Page 67 of The Darkest Oath

Pride and apprehension filled his heart as he listened to her and watched the light in her eyes flame. Her words held power, but power was dangerous.

He glanced at the King’s Guard Regiment, scanning the crowd, likely searching for the most egregious offenders. Yet they did nothing. The shadows of the Bastille loomed over the mob, as if the king was about to squash their revolt with the five thousand royal soldiers encamped on the Champ de Mars. Still, the troops did nothing.

Élise’s voice rose as the soldiers did as ordered: nothing.

“The king commands military force to subdue us, to take back the National Assembly at Versailles. He will oppress us not! We shall take it back!”

The audience chanted with her, “Take it back! Take it back!”

He lingered at the edge, keeping to the shadows, hoping the guards would not find her speech “egregious.”

Rollant kept a steady distance as Élise wove through the chaos. He did not let her out of his sight. She moved north to Le Marais with purpose. Her fire and beauty drew people to her like moths to a lantern. Embers of revolution remained in her footsteps. Stolen pamphlets leaked from her arms as she slipped them to workers and tradespeople.

Rollant singled out her voice as the riot’s racket faded in his ears.

“The Bastille still stands; its walls are a prison for our voices!” Élise shouted, her words igniting shouts of agreement in the crowd. “Will we let them silence us, or will we make them listen?”

Rollant’s chest tightened. The city was an inferno waiting for a single spark, and Élise was a match. He watched from the side streets trailing her as the shadows of the crowds grew bolder, louder. He had seen this city change over the last year, and Élise transform from a passionate speaker into a revolutionary leader. The girl who had once sought justice now stood at the heart of the chaos.

He hadn’t planned to stay all day in the mobs, but he needed to ensure Élise was safe. Just as the sun dipped below the horizon, Élise headed to Popincourt and then south to Charonne. Rollant chuckled as he lagged far behind. “I’m glad we thought alike,” he mumbled.

From a distance, he saw Élise’s steps grow heavy as she neared his Charonne home. She didn’t notice his mare neighing in the stable behind the house. The door swung open, and she stepped inside.

Rollant continued off the main road and into the stable. His stomach growled, and he pulled a hard biscuit and some cheese from his pack. He didn’t dare buy anything in the city and show his coin. He could have stolen food, but it didn’t feel right, stealing in the middle of chaos. Night fell, and there was no movement in the house. Curiosity got the best of him, so he snuck up to the window to find Élise collapsed on the sofa; exhaustion had claimed her.

* * *

The next morning,Rollant awoke to soft footsteps on the cobblestone path outside. Peering through the stable slats, he saw Élise leaving the house before dawn. Her coat was slung casually over one shoulder, and her stride was purposeful, carrying her toward Paris with unshakable resolve. She didn’t glance back or notice his figure hidden in the shadows.

The morning air had a crisp edge, but it wasn’t cold enough to warrant a coat. “Where are you going so early?” Rollant muttered under his breath, his brow furrowing as her silhouette grew smaller in the distance. He lingered, caught between following her and sticking to his mission.

By the time he saddled his mare, he was determined to follow her.

“I’ll be back shortly, girl,” he whispered to the horse.

Charonne was stirring with the faint hum of morning life, and he slipped by unnoticed. He took the road toward Popincourt, hoping to catch sight of her again, but Élise had vanished into the labyrinth of Paris. The city was eerily quiet. The usual clamor of carts, merchants, and restless mobs had stilled.

Yet, something was in the air—a low rumble, a vibration that seemed to come from the stones beneath his feet. It was a harbinger, the quiet before the storm. He pressed on toward Le Marais. The streets were also empty, except for a few watchful faces peering behind shuttered windows. The rumble grew louder.

It wasn’t until mid-morning, as Rollant entered the Bastille district, that the city revealed its true state. A mob of nearly a thousand surged through the streets, an ocean of bodies and weapons raised high. Some carried muskets; others brandished scythes, swords, and even makeshift clubs. Their voices were a thunderous roar, a call to arms against the Bastille. The crowd’s roar echoed in his ears, drowning out reason. This wasn’t just a riot; it was a reckoning.

And then he saw her.

Élise marched among them, pistol in hand. Her face was fierce, her jaw set, her steps in rhythm with the revolt. Rollant’s heart stopped.

“Élise,” he whispered, his voice lost in the cacophony. She didn’t hear him. She didn’t even see him. She was part of the wave now, swept along by its tide.

“Do not go,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with desperation as he watched her venture deeper into the crowd.

Duty and love warred within him. He was the king’s shield, bound to deliver the news of this uprising to Versailles without delay. Every second counted. The crown could not afford ignorance. The king needed to act immediately to save his throne. He needed a decree by noon to resolve this revolt. Yet how could he leave her? How could he ride away knowing that Élise, with her fire and fragile mortality, stood on the precipice of death?

His fist clenched at his side. He stepped back, the sorceress’ supernatural chill pressing into his bones as if urging him to turn away. Do as he was bound. The eternal weight of his existence pressed down on him, a constant reminder that his loyalty to the throne had been paid for in blood and sorrow. But his heart, long numbed by centuries of duty, thrashed against its chains.

Élise would never forgive him if she knew he’d been there and done nothing. But perhaps it was better that way. Better to let her fight, even die, without the shadow of his cursed presence looming over her. Better not to endanger his secret or his mission or return to someone with whom he would never share a life. To someone who did not keep her promise of staying away.

But none of it mattered; he loved Élise. He chose her, and he’d choose her again after the king. The king always came first. The crown had shaped him, bound him, and molded him into its covert weapon. But as he saw her figure vanish into the sea of people, he realized the blade had been dulled by a love he could never claim.

“It is a two-hour ride at a fast speed; I can make it there by noon, and then I will come straight back with the king’s decree in hand and take Élise to safety,” he mumbled to himself. He turned on his heel and ran toward Charonne, his heart a battlefield of regret and resolve.

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