Oath of the King-Chapter 31: The Revenge at Dawn

The sun had barely breached the horizon when Alden swung out of bed, movements sharp and precise, like a blade unsheathed.

The cold air bit at his skin, but he welcomed it—it carved away the fog of dreams, leaving only purpose.

Without hesitation, he reached for Bedringer, fastening the worn leather belt around his waist. His fingers brushed the sword's hilt, familiar yet strangely foreign. With a fluid motion, he drew the blade, holding it before him.

It gleamed in the newborn light, immaculate, untouched.

A sword that had never tasted blood.

Alden exhaled slowly, the breath ghosting against the cold metal. His reflection stared back at him from the polished steel—older, harder, more hollow than he remembered.

"Today," he whispered, voice rough with sleep and something deeper, "for the first time... I will allow you to satisfy your hunger."

Among the knights, it was tradition: a blade earned its name only after it claimed its first life, baptized by blood. Only then would a true name come, heavy with meaning, bound by fate.

He pressed his forehead briefly against the flat of the blade.

"I hope I can give you the name you deserve."

Outside, the world was waking. The stones of the courtyard still held the night's chill, the sky bleeding pale gold at the edges. But Alden didn't stretch. Didn't spar.

Not today.

Today, his training ended.

Today, he answered for the past.

He strapped Bedringer across his back and strode out, footsteps silent, deliberate.

Meanwhile, Sylvie was still laughing when she pushed open the door to her quarters, cheeks flushed from a long, sleepless night spent gossiping with the other maids.

The halls smelled of fresh bread and firewood. Somewhere far off, the bell at the stables rang for the changing of shifts.

Sylvie breathed in the morning air, the promise of a simple day ahead. She hadn't seen Alden yet—he was probably already halfway to breaking some poor fool's ribs on the training grounds—but the thought of him still warmed her in ways she didn't quite understand.

Mira and Clara caught up to her near the kitchens, both still giggling over some absurd story involving a runaway chicken and the captain of the guard's missing boots.

"Come on," Mira said, nudging Sylvie. "We'll grab some honey cakes from the market before the crowd gets bad."

Sylvie smiled and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Alright, alright. But just one."

They set off together, laughter trailing behind them like ribbons.

The market was still shaking off sleep when they arrived—vendors unfurling awnings, children chasing stray dogs, the smell of baking bread thick in the air. Sylvie bought a bundle of apples, Mira bartered fiercely for silk ribbons, and Clara flirted shamelessly with a blacksmith's apprentice.

It was almost enough to make Sylvie forget the gnawing feeling that had started to coil in her gut.

Almost.

They were rounding a corner, arms full of their small treasures, when Sylvie felt it: the shift.

The way the world seemed to hold its breath.

A shadow moved at the mouth of an alley—then another. Figures peeled from the stone walls, cloaked and deliberate.

Too late, Sylvie realized they were being cornered.

Mira froze mid-laugh, and Clara's eyes went wide.

The men wore no insignias, but their intent was clear in the way they moved—casual, cruel, certain.

Sylvie tightened her grip on the apple bundle, heart hammering against her ribs. She opened her mouth to call for help, but one of them stepped forward, a knife flashing in his hand.

"No need to scream," he said, voice oily. "We just want to have a little talk."

The others fanned out, blocking the exit.

For a heartbeat, the world spun. Sylvie remembered Alden's warnings—trust no empty street, no easy smile.

And gods, she wished he was here.

But Alden was already coming.

He had seen them from the far side of the square, the way the men moved, the way Sylvie's body went stiff with fear. His blood turned to ice.

Without thinking, without hesitation, he moved.

Hand on The sword's hilt.

Step by step.

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Toward them.

Toward the past that refused to stay buried.

Toward the revenge he had promised himself the day he left her behind.

And this time, he wasn't going to run.