Page 91 of Oath
It was the size of two horses, skin blackened and slick like tar, eyes burning with an inner fire that seared as it looked. Its mouth unhinged too wide, jagged teeth glinting wet. It hit the ground on all fours and tore through three men before they had time to raise shields.
And then there were more.
They came in a tide—demonic beasts with claws like hooked blades, horns curling from skulls, their howls a sound born of nightmares. The forest erupted with them, and the weary, broken column of men found themselves swallowed whole.
“Hold ranks!” Clyde roared, his voice a battle-drum. “Shields forward! Spears high!”
But fear splintered discipline. Some men turned and ran, vanishing into the trees. Others screamed prayers. The younger ones froze until the claws reached them.
Clyde was everywhere at once—dragging men into formation, cutting beasts down with brutal efficiency. His sword hackedthrough blackened sinew, his arm never stopping, his shield arm braced though it was bare now of oak and steel.
“Stay with me!” he shouted, voice raw. “Stay together!”
A claw caught his thigh, fresh blood spilling hot down his leg. He staggered, drove his blade through the creature’s skull, shoved it off. Another leapt. He ducked, felt its fetid breath scorch past his face.
Renn would have been at his side, Clyde thought. Merrick too. For a heartbeat, ghosts fought with him. He saw their faces in every flash of fire and steel.
The beasts did not tire. They came in waves, snarling, shrieking. For every one that fell, two more appeared. The forest floor slicked with blood; man and monster alike.
Clyde fought until his arms were numb, until his breath tore ragged in his throat, until his men’s screams blurred into a single, endless howl.
Then the ground shook.
A shadow loomed.
From between the pines, a massive figure forced its way into the clearing, towering above the others, its body a grotesque fusion of bone and sinew. One claw alone was longer than Clyde’s sword, glistening with fresh gore.
The men faltered. Some dropped weapons.
Clyde stepped forward.
He raised his blade, bloodied and trembling but still unbroken. “With me!” he roared.
The creature struck.
A claw swept like a scythe through the chaos, catching Clyde square in the chest. He felt the impact before the pain, the breath torn from him, ribs cracking, armour tearing as the claw punched clean through.
For a heartbeat, the world went silent.
Clyde looked down, saw the beast’s talon buried in his chest, blood spilling hot across the ribbon still tied to his wrist.
And he thought—of a hearth. Of roses. Of a little girl’s laugh. Of Aerion’s voice calling him dog with venom and love.
Then the darkness surged.
Chapter twenty-two
Home
The keep pulsed with life, every corridor buzzing like a hive. Servants rushed with armfuls of linens and garlands, courtiers rehearsed toasts and speeches, the kitchens belched steam and spice. At the center of it all was Aerion, striding like a man possessed—sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, velvet cloak trailing like a shadow of authority.
Isolde trailed after him as faithfully as his shadow itself. Barefoot despite the polished floors, her small braid bouncing, her little hands clutching a wooden doll with half its paintrubbed off. She followed him from hall to hall, her gaze darting curiously to every fluttering banner and every frantic servant.
When her steps grew too short to match his stride, Aerion turned, bent, and scooped her into his arms without breaking pace. She squealed with laughter, clutching his shoulders, the doll wedged between them.
“What are you doing, Papa?” she asked, peering over his arm as he gestured for servants to realign a tapestry.
“Making perfection,” Aerion replied, his voice crisp for the steward and softer for her. “Our knights will return within days. They deserve a banquet so grand that they’ll forget mud and blood, if only for one night.”
