality.”

Rollant’s breath stilled. “Punishment?” He gasped. Fear wrapped his legs. “But you gave me life.”

She moved closer, her ethereal form swirling with a cold wind. “I gave you life, but your actions have bound you to something far worse than death. You were not just. You were not noble.” Her gaze flicked to Arnoul’s lifeless body. “And now, you are no different from the traitor who lies before you.”

Rollant’s heart sank as her words settled over him like a death shroud. “I have done right,” he tried to argue, even against his own thoughts.

“You did what was easy. Gave way to fleshly vengeful desire.” Her voice was cold, cutting through him like the sword he had thrown at Arnoul’s feet. “You have not killed for justice,” she said. “You killed for vengeance. And now, you shall suffer for it.”

Rollant staggered back, crawling away from her. His eyes widened as her swirling form passed over Arnoul and came to him.

“What suffering shall I endure?” he asked, afraid of the answer.

The sorceress’s expression grew more somber, her eyes narrowing as if she pitied him. “Your beloved wife and daughter, the two women you hold most dear.”

“Please,” he whispered and shook his head. His limbs went weak. His heart struck still at the mention of Amée and Cateline. His voice cracked, and tears welled in his eyes. “Anyone but them.”

The sorceress swayed her head against the breeze, telling him it was what he feared. “They shall be taken from you the moment you cross the threshold of your home. Their lives, like your own, shall be forfeit because of your actions. But because I see your love for them, I shall give you an option. Therefore, you may never return home, and they shall enjoy long lives,”—her finger rose—“or you cross the threshold to see them one last time.”

Rollant fell to his side. He had accepted the sorceress’s deal to see, love, and care for his wife and child. Now, she was taking them away just like Arnoul had done. He snarled at her cruelty, a knife in his belly. “You cannot do such a thing!” he cried.

She stood as a silent sentinel; her gaze was past him as if it had already been decided.

His heart broke like his body and his mind.

“Please,” he struggled to his knees and bowed his head before her. “Spare their lives. I will do anything. I beg you.” His voice crumpled with a sob. The strong, resolute knight was reduced to nothing. “Please, I shall?—”

The sorceress silenced him through an icy tendril to the heart. “It is done,” she said, her words as dark as the blood staining Rollant’s fingers. “And more shall be taken from you for begging when I have already extended grace. Know this, Chevalier Rollant de Montvieux: should you ever embrace anyone in love, they too will breathe their last. Your heart will be forever empty, your touch forever cursed.”

“No . . .” The word tore from Rollant’s throat, hoarse and raw. He scrambled to his feet, the weight of her curse crashing over him like a tidal wave. But she vanished like smoke, and he was left gasping into the night amid the murmurs of the king’s camp. He turned toward his home across the sea, as though he could somehow outrun her words. Amée. Cateline. Their faces flashed before him. Tears ran down his cheeks. What had he done?

But the curse had been sealed. Her words were absolute. He had abused her gift of life. Rollant would live, but he would never truly be alive again. For as long as his body endured, he would walk the earth with the knowledge that his love, his embrace, would forever bring death to those he cared for.

PartTwo

CHAPTER2

The Shadow of Betrayal

PALACE OF VERSAILLES, JANUARY 1788

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