Shadows and Oaths

The world twisted around Lyria as the assassin pulled her through the void. Shadows coiled around them, thick as smoke, swallowing light and sound alike. It felt like falling through endless darkness—until suddenly, the weight in her chest lifted, and her feet hit solid ground.

She staggered, breathless, the cold night air striking her face. The streets of Valtheris stretched before her, the towering spires of the capital looming against the starless sky. They had moved—no, they had jumped—miles away in a single breath.

“What—” Lyria gasped, gripping her sword tighter. “What the hell just happened?”

The assassin released her wrist, stepping back with a smirk. “Shadow Step. You get used to it.”

Lyria glared at him. “That’s not normal.”

His golden eyes gleamed under the moonlight, unreadable. “Neither are you.”

The words struck deep, but she shoved the feeling aside. She had no time for riddles. The King’s soldiers would be hunting her, and now she was stuck with this man—this predator wrapped in human skin. His presence alone was suffocating, his aura something unnatural, something… wrong.

She took a step back, putting distance between them. “You never told me your name.”

The assassin tilted his head, considering her. Then, with a slow, deliberate smile, he said, “Ronan.”

Lyria committed it to memory. A name laced with danger. A name whispered in fear throughout the kingdom. The King’s Blade.

And now, for some reason, he had spared her.

She lifted her chin. “Why did you help me?”

Ronan crossed his arms, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Because you interest me.”

Lyria frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

Her pulse quickened. There was something about the way he looked at her—like a hunter studying his prey, deciding whether she was worth the effort to kill.

Then, just as quickly, his gaze shifted, scanning their surroundings. The amusement faded, replaced by sharp calculation. “We need to move. The King won’t let you escape so easily.”

“I can handle myself.”

Ronan let out a low chuckle. “Is that so?”

Before she could react, he moved.

One moment he was standing a few feet away—the next, he was right there, his body a blur. Lyria’s instincts screamed at her to dodge, but she wasn’t fast enough. His fingers closed around her throat—not tight enough to choke, but firm enough to remind her that if he wanted her dead, she’d already be on the ground.

“Not fast enough,” he murmured.

Lyria’s heart pounded. Her blade was still in her grip, but it didn’t matter. He was faster. Stronger. Deadlier.

But she refused to show weakness.

She glared up at him, refusing to flinch. “Let go.”

Ronan studied her for a long moment, then smirked and released her. “Not bad. Most people would be begging by now.”

She exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the way her skin burned where he had touched her. “I don’t beg.”

“Good.”

The air between them crackled, thick with something unspoken. A challenge. A promise.

But there was no time for distractions.

A horn sounded in the distance—sharp, echoing through the night.

“The King’s hounds,” Ronan muttered. “They’ve picked up your scent.”

Lyria cursed under her breath. She had spent years surviving, evading capture, but now she was being hunted like an animal.

Ronan glanced at her, then at the approaching lights of torches far down the street. “You want to live?”

Lyria tightened her grip on her blade. “Obviously.”

His smirk returned. “Then keep up.”

And just like that, he took off, vanishing into the night.

Lyria had no choice but to follow.

The streets of Valtheris blurred past as they ran, the city a labyrinth of shadows and stone. Ronan moved like liquid darkness, effortless and untouchable. Lyria forced herself to keep pace, her body screaming in protest after the fight with the Abyssborn.

The soldiers were gaining.

Then, without warning, Ronan grabbed her wrist again and yanked her sideways—straight into a narrow alley. He pressed her against the wall, his body inches from hers, their breath mingling in the cold air. His hand clamped over her mouth just as the soldiers thundered past the entrance of the alley, their torches casting flickering light against the stone.

Lyria’s heart slammed against her ribs. She could feel him—his warmth, his strength, the raw power coiled beneath his skin. His scent—something dark, like steel and smoke—filled her senses.

She should push him away. She should demand space.

But she didn’t.

Ronan’s golden eyes met hers, sharp and dangerous. His voice was barely a whisper. “Stay still.”

The soldiers lingered, scanning the streets. One of them paused, glancing toward the alley. Lyria held her breath.

Ronan’s grip on her tightened. If they were caught here, they were dead.

A long, excruciating moment passed. Then another.

Finally, the soldier turned away. The group continued forward, their voices fading into the distance.

Only when silence returned did Ronan release her. He stepped back, his expression unreadable. “Not bad.”

Lyria exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the way her pulse was still racing. “If you grab me like that again, I’ll cut off your hand.”

Ronan laughed, a rich, amused sound. “Noted.”

She shook her head, pushing past him. “We need to leave the city.”

“Agreed.”

She glanced back at him. “And then what?”

Ronan’s smirk faded. For the first time, something serious flickered in his gaze. “Then we find out why the hell the Blade of Velmora chose you.”

Lyria stiffened. The blade at her side pulsed, almost as if it heard him.

Something dark stirred in her chest.

Before she could answer, a deep, chilling voice echoed from the rooftops above.

“Well, well. The King will be pleased to know we found his little runaway.”

Lyria’s blood ran cold.

Three figures stood on the edge of the building, silhouetted against the moonlight. Their armor gleamed, etched with runes that pulsed with dark magic. Their eyes burned red beneath their helmets.

The King’s Executioners.

Ronan cursed under his breath. “They sent the elite after you?”

Lyria tightened her grip on her blade. “Looks like it.”

The Executioners leaped down, landing with unnatural grace. Their leader stepped forward, a wicked, curved sword in his grip. “Come quietly, girl, and we’ll make your death quick.”

Lyria smirked, lifting her blade. “You can try.”

The leader chuckled. “Then die screaming.”

He lunged.

Ronan moved at the same time, his sword a blur of silver.

Steel met steel.

The night erupted in fire and blood.