A true bond, I had long believed, could only flourish between equals. This was a truth etched into the very foundations of Eldoria, echoing through the Academy’s hallowed halls and whispered among the noble houses. Similar lineage, comparable standing, intellect matched, wealth aligned, even grace of form. Like drew to like, the realm’s arcane currents affirmed it. My mind, honed by endless hours poring over ancient texts, had cataloged this principle as the undisputed pathway to contentment. Then, the year I turned seventeen, a bewildering anomaly pierced my carefully constructed rationality. An extraordinary affection, vibrant and disorienting, took root. Perhaps it had always been there, a seed planted deep within, only now bursting forth. Yet, my intellect, my most prized possession, compelled me to dismiss it. A fleeting sentiment, I told myself, a scholar’s fanciful distraction. I pushed it aside, without granting it the weight of genuine contemplation. Still, the emotion, like a coiled serpent, tightened its grip. It wound around my throat, constricting my breath, leaving me with a perpetual, silent gasp. “To Sion’s Reach,” I murmured to the carriage driver, my voice a dry rasp. Now, Eldoria’s pre-dawn scenery unfolded beyond the reinforced crystal pane. A message, as abrupt and unwelcome as an unbidden shadow, had shattered my fragile morning peace. Receiving it, I had remained seated on the edge of my pallet, the roughspun wool cool beneath my palms. A moment stretched, long and bleak, before I pushed myself upright. A soft curse, barely audible, escaped my lips. My humble cottage, nestled on the Academy’s less prestigious periphery, housed only myself and the slumbering house-ward below. No prying eyes would mark my departure. Deciding to obey the summons, I stepped out into the biting morning air. The narrow lane, usually deserted save for the occasional early merchant, held a singular presence. Against the crumbling, ivy-choked wall of the house opposite, a sleek, sealed phaeton sat. Its obsidian panels absorbed the faint starlight, utterly without adornment or crest. A year ago, the modest family there had vanished without a trace, replaced by… no one I had ever encountered. The high walls and cloistered nature of this quarter made anonymity effortless. The silent phaeton, stark against the ancient stone, seemed to hum with a restrained power. It was neither casually discarded nor meticulously secured. Something about its solitary, dark presence stirred a chilling familiarity within me. I stared at it briefly, a ripple of unease, before turning away to enter the waiting Academy carriage. During the silent glide through the waking city, my gaze clung to the window. But the subtle arcane resonance of the conveyance, or perhaps the roiling churn within my own gut, soon brought a wave of nausea. I relinquished the effort, closing my eyes. A deep, unsteady breath escaped me. For nearly a cycle of the moons, my stomach had refused proper sustenance. Food tasted like ash, or simply would not settle. A constant knot tightened my chest, a physical manifestation of the mental burden. My habit, a coping mechanism refined over years, was to ignore all emotions that threatened my equilibrium. With arduous discipline, I maintained an outward composure, a flawless mask—precisely as I did now, stepping from the carriage onto the polished flagstones of The Azure Spire’s forecourt. Inside the lavish entrance, I bit down hard on my lower lip, then clenched my fist until the bones screamed. The pain was a sharp, grounding counterpoint to the turmoil. My fingers smoothed the small, weighted slip of parchment in my hand. The etched number, elegant and precise, led me to a particular door. Three quiet, measured knocks broke the opulent silence. “Lord Kaelen. Respond.” Only silence answered from beyond the polished oak. My irritation flared, a hot prickle behind my eyes. I fixed my gaze on the unyielding surface, a void in the grand corridor, before exhaling a sharp, frustrated sound. My fist rose again, this time striking the door with less restraint. “I know you are within. Open this portal.” This entire charade—it was anathema to my very being. The imagined scenes from the room’s interior, the casual debauchery I knew Lord Kaelen Varr reveled in, sent a crawl of revulsion across my skin. Yet, I could not cease my knocking. Kaelen had demanded my presence. I endured this repulsive tableau because he was the one who had first infected me with this slow, creeping illness. “Why summon me, Kaelen, when your hands are stained with such petty revelry? You worthless scion.” Gods, this existence was insufferable. The life of an eighteen-year-old in Eldoria, bound by an unseen collar.

The Weight of Oaths