Syril remained quiet, just as he had done for the past five minutes, floating thoughtlessly through an empty abyss. The two dim orbs some distance away proved to be his only scenery, so he studied them. He watched carefully as they stubbornly remained motionless, watching him, examining him.

He felt no heat exude from them, nor did they make a sound; he did not know if he should fear them or feel eased by their presence. Syril chose to do neither, treating them instead with a calm caution.

“You wanted to talk?” he spoke into the void, breaking the long silence.

“Indeed I did Syril Oloran.” The voice responded from the orbs, its tone surprisingly friendly, its accent undetectable.

“It’s Elmdew actually; Syril Elmdew.” He did nothing to hide the bitterness in his voice. It had been a while since he had been referred to as an Oloran; it was a name he had discarded long ago, just as he and his brother had been.

The ghostly voice remained quiet for a long time; Syril was afraid he’d offended it.

“I’m sorry, I was not aware.” Syril was surprised to hear the voice sounded almost sheepish as it spoke. An awkward and uncomfortable silence befell the pair.

“What are you?” Syril asked, desperate to change the subject, “why is my brother looking for you?”

“I fear my answer to both questions will sorely disappoint you.”

“Of course it will,” Syril bitterly responded; he was not shocked; disappointment had been the theme of his night.

“I cannot explain what I am because I am forbidden from sharing such information.” The voice paused, almost as if he was awaiting an interjecting response from Syril. When no such response came, it continued,

“I also cannot attest to your brother’s reasons; I simply do not know why he is doing what he is doing.”

“So let me get this straight-” Syril tried his best to remain calm, “Davion kills my professor, this watch appears in my hand, I get chased by the city guard, a bunch of mercenaries, and some crazy lady named Vanessa. You bend time and space to talk to me, and you can’t even answer the two most important questions I have?!”

“I am forbidden…”

“Yes, I know you’re forbidden from telling me!” Syril snapped, throwing his hands up in exasperation, “what can you actually tell me, oh great disembodied voice?”

It was quiet again; Syril suspected the voice was annoyed and assessing how best to phrase his next statement. He closed his eyes and tried to stay the hurricane of anger pounding within him.

“I can tell you what you are.” The voice quietly responded,

“What?” Syril asked, so confused by the statement that it settled his burning anger.

“Are you familiar with what an Oath is, Syril?”

“Do you mean like a promise?”

“Are you aware of their history? How an oath came to find its meaning in your world.”

“Let’s just assume I don’t.”

“Very well then.” As the voice spoke, the darkness dulled, giving way to a minute amount of light of increasing intensity, roaring to life so brightly that Syril felt his eyes burn.

When the light dimmed to a level that wouldn’t blind him, he opened his eyes to the overwhelming roar that coincided with hundreds of voices. Syril was sitting amongst an arena overflowing with people, each screaming down towards the centre stage.

Syril craned his neck, desperately trying to glimpse whatever provoked such extreme indignation from the crowd, but what he saw only further puzzled him. In the centre of the sand-covered stage knelt a lone figure, their feet and hands bound by chains bolted into the floor – various armoured guards surrounded them, spears held ready for the slightest movement.

“What is going on?” Syril asked the voice, lowering his voice to not attract attention.

“The beginning of the first Oath,” the voice spoke back to him, and only to him, like a whisper on the wind.

“Who’s the guy on the stage?” Syril whispered back, but the voice remained quiet, so Syril did too.

The shouting continued for a few more minutes; Syril listened, trying to make sense of the chaos.

“He needs to be killed!” A voice called from the crowd.

“That’s barbaric. Just exile him to the realm of the mortals he so loves.” Another voice responded

The chaos continued like this for a few more minutes, someone would demand the man on the stage be killed, and another would jeer at the thought of it. Occasionally someone would say something in a language Syril could not understand, and the crowd would respond with a chorus of cheers and heckles.

Footsteps pounded against stone, and the crowd went quiet like a flame without oxygen. Syril again looked around for the source of the crowd’s attention, a small man – no larger than a child – walked towards the centre of the stadium, and each guard he passed stood to well-practised attention.

His footsteps reverberated like distant explosions, and with a start, Syril saw that the sand would turn to stone with each step.

The crowd was eerily quiet; the jeers and chatter from just moments ago had been stifled by the suffocating presence of the small man on the stage.

“Friends and family.” Syril’s eyes widened as the boy spoke; he had to be no older than twelve, “It is rare for all of us to be gathered together like this, so I want to first and foremost thank you all.”

The crowd remained silent, many instead choosing to glower down at the boy, who, for the most part, seemed to either not notice or remained indifferent.

“I know this war has been as hard as it has been long. We have seen a previously unfathomable amount of loss.”

He paused to look around the stadium, “You have all sacrificed much for the sake of peace –” the boy’s gaze held Syril’s own long enough to make him uneasy, “we have lost brothers, sisters, friends…”

He looked down at the figure on the ground, “even fathers.”

Syril again tried to get a clearer picture of the figure, but the closer he looked, the more unusual it appeared.

“I know you all expected me to come up onto this stage as both the arbiter of peace and judge of the dammed.” He paused again, “but I simply cannot say we truly are at peace."