Chapter Two: "The Weight of Oaths"
of
"Have You Someone to Protect?"
By ©Amer
A sharp clang echoed through the battlefield—steel striking steel, cries of the wounded, and the heavy scent of blood painting the air with dread. Caelum Virelian knelt beside the dying king, armor cracked and face stained with ash.
"You must protect… the bearer…" the king rasped, his fingers tightening around Caelum's gauntlet.
"The bearer of what, Your Majesty?" Caelum asked, his breath shallow, the sky above flickering with fire and cloud.
"The… Sigil of Veritas. The last flame of peace," the king whispered. "When the stars align… and the full moon rises red… they will rise again. You must not fail."
The king's hand went still. His crown rolled into the dirt, its weight forgotten by the world.
Caelum bowed his head. "I vow it. Even if time forgets me… I will not forget this."
"Caelum Virelian..." the king rasped one last time, barely audible. "This world will forget many things... but not you. You must protect the last bearer of this. You must protect her."
"I swear it," Caelum whispered, his head bowed, palm open to receive the sigil. "Even if it costs me everything."
And like that, the vow was sealed in silence.
The sigil—the mark of Veritas—flared with a dull gold light before vanishing beneath his skin. And time… paused.
After the fall of the old kingdom, Caelum vanished. The world moved on, seasons turned, kings rose and fell. But he remained, untouched by age, his purpose unfinished. Bound to a vow that tethered him to a future bearer yet unknown.
Now, in the quiet town of Solara, nestled beneath silver clouds and soft-spoken days, Caelum found himself drawn to a quaint bookshop — and to the woman who ran it.
It had been two weeks since he arrived, offering to help fix creaking shelves and restore timeworn books. She never asked questions. He never gave answers.
That afternoon, sunbeams spilled through the shop's wide windows. The scent of dried paper, lavender tea, and old wood warmed the air.
Lhady Amer emerged from behind the stacks, a book tucked under one arm and a gentle smile on her face. Her violet shawl, soft as dusk, rested over her shoulders — always violet, as if it belonged to another lifetime.
"You've hardly taken a break," she said, holding out a small tray with a ceramic cup. "I thought you might like something warm."
Caelum accepted it with quiet gratitude. "You're kind."
She tilted her head. "It's just tea. But if you're the sort who only drinks stormwater and fire, I could try again."
He almost smiled.
"I'm not used to quiet places," he murmured, his voice a low wind brushing through old memories.
"Then perhaps this is where you learn how," she said, sitting near but not too close, a respectful distance between them. She reached for the book she had set aside earlier. "This one's about ancient oaths and forgotten empires. I think you'd like it."
He looked at her, then at the pendant resting on the table beside them.
His breath caught.
The Sigil of Veritas — shaped into a delicate heirloom — glimmered faintly. It pulsed once, as though remembering its other half.
She followed his gaze. "Oh, that? It's always been in my family, I think. My grandmother said it was just an old charm."
A silence fell, heavy with recognition.
He looked away first. "It's beautiful."
"I like having it near," she said, absentmindedly adjusting her shawl. "Feels like a… memory I never lived, but want to remember."
Just outside the back of the shop, she had been tending a few clay pots where violet flowers began to bloom—fragile, lovely, and difficult to grow in Solara's soil. She checked them often, whispering quiet encouragement to their petals. "If you bloom," she had once said to them, "maybe I will too."
Then, gently—almost shyly—she added, "You're welcome to stay here, you know. Not out of pity. Just... if you ever need a place to rest. Just promise you won't carry your burdens alone."
He looked at her, truly looked—and saw someone unknowingly carrying the weight of worlds.
"I'll try," he said, and meant it.
Later that evening, as the golden haze of twilight faded behind the hills, Caelum found Lhady near the flower pots behind the shop. The violet flowers she had been coaxing into bloom were finally opening, their petals trembling in the breeze.
"You're still tending to them," he said gently, his footsteps light on the stone path.
She turned with a soft smile, brushing soil from her fingers. "They're stubborn. But I think they're starting to trust me."
Caelum crouched nearby, careful not to get too close. "You speak to them as though they understand."
"Maybe they do," she mused. "They remind me that even something fragile can be persistent. That blooming isn't easy, but it's still possible."
He studied her face—kind, quiet, and full of a strength he couldn't name. Something in his chest stirred, something he thought time had buried.
"You seem different when you're here," he said. "More yourself."
"And you seem like you're trying not to be noticed," she replied, her voice light but curious.
A pause.
"Perhaps I'm just waiting to remember who I am," he said at last.
A breeze rustled the petals, and somewhere beyond the trees, a faint tremor rippled through the ground—subtle, but enough to set Caelum on edge. His gaze shifted briefly toward the forest.
Lhady noticed the change in him. "Is something wrong?"
He forced a small smile. "No. Just... old ghosts."
In those quiet days, the townsfolk began to whisper. Not unkindly—just the way small towns often did. That the quiet man in the shop had softened. That Lhady, too, smiled more.
One old woman at the apothecary chuckled, "You'd think she's forgotten her first love, the way she talks about him fixing shelves."
Lhady only laughed it off. But sometimes, when she wasn't looking, Caelum would grow quiet.
He didn't know the whole story. He didn't ask. Because whatever had come before—he wasn't here to replace it. He was here because of a vow.
And somewhere in his heart, that vow had begun to echo not as duty... but something else.
Unbeknownst to them, in that quiet garden, by blooming violet flowers, neither Lhady nor Caelum spoke of danger. Just of roots and petals, and tea waiting inside.
The cloaked figures moved faster now. The presence of both the bearer and the protector in one place had triggered something ancient—an alarm echoing through realms unseen. Their time was running short.
The ground pulsed.
A cloaked figure stopped mid-step, his hand pressed to the earth. "Did you feel that?"
Another nodded. "The sigil awakened. Only for a blink. But it was enough."
"They're close," a third whispered. "The bearer and her protector. They've drawn near one another. That resonance... it's calling."
The first figure rose, his voice a low snarl. "Then the seal is breaking. And they must be found before the full moon."
They vanished into shadow.
Above, the moon, pale and watchful, crept upward. The sky knew. The earth remembered. And deep within Solara, two souls unknowingly reawakened a forgotten vow.