Chapter Eighty-One: The Oath

In the snow-covered forest, the souls encircled Lukas. He gazed at their faces, at these spirits newly freed, and at last, he understood what had been lost, piecing together the whole tale.

The hero who helped the villagers slay the pirates that night...

The figure in the cabin, who laid little Isa’s body to rest and gently carried away her nascent soul...

The silhouette that felled the stitched monster and severed the necromancer’s head...

That mysterious person unknown to Lukas now overlapped with the wandering knight before his eyes.

He suddenly recalled where he had seen that radiant sword—it had been this noble soul, all along, aiding those like him, the weary and desperate, the refugees who had abandoned their homeland.

Lukas bowed deeply, unsure how to express the tumult of feeling within. He saw little Isa weeping alone in the darkness—the ever-solitary child whom he had never seen cry before; so strong, so stubborn, always too proud to accept help.

Not even in death did anyone remain at her side.

How frightened and cold she must have been, to shed such tears.

But the prince—he had soothed the pain in Isa’s heart with warmth and kindness.

No, now she should be called Mia.

Look at her—how freely she soared around Lukas. That was the true spirit of a child, the joy a child should possess.

Those who had died had found redemption.

“Lukas Porter, offers you his highest respect.”

Kneeling on one knee, as if before a king, Lukas lowered his head.

He offered his most sincere heart, without reservation.

Mia returned to Vaid’s side, and the souls gradually faded away.

Vaid was about to vanish, but before he did, he felt something strange emanating from Lukas.

Lukas’s vow was utterly pure.

He was like the souls who wished to fight alongside Vaid, offering his heartfelt devotion.

Yet Lukas was still among the living—could a vow be made between the dead and the living?

Vaid did not know the answer, but this incarnation was already dissipating, and he felt the clarity of awakening from a dream.

He looked silently for a few seconds, then unfastened the radiant sword and its scabbard from his waist.

There were many things he could not take with him.

He would return to that barren wasteland, but the living must go on.

The living needed this sword far more than he.

Vaid reached out and held the sword by its scabbard, halting it before Lukas.

Lukas looked up; no words were needed to understand Vaid’s intent.

The rest of the journey was theirs to walk alone.

This sword was Vaid’s final gift to him.

The scene resembled an ancient knighting ceremony: in those war-torn days, a king would touch a knight’s left shoulder with a sacred blade, and under the gaze of the gods, the knight would pledge virtue, vowing to remain forever humble, honest, merciful, brave, and just—to defend sacrifice, honor, and soul above all.

Only when the knight had sworn his eternal defense of virtue would the king grant him the sword.

Likewise, Lukas swore his oath: “Upon my life and soul, I vow to uphold your path, in life or in death.”

He received the radiant sword from Vaid’s hand, and in that moment of oath, Vaid sensed a bond forming between them.

This was a man who had given his whole heart, who would defend his vow with all he was.

Even after death, his spirit would fight for justice and mercy.

And when he was gone, Vaid could perhaps call upon his soul to fight at his side.

Between Vaid and Lukas, a vow was forged—like that of king and subject.

In the final moments, Vaid removed his iron helm.

The skull beneath was revealed before Lukas.

Yet Lukas showed neither shock nor wavering; he had seen the nobility of the spirit, and was no longer troubled by outward forms.

This was the path he would defend—the road he was meant to walk.

The bewilderment of a lost lamb had left his heart.

He watched as Vaid and the spirits vanished together; like a dream, it was as if they had never been.

The iron helm fell to the ground; only Lukas remained.

But in his hands, the radiant sword felt weighty and full of power.

He gathered up Vaid’s helm and sword, collected the tattered garments, and continued alone, pressing on.

From afar, dawn’s light began to rise.

He could see the pale line of morning; holding those relics, Lukas crossed mountains and frozen earth, and before noon, returned to the ravine.

As promised, he brought the Mist Stone; York and Baldur emerged from the trees.

The dwarf and Baldur stared dumbfounded at the relics Lukas carried, once belonging to the wandering knight.

They did not ask about the Mist Stone; both stood open-mouthed, simply stunned.

Only when Lukas approached did the parched-lipped dwarf tremble and ask, “Where is the honored lord?”

“He is gone,” Lukas said solemnly, “but do not mourn—he still exists in this world, and I firmly believe that one day, we shall meet again.”

Baldur was perplexed by Lukas’s words, but the dwarf seemed to understand, a sense of relief as if he had seen through to the truth.

“That lord truly came from elsewhere,” the dwarf said.

“You saw this long ago, York?” asked Lukas.

“York has studied many things, Porter,” the dwarf replied.

The first time he met Vaid, the dwarf had stumbled in the snow.

The Tanians could not understand, but the dwarf had spent years studying the occult.

He had truly been startled then—the being hidden beneath that iron helm and ragged clothes was beyond his comprehension.

He dared not expose it, dared not act, being timid and fearful.

Only after much contact did he gradually realize that perhaps things were not as he thought; perhaps this was simply a living soul, one truly noble and humble.

“The necromancer was beheaded by the prince, and the dead of Alvador have been released,” Lukas said, producing the Mist Stone from his cloak. “York, let the mists rise—let’s gather the others and move on.”

“Across the mountains, toward distant lands. The rivers there are still frozen; we can cross the ice to the far bank and reach Fort Lilac.”

“But Porter, your wounds, your eyes...” The dwarf looked at the shocking injuries and scars Lukas bore.

“Forward is the only way, York,” Lukas replied.

The dwarf met Lukas’s gaze and saw the resolve and conviction within.

“York understands,” the dwarf nodded.

He gripped the Mist Stone, cut his palm with a knife, and let his blood drip onto the stone.

The mist spread through forest and river, a white shroud veiling earth and mountain.

The islanders did not know where this blinding fog had come from, nor did they know that a band of Tanians, having gathered their things anew, were setting out toward the horizon.