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.”
Chaos erupted as the crowd mocked the boy,
“We caught the monster, we stopped the rebellion; we have peace, you insolent child!” called a pot-bellied man from closer to the front, dressed in a deep purple vesture, his head ordained in an over-the-top headdress.
His response was met with cheers of agreement from the crowd. The boy stood motionless, quietly watching the crowd, waiting patiently as the men and woman spit noxious vitriol from the stands.
Eventually, the noise died, and the boy spoke, “we are not at peace, Elder Taras. We are not at peace for the same reason we went to war – the mortals are afraid of us.”
When the crowd remained silent, the boy continued, “The mortals are afraid because we have given them reasons to be afraid. We are short-tempered and cruel. The monsters they so desperately stay off were put there for our amusement. We may be powerful, but we cannot continue like this for much longer.”
“But it’s just so bloody funny!” called a tall elvish man from beside Syril, causing him to just about jump out of his seat in shock. The man’s dressage was a white version of Elder Taras’s, and his face was painted with long straight lines that accented his bone structure. Rather than a headdress, the man wore a small golden crown ordained with various otherworldly and colourful jewels.
Some laughed at the comment; Syril couldn’t find the joke.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
“There is no humour in this.” The boy called from the stage, “It is for these exact reasons that many of our loved ones are now sailing the ethereal lake.”
Silence again befell the crowd.
“If we continue treating mortals as disposable playthings, we will face this problem again. We are in a unique situation right now to fix this before it gets worse; before it escalates to a point we can’t control.”
“You thin we can’t handle some we’mortals”, an unseen man shouted from the stands.
“We barely handled them this time!” the boy shouted back, obviously losing his patience, “we discovered that they can kill us; they are capable of that. Granted, it was with help and great difficulty, but they can do it. What’s to say they don’t perfect the technique in a hundred years?”
“Then let’s wipe them out!” Elder Taras shouted, red in the face and giving the distinct impression of an overheating pig, “before they can turn on us again!”
More cheers from the crowd. Syril felt sickened.
“The mortals surrendered Taras; do you really want to be the monsters they see us to be”
“It needn’t matter if they’re all dead!” Syril could see spittle fly from Taras’s mouth as he shouted at the stage, “You’re weak just like your father!”
The previously explosive mob was now silent. Syril sensed that the Elder had strayed into territory he would struggle to navigate out of.
“Taras. I will say this to you only once; I may not be my father, but I am now the Potentate of these lands, and you will remember your place in my court.”
Taras opened his mouth to respond, but the boy interjected, holding up his hand, “Elder Taras, my father was a patient man. But I am afraid it is a quality I lack.” The boy closed his fist, and an audible crack echoed through the stands; the hairs on the back of Syril’s neck stood on end, “So if you open your mouth again, it had better be for a good reason. If not, I will kill you where you stand. Am I understood?”
Taras mumbled inaudibly.
“What was that, Elder Taras?”
“I said it was understood, Potentate,” Taras grunted, constipating each word as if they caused actual harm. Syril could see the beads of sweat pooling on his forehead.
“Very good.” The boy cleared his throat, “As I was saying, the mortals grow stronger daily. We cannot fight any longer; we must instead make peace with them directly.”
The boy waited, expecting uproar from the attending members; however, it appeared the seriousness of his previous threat had not been lost.
“Can the chosen members from the clans of Bryoth, Esther, Runina and Almael step forward.”
Four figures rose in their chairs from the front pews and uniformly marched to the stage. Each member dressed in a black tunic that hugged their various features; the lining was trimmed in a deep red, each bearing a different sigil. What skin was visible was painted in intricate linings that Syril likened to veins. They bowed to the boy as they approached the stage before turning to face the audience.
“These four clans have elected emissaries to live amongst the mortals…” loud whispers of confusion and fear echoed through the stands; the boy, however, did not stop speaking, “they will live amongst the mortals, training them, teaching them our power…”
“So they may use it against us!?” shrieked a woman from the audience, “So they may slaughter us!?”
The boy looked at the woman, unflinching, “So they may defend themselves, Serila. Call it an assurance of mutual destruction; neither the mortals nor we will attack when we are equal in strength.”
“You are giving our greatest weapon to the enemy!” Elder Taras shouted from his seat, once again hurling spittle across the stadium as he furiously barked at the boy. His angry expression quickly dissolved into sheepish fear as the boy turned toward him; Taras fell back into his seat and did his best to hide his oversized body.
“I am giving them a weapon to fight back with.” the boy gestured wildly to the four figures standing before him, “they are our best bet of staying future wars, of assuring the safety and longevity of Ethirius.”
Syril blinked; were they talking about magic?
A small woman stood, and the crowd all turned to watch her; she wore an elegant golden dress that appeared to gracefully shimmer around her – as if the light itself were holding it into place. Her golden hair fell softly to her shoulders, and her eyes burned a sparkling purple.
Syril was sure he’d never seen a woman so beautiful. He was ready to abandon everything to be next to her, to see her smile; he felt a joy he’d never experienced; it was one of pure ecstasy and bliss.
“Syril, focus!” the voice whispered indignantly into his head, “don’t look at the pretty woman; she’s dangerous.”
Syril slapped himself; what the hell just happened to him?
Almost in response to his question, the boy called from the stage, “Rivira, please stop that; you are not helping.”
Sure enough, as Syril gazed at the crowd, men and women drooled up at the beautiful woman. One very unlucky man had tried to climb over his seat to be closer to her; he instead smashed his face into the ground.
“Oh, whoops, yep, sorry.” The woman snickered from the stands, her voice like velvet on Syril’s ears. She waved a perfect hand, and he felt a weight fall from him, like a force he had previously not noticed being separated from his body.
Syril blinked and looked at the crowd as they regained composure, most casting their eyes towards the ground in a mixture of anger and embarrassment. The unlucky man who had faceplanted awkwardly got off the floor and sat beside a very upset-looking lady.
“Did you have a question, Rivira, or did you just want to upstage me?” the boy angrily demanded.
“Oh, I do have a question, brother. How long will the emissaries be gone? And as the ruler of Ethirius, don’t you think you should have an emissary of your own?” Rivira smiled sweetly at her brother, but it was a smile that did not meet her eyes.
For the most part, her brother maintained an impressive level of composure; however, as the boy stared at his sister, Syril could sense the cold hostility between the two.
“A valid question, Rivira.” The boy again paused, seeming to consider his following words carefully, “the emissaries will not return…”
In what had become an annoying trend, the audience erupted into another round of uproar and pandemonium. Insults were again hurled, and the air was electrified with anger so powerful that it felt like the ground would open from the pressure.
“How does anything get done in this place?” Syril bitterly thought.
Minutes went by, and like clockwork, the voices died, and the boy spoke, “I will also be sending an Emissary of my clan to oversee the project.”
“And who will you send, brother? Yourself perhaps? So you can lord over the mortals as you do us?” Rivira asked, smiling devilishly as she looked down upon her younger brother.
“I will be sending you Rivira.”
She looked like a deer in headlights as she shakily slid down into her seat, “you… you can’t! I’m a… a”
“You are in my clan, to which I lead. You will do as I say, Rivira, and that is final.”
She looked at her brother, and Syril watched as the shock worked its way to anger, then sadness, and then finally settling on a begrudging bitter acceptance.
“I am sorry, sister; we can speak after this.” The boy looked sympathetically at his sister, who, in turn, looked miserable.
A sharp silence fell over the crowd as none dared interfere in what was happening. Even Elder Taras looked down at the stage, terrified and bemused.
The boy took a breath and continued speaking, “In return for the peace, the mortals have promised us an invaluable service.”
He looked down at the chained figure. Syril had almost forgotten the sorrowful man kneeling at the centre of the stage, which was odd considering his prominence.
“The five clans, in conjunction with the mortals, will provide guardship over Serith the traitor.”
The crowd remained bitterly quiet.
A loud pop sounded as the boy pulled a scroll from the air, unfurling it and holding it up to read, “Serith of clan Elkford for the crimes of murder and treason, I, as ruler of these lands, strip you of your clan, its name, and all possessions you may hold. I also remand you to the custody of the unspeakable lands, where you will stay for as long as there are stars in the sky and rock on our ground.”
The scroll dissolved into the air with a whip of the boy’s wrist, and the guards surrounding the pitiful chained figure closed in. Serith did not speak or resist as they unlatched the chains from the ground; he simply stood and walked with the guards towards the exit in the side of the stadium.
The boy pulled another scroll from the air.
“Rivira, please come to the stage,” the boy phrased it like a request, but Syril sensed it was more of an order.
He watched as the beautiful woman begrudgingly walked down the stairs; he felt a mighty sorrow overcome him, infecting him with a wish to see this goddess liberated. Syril felt that he alone could save her from this punishment, this flagrant abuse of power.
Even her dress, now a dull grey, wanted Rivira to be rescued; it pulled against her every step, giving the impression someone was straining against it. Her previously golden elegant hair had turned dull white, hanging messily around her shoulders.
Syril quickly noticed that he was not alone in his emotions; men and women cried in agony as she walked by – one man sobbing so hard that he passed out.
“Rivira!” the boy called from the stage.
“I’m sorry!” She responded and waved her hand. Syril watched as her dress and hair returned to their previous golden shade; he felt a weight vanish again.
She continued walking to the stage, the audience quiet as her heels echoed off the stone stairs. As she entered the stage, the sand beneath her feet turned to stone, creating an easy pathway for her to traverse to the stage. She slowly walked to the line of emissaries, quietly joining her place as the fifth member.
The boy looked at the five emissaries standing before him, then up towards the audience.
“These five clans will embark on a previously unheard-of journey. They will guide the mortals, teaching them the ways of magic and beyond – strengthening them so we may all live in peace. Do not imagine this will be an easy journey; there will be unknown challenges, you will assimilate into their society, and you will befriend them. They will be equals to you and you to them.”
The boy looked at the parchment in his hand, then back towards the five, “A promise will bind you, an oath so powerful it will destroy you if you veer from it, do you understand?”
“Yes”, all five responded.
“Ok, good. When I have completed the oath reading, please, in turn, respond with your full name and clan.” He cleared his throat,
“You swear to hold to this promise. To the first Oath. To teach and guide the mortals, to defend them from threats they cannot face or fix. To uphold a peace that will last generations, to treat them as equals and not lessers.
You vow to train them to defend their world and ours from the traitor known as Serith. You vow as Oath Keepers to right the wrongs we in Ethirius have upheld for too long. Please speak your names to be bound by this Oath.”
He turned to the Oath Keepers, and they responded in turn,
“Deyras Elviska of clan Esther,” the raven-haired girl heartedly said, her muscles bristling against her uniform and her skin glowing a faint blue aura. She bowed to the boy, placing one hand over her heart.
“Parious Sear of clan Almael,” replied the red-haired boy, his skin a deep green that glowed under the bright sun. He, too, bowed to the boy.
“Melora Navara of clan Runina,” Melora answered enthusiastically, their voice carried through the stadium like an eruption. Their skin was layered in marking and tattoos that glowed brightly.
“Pariel Allasan or clan Bryoth,” squeaked the shortest of the group, with dark braided hair tied into a large ponytail. They were the only ones in the group carrying a weapon, with a much too large sword strapped to their back.
Finally, he turned to Rivira, who glared back at her brother, her dress now settling on a fiery red to match her hair,
“Yeah, sure, whatever. Rivira Dey,” she sighed, “of house Oloran.”