Chapter 11: The Oath in Moonlit Shadow
(A Covenant Forged Under the Eye of History)
Part 1
Lynne did not flee far that night. With her bull-necked warrior and the archer, she lingered at the town's edge like a ghost tethered to unfinished business. Her companions urged haste—"This cursed place reeks of ill fortune!"—yet she sat knee-to-chest beneath the cold moon, fingertips tracing the lunar crest of her bow. Dawn found her eyes bloodshot, her mind a tempest of fractured resolve.
When Bennett's caravan departed at first light, an oxcart trailed behind, its cargo a bound mage slumped in misery. The man's robes clung to his shivering frame, soaked through by the meticulous cruelty of Bennett's knights: a bucket of icy water every hour, shattering any hope of sleep or spellcraft.
Inside his velvet-cushioned carriage, Bennett sprawled like a contented cat, buried in a leather-bound tome. The vehicle's enchanted suspension absorbed the road's teeth-rattling grooves—a luxury paid for in his mother's gold. His serenity, however, soon fractured.
Tap-tap.
Madd's voice seeped through the window, strained with deference. "Young Master… a matter requires your attention."
Bennett cracked the shutter, squinting at his steward's furrowed brow. Madd rode a chestnut mare, its gait matching the carriage's rhythm. "The tavern girl," he muttered. "She's been shadowing us since dawn. Three riders, a hundred paces back."
Peering through the dust-clouded rear window, Bennett glimpsed Lynne's silhouette—stubborn, spectral, her long legs gripping the saddle with restless tension. The household knights exchanged smirks. Had their lord conquered the fiery wench? Did love's arrow pierce her pride? Their stifled laughter clung to the wind.
"Halt the caravan," Bennett ordered. "Bring her to me."
Part 2
Lynne's mind churned as two knights galloped toward her. Why follow? Not for the mage's sake—that spineless worm deserved his fate. Perhaps it was Bennett's parting sneer: "Blood doesn't lie." Or the way moonlight had carved his demon-smile into her memory.
The knights' courtesy surprised her. "The Master requests your presence." No blades drawn, no threats—only a thread of unspoken mockery.
Bennett waited in his carriage, door ajar. Sunlight gilded his bored slouch. "Why trail me like a lost pup?"
She dismounted, boots crunching gravel. For a heartbeat, the world stilled. Then—a knee struck earth. Lynne bowed her head, voice trembling yet resolute: "I, Lynne Moon, pledge my sword and soul to you. Let my blood water your ambitions. Will you accept this oath?"
Silence pooled thick as tar.
Bennett studied her—the moon-pale knuckles gripping her cloak, the defiant jut of her chin. "Why?"
"I'm… tired." The admission spilled like a cracked dam. "A lone vine withers. I need a tree… your tree."
His laughter rang hollow. "And you think me a mighty oak?"
"You see truths others are blind to." Her gaze lifted, raw as an open wound. "Even if the world calls you a fool."
Part 3
Madd interjected with the haste of a man reciting scripture: "By imperial decree, my lord may appoint ten Honor Knights! Each may retain up to five squires, thus—"
"Enough." Bennett waved him off. To Lynne: "You'll be my first. A female Honor Knight—how delightfully scandalous."
Her companions stiffened. The bull-warrior's hope died in his throat; the archer's hands clenched white on his reins. Bennett spared them not a glance. Mediocre muscle. Cheap arrows. Their worth? Less than the mud caking his wheels.
"Your men may serve as your squires," he yawned. "As for titles? Let them dream on."
Lynne's chest tightened. This is surrender. Her ragged band of rebels—reduced to footnotes in a noble's ledger. Yet when she glimpsed Bennett's eyes—cold, calculating, alive with schemes vaster than her nightmares—a shiver ran through her. Not fear. Anticipation.
As the caravan lurched forward, Madd leaned close to Bennett. "Was this wise? Her bloodline…"
"The Moon Clan's remnants are exactly what I need." Bennett snapped his book shut. "Let history call me a fool. Let them underestimate. When the hour comes…"
His fingers brushed the carriage's velvet drapes, crimson as fresh blood.
"...even demons kneel."
Part 4
Nightfall draped the Roselyn Estate in silence. Lynne stood at the edge of Bennett's private courtyard, her new cloak—emblazoned with the Roselyn falcon—heavy as chains.
Her archer spat into the dirt. "We're glorified stablehands now."
The bull-warrior grunted, sharpening his axe. "Better than starving."
Lynne said nothing. The moon hung low, its silver gaze peeling her soul bare. Somewhere in the manor, Bennett's laughter echoed—a sound like daggers sheathed in silk.
What have I done?
Centuries later, chroniclers would immortalize this night. The birth of the Demon's Vanguard. The first crack in an empire's foundations. But for now—
—it was simply a girl kneeling in the dark, her oath heavier than any crown.