Kethari blinked, her lids lifting as irritation scraped through her customary languor. Her nap schedule was already in ruins, and now *this*? Tesia’s shriek echoed, thin and shrill, as Lady Vespera dragged her toward the dark opening of the deeper tunnel. Vero, however, moved with the swift, silent grace of a predator, his hand already on the hilt of his shortsword, his mouth set in a hard, ruthless line. “Unhand her!” Vero’s voice cracked with a razor edge Kethari had never heard. He surged forward, but the matriarch moved with a feral speed that defied her years. She vanished down the tunnel, Tesia’s cries muffled as the thick, runed stone barrier ground shut. Vero slammed into the closing portal, his shoulder absorbing the impact, but it was too late. The slab sealed with a thud that rattled the stone beneath their soles. He spun, his eyes burning with frustration, his gaze locking onto Kethari. His chest heaved, a stark contrast to his usual composed stillness. He glanced at the inert, swaddled guards, then back at Kethari, a silent plea in his eyes. Kethari sighed, a long-suffering sound. “Fine,” she muttered, already moving. Her fingers brushed the cold stone of the vault wall, a faint green luminescence blossoming under her touch. The reinforced doorway began to groan under her fingers, its embedded runes flaring emerald. “Honestly,” she grumbled, pushing her power into the stone, forcing the mechanisms to yield, “can’t a legendary artisan get five minutes of quiet around here? My beauty sleep is suffering.” Vero didn’t answer. He was already through the moment the portal groaned open enough for him to slip past, his form vanishing into the shadowed corridor. Kethari followed, her movements less urgent but no less determined. The thought of Tesia’s continued shrieks was jarring, an unpleasant disruption to the gentle hum of her inner peace. And Vero’s unexpected intensity… it was intriguing, in a way. The tunnel opened into a cavernous hall, illuminated by the rhythmic sapphire pulse of the capital's levitation spire. The heart of Oravari, a massive pillar of raw azurite, vibrated against the floor, humming through the marrow of her bones. The noblewoman stood at its base, one palm pressed against an etched plinth while holding Tesia fast. A wicked, slender blade, its tip aglow with a sickly green light, was already poised at Tesia’s throat. “Don’t come any closer!” the elder shrieked, her voice echoing off the walls. “The girl’s blood will bind my family’s claim to the throne! The spire will obey only *our* will!” Vero didn’t hesitate. He launched himself forward, a blur of motion, his shortsword a silver flash. Kethari, watching, noted the reckless abandon in his charge. It was not a knight’s measured advance, but an all-out, headlong charge. Her eyes, usually half-closed, narrowed fractionally. The elder matriarch twisted, wrenching Tesia forward as a shield. The poisoned blade, meant for the princess, arced toward Vero’s chest. Kethari saw it, the impossible speed, the malicious intent. Her ribs squeezed tight with an alien chill. “Vero!” The name ripped from her throat, sharper than she expected. But it was too late. He moved. Not away, but *into* the strike. He pushed Tesia clear with one arm, his own body twisting just enough to take the blade in his side, a sickening wet thud. The poisoned tip vanished into his dark tunic, just below his ribs. He stumbled, a guttural gasp tearing from his lips, his sword clattering to the ground. The matriarch stumbled back, caught off balance by his reckless move. Tesia, free, collapsed to her knees, sobbing. Vero’s eyes, wide and unfocused, found Kethari’s. He swayed, a hand clamping over the wound, blood already seeping between his fingers, blackening the fine fabric of his tunic. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, laced with a pain that Kethari felt, unexpectedly, deep in her own chest. “Kethari,” he rasped, his voice barely audible above the hum of the crystal. He took a stumbling step toward her, then another, his knees buckling. “I loved you,” he rasped against the hum of the stone, blood on his chin. “Long before you were a legend. Before your warm sanctuary cured my sister’s blight. I only wanted... your rest to be sweet.” He collapsed, a heavy, lifeless thud on the cold stone floor, his eyes glazing over, fixed on her. Kethari stared. The hearth-sanctuary she had built on a whim because Othmar complained of drafty corridors had healed the dying girl. She had never known the patient was his kin, nor that he had watched her quietly all these years. Her nap time. Her peace. Her carefully constructed apathy. All of it had been an illusion, a fragile shield against the world. Now, it cracked, then shattered. This man, this stoic, devoted knight, had just taken a poisoned blade for *her*. Her heart, usually so placid, began to throb with a furious, unfamiliar rhythm. A roar tore from her throat, a sound raw and untamed, utterly unlike her usual soft sighs. Her eyes blazed open, glowing with a fierce, emerald light. The air around her crackled as raw Dream-Magic tore outward from her chest. It wasn’t the gentle, weaving magic of warmth and comfort; it was primal, untamed, a force of creation and destruction. The matriarch retreated a pace, gesturing sharply to the armored sentries pouring through an arched doorway with raised pikes. “Seize her! Finish them all!” Kethari barely registered them. Her fury, cold and sharp, focused entirely on the dying man at her feet, then on the woman who had struck him down. She raised her hands, not with precision, but with a raw, instinctual command. From the flags beneath their feet, from the deep stone foundations, thick enchanted timber tore free. It erupted into thick boles of ironwood, surging outward in twisting coils. Heavy branches slammed into the approaching sentries, shattering iron blades to splinters against reinforced bark. A fortress of fragrant boughs sealed Kethari, Tesia, and the fallen knight inside an unyielding ring, throwing the attackers across the flags. The very ground trembled under the sudden, furious growth. The azurite pillar flickered overhead, unsettled by the surge of living grain. Kethari knelt beside Vero, her hands trembling as she pressed them against his bleeding wound. The poison was fast, already dulling the light in his eyes. He coughed, a thin trickle of blood staining his lips. His breath rattled in his throat, growing thinner with each tick. “No,” she whispered, her voice fierce, desperate. “You don’t get to leave. Not now. Not after… I just found you.” She knew what she had to do. The ritual was ancient, forbidden, a last resort for Dream-Architects facing irreversible loss. It was a binding, a merging of life forces so profound it often consumed the caster as much as it saved the recipient. But it was the only way. Her hands pressed into the soaked fabric over his ribs, setting her jaw. To anchor his spirit before it slipped away, she would have to graft his life directly to her own wellspring.

The Knight's Vow