Syril lingered gingerly on the last sentence – something stopped him from turning the page.

“-the world you now live in.”

His heart raced, blood rushed to his ears, and dread again held his nerve within her icy talons.

Was this truly his world now? His destiny?

What once would have seemed like an unbelievable dream, one of gods and magic and heroes, had instead deteriorated into something more akin to a nightmare. One he had yet to awake from.

He feared turning the page would mean accepting this fate, this amalgamation of torture and pain, a world of murder and betrayal—a place where he was never safe.

Would he be running forever? Could he even go back to what he had?

Despite himself, he gripped the watch with a familiar white-knuckle force, the pain easing his churning stomach. Syril knew now that there was something in the golden timepiece, some consciousness that could talk to him, look out for him. Even though the voice refused to speak to him or perhaps presently lacked the ability, Syril still felt its presence. It was warm and weighed like a parent’s embrace.

It made him feel less alone.

Syril took a breath, taking care to feel every molecule of air enter his lungs before exhaling just as slowly. This was his world now, at least until he found Davion and his Uncle; these were his challenges, and he couldn’t be left in the darkness anymore.

He wouldn’t be left anymore.

And so, his hand, no longer frozen, turned the page, and he read as if his life depended on it.

To be fair, it probably did.

The remainder of the day passed quickly, not that Syril paid any attention. He sat alone on his bed, reading about the deeds and history of the Oath Keepers; he paused only once to eat his dinner, not wanting to drop food onto the already yellowed pages accidentally.

By the time he’d finished the book, he’d exhausted his mind to the point of failure, his eyes felt heavier than lead, and his mouth was as dry as a desert.

His brain felt like a whirlpool in a library. It swirled with words and sentences, paragraphs, and chapters. If it’d been any other book or subject, Syril would have grimaced at the thought of continuing or even remembering half of what he’d read; but he’d consumed every word on the page as if he was starving, and they were his only meal.

To his shock, Syril did enjoy learning about the Oath Keepers. He felt a kinship with the words in Brightshell’s book; it moved beyond a basic interest in history.

It was part of his story.

But to say he’d found everything in the book exciting would be a lie. There were complete chapters dedicated to mere politics, where dates and names sprawled so freely through sentences that Syril felt dizzy with boredom. The author spent fifteen whole pages just naming and explaining the political structure of the Oath Keepers five hundred years ago, detailing each role, no matter how small, in such excruciating detail that Syril had come dangerously close to putting his head through a wall.

He had spent most of his time looking carefully for any reference to Serith, the tabooed man that no one talked about, where the mere mention of the name caused stirs and brittle pauses in conversation. But the only reference of substance Syril could find was a small message in a section discussing the creation of the first Oath.

“The origin of the Oath Keepers dates far beyond the chronicling of days and time, to a period known as ‘division’. During this time, Mortals and the more powerful Ethirians were engaged in a long and bloody battle.

Timelines differ depending on the context. Some set the length of the war as long as 100 years; others place a more realistic nine years to its history. Despite this, scholars mostly agreed that the Oath Keepers were formed at the very end of the war.

Ethirians, who, until this point, had been winning, took a significant loss when the traitor, Serith, defected to aid the mortals for unknown reasons. However, his aid allowed the mortals another fighting chance against the Ethirians.”

That was it. That was the most extensive reference to Serith that Syril had found throughout the book. The only other was a small sentence mentioning the agreement between mortals and Ethirians to guard the prison containing Serith. No explanation as to what he’d done, how exactly Serith helped the mortals, or why they had turned on their apparent saviour.

It had left Syril equally disappointed and exhausted. He felt his search for the truth would be more complicated than he’d expected.

So as he lay in bed, warm and comfortable under the sheets, his mind spun webs of questions within itself; and he allowed it to wander and wonder without complaint.

He stared into the darkness of his room. The ceiling was a black hole in the darker night; its immense gravity swallowed his vision, the blackness all-consuming. Slowly at first, but with building speed, his eyes closed, and his mind slackened into a dull whine as he warmly embraced the night.

He fell into a deep dreaming slumber.

Water dripped slowly in the distance, Each drop echoing solemnly against the dark walls of a cave. The air was stale and musty, and the only circulation was a slight draft that moved from somewhere unseen. Freshly moved dust danced against the faint flicker of light from candles in the centre of the room. They were set up in a large circle. Their glow cast six cloaked figures surrounding the outer edges in a deep shadow.

Syril kneeled in the centre of the circle. He could see the intricate runes carved into the stone beneath him. He moved his hands to trace a symbol, but the chains that bound him to the floor tugged roughly against his wrists. He recognised the runes; he had crafted them many lifetimes ago. He scowled and spat on the ground in disgust.

“I created these runes, and you dare to use them against me?” He growled at the figures, “After everything I’ve done, you insult me like this?”

One of the group stepped forward and struck him hard across the face. Their rings cut deeply into his skin, and he tasted blood as it trailed hotly down his face.

“Do not strike him.” Called a sharp voice, Syril recognised as the sovereign.

The figure that struck stepped back tentatively; their head bowed in embarrassment.

“Don’t do this, Rivira,” He said through gritted teeth, staring at the shortest of the group, “your brother cannot see the truth.”

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“Do not presume to speak to her traitor.” Spat the figure that struck him. He recognised the voice of Allasan Bryoth.

“What will you do to me if I continue, Allasan?” Syril said testily, “lock me away and throw away the key?” then he smiled. It was a wicked smile full of malice and contempt, “Oh wait.”

The cloaked figure he guessed to be Allasan stepped forward, presumably to strike him again, but a firm hand pulled them back into rank, “do not rise to his Goading Bryoth. I will not tell you again.”

“Yes, your liege,” Allasan said sheepishly, bowing their head, “I am deeply sorry.”

“Do not let me regret providing your clan with the honour of the Oath Keeper.” the boy’s voice was calm yet firm, “until this is over, your oath is not yet bound, and I will replace you if I must.”

Syril smiled sharp and wide, ensuring each member could see his unbridled glee at their expense. A cold draft bit at his bare chest, and his smile faltered; they’d removed his shirt to trace runes onto his skin, first with a pen, then later with a knife. Tiny drops of blood still trailed slowly down his frail body, their marks leaving intricate drawings of their own.

“Serith, you have been charged and found guilty of treason, murder, and misuse of the arcane. As the current Potentate, it falls to me to select your punishment. As is tradition, I have stripped you publicly of your rank, clan, and belongings.” The boy said firmly, and his eyes burned so deep into Syril’s own he could see the pupils through the darkened hood, “You will also be imprisoned in the unspeakable lands for what remains of your life. Do you understand?”

Syril didn’t respond. Instead, he looked at the floor and laughed a hollow cruel laugh. It echoed soundly against the darkened walls of the cave, each echo blending into a marvellous symphony of malevolence. There was nothing he could say to stay this punishment. No defence or goodwill would save him now, so he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him beg for his life.

“I do not regret what I did, Sovereign.” He said bitterly, spitting out the last word, “I will not apologise, I will not admonish myself, and I certainly will not plead for mercy.”

The boy king did not react; instead, he reached into a pocket and produced a circular object. Its golden body and silver frame glistened against the warm candlelight. He placed it down in front of Syril, just far enough that he could see it while not reaching it.

Syril recognised it immediately. It was the golden pocket watch he’d given Rivira back before the war, a memory of a simpler, more passionate time. The last reminder of what he’d given up to achieve his goals.

He hung his head in sorrow, wet anguish now grasping at his throat. It took him longer than he cared to admit to realise the watch had been tampered with. Its usually smooth surface was etched in runes that on their own would mean nothing, but when put together, they bore an undeniable truth.

This was to be his prison.

Banishment, imprisonment, and heartbreak that was a punishment worse than death.

“Rivira,” Syril said, his head low, his eyes stinging with tears he fought desperately to hold back, “I will always love you.”

The cloaked woman he knew to be Rivira did not respond; instead, she remained so still she looked frozen in time. Syril sighed and allowed a single tear to fall from his cheek to the stone beneath him. It hissed as it splashed against the rock as if boiling away in a split second.

Rivira made no familiar effort to comfort him, her stillness speaking the words her mouth could not. He was irredeemable in her eyes.

Syril sagged, the wind now firmly removed from his once proud sails. He did not even hold the strength to tell her the truth anymore; if she thought him irredeemable, he would not argue.

Perhaps he was.

“Goodbye, old friend.” The boy king said softly.

All six figures knelt and placed a hand inside the circle of runes and candles. Each muttered a single word known only to them and allowed their power to be pulled away.

A small fragment of blue light danced along the intricate runes that held Syril in place. Each rune, in turn, glowed a vibrant electric blue that dwarfed the pitiful candlelight. Then, rune by rune, each one activated slowly until the whole circle was one giant blinding ball of light.

He felt a heat rise in his body and looked down to see the runes covering his skin glowing a dazzling red. They, too, grew in strength and power until they boiled his skin and burned his bones. He was screaming, he didn’t want to scream, but his body refused its order to halt. His throat went hoarse, and his eyes burned. His body was falling apart, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He closed his eyes again; the pain was so extraordinary it bordered numbness.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Syril opened his eyes again, and there were no more robed figures, no more light, no more runes, no more body.

No more anything.

Everything was dark around him, an emptiness that matched his heart.

He floated there, alone, trapped inside the object that hurt him the most.

If he could have wept, he would have.

The sound of a drum rocked Syril’s dream. It was distant yet loud and irregular, with no rhythm or reason behind it. It continued without pause or hesitation. Finally, the beat grew so loud it pierced his mind and awoke him from his deep slumber.

He opened his eyes, his feet tangled in a web of sheets and quilts. A cold sweat drenched his bedclothes, and his body burned from the memory of Serith’s end. He ran from his bed and threw up into the small basin beneath the mirror.

He looked like hell.

Rinsing his mouth with water from a glass beside his bed, Syril looked toward the banging. It had halted briefly as he threw up but quickly resumed at its rapid pace. It was the door.

He stormed over to it, irritation biting at his lip as he threw the wooden oak door wide open; no care in the world for the terrible state he was now in. Liani stood at the other end, her face anxious and her eyes concerned. She wore a black shirt embroidered with some drink company’s logo, grey track pants and fluffy sandals that looked terribly comfortable.

It was safe to say her presence was surprising, mortifying, and awkward all at the same time.

“The council wants to see you.” She said quickly before he could ask what she was doing at his door in the middle of the night.

“Now? It’s like one in the morning.” Syril said hurriedly, all too aware of his dishevelled state.

“It’s two, actually, and they don’t normally operate on a normal nine-to-five schedule.”

“Do I have time to get changed?” He asked, frantically looking around his room for any other shirt.

“No, they said no delay.” The firmness of her voice stirred fresh panic in Syril.

He grimaced and stepped out of his room, closing the door behind him. Liani wordlessly walked down the hallway, and he followed close behind.

“Is it usually a good sign when they summon someone in the middle of the night?” Syril asked wearily.

Liani responded by speeding up her pace; they walked with an urgency that churned his stomach. He wondered briefly if his sudden summoning had anything to do with his dream. The memory of his burning bones was seared so deeply into his mind that he almost ignored the watch in his pocket.

Almost.

He fingered it more cautiously than he’d ever done before. All too aware of what may be trapped inside.

Was it the same watch from his dream? He tried desperately to recall the pattern carved into the watch’s surface, tracing the corresponding runes on the timepiece in his pocket. He was surprised that he could remember, with impressive clarity, the exact runes he’d seen in the dream.

If it was Serith’s prison, why had it latched onto him so stubbornly? and why did Davion kill for it?

Liani looked back at him quizzically, her eyes sharp and narrow. Had she said something? His mind was so far away that he’d missed it.

“I’m sorry, what?” Syril asked softly.

“I said we’re here.”

Syril looked up at the great iron door that lay before him. How did they get here? He’d never seen this door before.

It was gargantuan, towering over Syril’s small frame so intimidatingly that he felt fragile in comparison. Its edges were framed by brass trimming, and its panelling was carved with delicate runes of gold and silver.

He stared at the door, the familiar feeling of dread rising in his throat. It took him a while to realise there was no handle; instead, it had a large brass knocker in the centre of the door.

“do I knock?” He asked quietly.

When no response came, Syril turned to look at Liani but was gone.

Syril was alone.

Figuring it was worth delaying the inevitable, he wrapped his hand around the knocker, took a deep breath, and hit it against the door three times.

Nothing happened for a long, painful moment. Syril felt his nerves so sharply against his skin that you’d swear he was about to bleed. His body still burned from the memory of his dream, and his shirt was just now beginning to dry.

The door opened with a loud creak, and a dark room greeted Syril. But he had experienced darkness more profound than this meagre room. Unlike the watch’s empty darkness, devoid of anything and everything, this was a familiar darkness, the pure absence of light.

He took a gingerly step forward, and when nothing happened, he took another. His feet slapped loudly against the stone, their echoes telling Syril what his eyes could not.

The room was massive.

Eventually, he reached a small wooden chair. It was simple and stood alone in the centre of what Syril guessed was a large clearing. He sat down; it was uncomfortable and pinched at his legs, but he forced himself to remain still.

From the sky, six beams of light bore down onto six large seats raised high above the ground, four occupied by people Syril did not recognise, one empty, and the last occupied by a man he’d recognise anywhere. His hulking frame was uncontainable amongst his comparatively small chair; his brown eyes conveyed such contempt for Syril that it radiated like a fire through a room.

Syril felt all his strength leave him, and his body tensed, his mind awash with panic and fear as he stared into the eyes of Darek Seabright.