Chapter Three: The Ghost and the Sorceress
The iron door groaned open, revealing a winding stairwell of black stone, its steps descending into the heart of the unknown. A cold wind stirred from below, carrying the scent of damp earth and something deeper, something ancient.
Isolde moved without hesitation, her midnight cloak trailing behind her like living shadow. Aldric followed, his footsteps soundless against the stone. It unsettled him—this unnatural quiet, the absence of his own heartbeat, the weightlessness of his movements. He should have been exhausted. He should have felt something.
But instead, there was only the hollow cold.
They descended for what felt like hours. Time blurred in this place, twisting like the corridors themselves. And then, at last, the stairs opened into a vast underground chamber.
Aldric's breath caught.
Before them stretched a ruined battlefield, entombed beneath the earth. Shattered swords lay scattered among broken bones, rusted armor still wrapped around skeletal remains. Stone pillars, half-buried in the dirt, bore the sigils of long-dead kingdoms. The air itself felt thick with the echoes of war, with old grudges that had never faded.
And at the center of it all stood a single figure.
It was no man.
A towering knight, clad in jagged obsidian armor, loomed amidst the wreckage. Its form was impossibly still, its face hidden behind a helmet carved with runes that pulsed with dim violet light. A greatsword rested in its gauntleted hands, the tip buried in the earth. The air around it shimmered with ghostly energy.
Aldric knew immediately—this was no ordinary corpse.
"What is this place?" he murmured.
"The Grave of Kings," Isolde said. Her voice was quiet, reverent. "A battlefield forgotten by time. A resting place for the greatest warriors who ever lived."
Aldric exhaled, his gaze lingering on the slumbering knight. "And that?"
"The last of the Oathbound."
Something about the name sent a shiver through him.
Isolde turned to face him. "I did not bring you back merely for vengeance, Aldric. The war that took your life has only just begun. King Alric's empire grows stronger by the day, and soon, there will be no kingdom left untouched by his conquest."
Aldric's jaw tightened at the mention of the king—the man who had sentenced him to death, who had turned his own people against him.
"You wish to overthrow him," he guessed.
Isolde's lips curled into a faint smile. "No. I wish to end him."
Aldric studied her, searching for the lie. But there was none. Only cold, unwavering certainty.
He looked back to the Oathbound knight. "And what does this have to do with me?"
Isolde stepped forward, raising one hand. The runes on the knight's armor flared to life, the air vibrating with unseen power. The ground trembled. Bones shifted in the earth. And slowly, the knight began to move.
The grinding of metal filled the chamber as the Oathbound warrior lifted its head, its eyes igniting with ghostly blue fire.
Aldric's muscles tensed on instinct, his body preparing for battle even before he remembered that he no longer fought with the limitations of a living man.
The knight straightened to its full height, its greatsword lifting from the ground as if weightless. It turned its gaze upon Isolde.
You have summoned me once more, Shadowborn. The voice did not come from the knight's mouth, but from the very air itself, a deep and hollow echo that sent ripples through the chamber.
Isolde did not flinch. "I require your judgment, Oathkeeper. I have bound a new knight to the Ashen Oath. He will fight in the war to come."
The burning gaze shifted to Aldric. He met it without fear.
Does he know what he is?
Aldric frowned. "I know enough."
The knight took a single step forward, the weight of its presence pressing down on the very air around them. Then let him prove it.
The greatsword swung toward Aldric with inhuman speed.
There was no time to think. Only to react.
Aldric moved instinctively, his body responding faster than thought. He twisted to the side, the massive blade missing him by inches. His hands found a rusted sword buried in the dirt, and without hesitation, he wrenched it free and brought it up to meet the knight's second strike.
Steel met steel, and a shockwave of force rippled outward.
The Oathbound knight did not relent. It pressed forward, each strike a crushing blow that would have shattered bone had Aldric still been mortal. But he was something else now. He could feel it—the way his body no longer tired, the way his movements flowed like shadow and mist.
He parried, sidestepped, countered. For every blow he deflected, another came faster, sharper. The knight was testing him.
And Aldric refused to break.
With a surge of strength, he drove his blade forward, slipping past the knight's guard. The rusted steel bit into armor, and for a moment, the Oathbound warrior paused.
Then, it stepped back.
The fire in its eyes dimmed slightly. He is not yet whole, it murmured. But he is worthy.
Aldric lowered his blade, his breath steady despite the battle.
Isolde smiled. "Then he will serve."
The knight inclined its head. The Oath is upon him now. There is no turning back.
Aldric's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. He already knew that.
He had been given a second life, but it did not belong to him. Not yet.
If he wanted to reclaim his fate, he would have to fight for it.
And by the gods, he would.