The Oath of a Gentleman

It had been three days since I met the members of the Order of Gentlemen. Now, once again, I found myself at the Southern Training Grounds.

The sound of clashing swords filled the air with an almost musical rhythm. Oswin and Beatriz were dueling, as usual—a fierce and precise dance that, for some reason, I always ended up watching. It had become part of my routine. Maybe it was the sound of the blades, maybe the discipline in every strike... or maybe I was just starting to get used to this new way of life.

But setting all romantic notions aside... the truth is that, against my better judgment—and even my common sense—I had, in fact, joined this so-called Order of Gentlemen.

✦ ✦ ✦

The Night Before

The afternoon rain had stopped, leaving behind the damp scent of stone and earth. I walked alone through the alleys of Dracknum, guided by magical lamps and a route I, to my misfortune, knew far too well. The path to the hidden façade of La Vie en Rose was no longer a mystery—nor was the magic word, which came to my lips instinctively.

I whispered it before the wall, just as I'd been shown before. The moment I passed through the barrier and descended the stairwell, a familiar voice greeted me from within.

"I see you've finally made your decision." Damian was seated at the main table, reclining with a nearly theatrical elegance. A satisfied smile played on his lips—calm as always—but there was a spark in his golden eyes.

Before I could answer, a raspy laugh cut through the moment.

“Damn it!” shouted the crazy old man, stepping out from one of the corners of the room. Strangely, he wasn’t in armor that day but dressed like an ordinary person, in a wool shirt, pants, and leather boots.

He pulled a small leather pouch from within his wrinkled shirt. The metallic jingle gave away its contents. Casually, and without any attempt to hide it, he tossed the pouch toward Damian.

Still seated, Damian caught it with one hand and tucked it into his robes with practiced grace, his expression unreadable—as if the whole thing were some ancient rite.

“Twenty copper crowns,” the old man growled. “Not one more, not one less. You owe me dinner now, you fancy bastard.”

I blinked, stunned. “You two bet on whether I’d join or not?” I asked, my voice caught between outrage and pure disbelief.

Damian gave a polite cough, gently covering his lips with one hand—a failed attempt to feign composure.

“To be precise…” he answered smoothly, “we bet on how long it would take you to decide.”

The old man laughed again, this time jabbing my shoulder with his elbow.

“Kid, if you’d shown up a day earlier, I’d have walked away with dinner and two pints paid for!” He cursed as if just realizing what he’d said. “Damn it, there’s not even any beer around here.”

I sighed, glancing from one to the other, wondering when exactly my life had so spectacularly derailed.

But the strangest part—the worst or maybe the best—was that, somehow… I was starting to feel like I belonged.

✦ ✦ ✦

A few minutes later, I was following Damian and the old man—whose name I now knew was Issack—through a long, silent stone corridor, lit only by enchanted torches flickering with bluish flames. The air was cooler here, almost damp, as if we were descending into the very lungs of the hideout.

As we walked, the two pointed out different wings of the place, revealing details I’d never have imagined. The hideout didn’t just have that one hidden entrance—there were secret passageways spread all throughout the Waiting Grounds, connecting strategic points like the training arena, lower dorms, and even the main kitchen, which explained how some members seemed to “teleport” around.

“If you ever need to disappear… remember these tunnels,” Damian said with a slight smile, gesturing toward a small door embedded in the wall, nearly invisible to the untrained eye.

I soon learned that old Issack—that sharp-tongued lunatic with questionable humor—wasn’t just some folkloric fixture of the group. He had once been the Captain of the Order of Gentlemen in the Waiting Grounds. Retired, sure… but far from rusty. I had already sensed something strange in the speed of his movements, but now it all made sense. Damian revealed, almost casually, that Issack was a level 7 swordsman.

A Master of the Sword.

That single piece of information was enough to shift my perception of him by, say, 70%.

And Damian? Well… he didn’t seem any less ambitious. He told me—casually, like someone describing just another plan—that he intended to expand the Order of Gentlemen not just throughout Dracknum, but across the entire kingdom. “And why not?” he said. “One day, perhaps… across the whole continent.”

The Order’s origins, however, pulled a discreet smile from me. Those who now spoke of tactics, strategy, and honor had started out as a bunch of boys helping each other win over the hearts of the girls they’d fallen for. A brotherhood of romantic fools—that somehow evolved into a nearly underground network of idealists.

At last, we reached the main hall. Damian opened the heavy double doors with both hands. A faint rush of air swept through the room, as if something sealed had just been disturbed.

At the center of the room, bathed in the glow of a magical beam from the domed ceiling, stood a statue of pearly white marble.

She was a noble maiden—with delicate features and upright posture. Her skin looked like sculpted silk, lips slightly parted as if whispering a prayer. Her eyes, cast gently downward, radiated serenity and strength. Her long hair fell in waves over her shoulders, adorned with carved flowers, and in her right hand, she delicately held a lace-trimmed handkerchief, so finely chiseled it seemed ready to be offered to someone.

She embodied an ideal of purity and beauty—and for some reason, gazing upon her stirred something ancient and silent within my chest.

On the back wall, completing the scene, was an oil painting. In it, a young knight, wearing a light, clean suit of armor in shades of silver and deep blue, knelt before the maiden. Both his hands were outstretched, as if awaiting the handkerchief from the statue before him. His sword stood planted in front of him. His helmet rested by his side, revealing dark hair and earnest eyes. His expression was one of absolute respect—almost reverence.

For some reason, I couldn’t look away. The colors, the gesture, the silence within the scene. It all felt alive—like a story still pulsing beneath the paint.

“So beautiful…” I murmured, barely realizing I had spoken aloud.

“That is Celestine Julieta Roseguard,” said Isack, his voice carrying a quiet reverence.

“Also known as Dame Julieta,” Damian added, his gaze also fixed on the image.

A moment of silence followed.

Then he turned to me with a faint smile and said: “But I believe you know her better as…”

“The Lady of Mont Fallen!” I gasped, breathless, eyes wide. “Then that means the Gentleman in the painting is…”

“Sir Caelan Duskveld,” Damian replied smoothly, cutting me off with care. “The Midnight Knight.”

The words fell into the air with weight.

“Are you ready to take the oath?” Damian asked, his voice now firm.

My stomach churned, my thoughts tumbling over each other—but I didn’t hesitate. I simply nodded, silently.

“Then stand before the statue, like in the painting. Kneel as Sir Caelan did.”

My footsteps echoed softly on the stone floor. I knelt before the statue of Dame Julieta—so serene, so eternal—it felt like kneeling before a forgotten goddess.

“Take the sword.”

I hadn’t noticed it before, but in front of the statue was a sword plunged into the ground. It was old, but well cared for, with a hilt worked in darkened silver and a floral emblem engraved near the guard. I bowed my head and wrapped my hands around its grip.

“Now, repeat after me.”

The room fell into silence. There was only me, Damian, Isack… and the undeniable presence of living history all around us. A presence far too tangible to be dismissed as mere imagination.

“I, say your full name.”

“I, Alexander Wolfgang The Dracknum,” I replied, my voice steady despite the racing of my heart.

And so, the oath began.

"I swear, before Pózar and Velkar,
beneath the sacred light of Lux-Lu-Rath,
in the face of the eternal shadows of Ca-Tez-Rath,
within the world shaped by the will of Vanull Rath.

I shall be blade.
I shall be shield.
My life, a wall.
My blood, the final border.

As long as I exist,
and while my soul roams beyond the flesh,
no shadow shall touch that which my heart seeks to protect.

And if I fall, let it be standing—
with honor unbroken,
and her name preserved in the world.

I swear also:
as long as I am who I am,
no maiden that my vow recognizes as a lady
shall ever come to harm under my watch or through my silence.

While I live,
while I die,
while I am—
a gentleman, I shall remain."

The words left my mouth, but it felt as if they came from somewhere far deeper than my conscious self—as though they echoed up from within my soul, traveling through the ages to reach this very moment. As if a part of me had spoken them before.

And when the final verse faded into the air, I felt something shift inside me. It wasn’t a visible change, nor a magical surge. It was quieter… more intimate.
As if an invisible anchor had locked itself in the center of my chest—steady, serene, eternal.

“Now release the sword, raise your hands to receive the handkerchief… and finally, look upon the maiden.”
Damian’s voice came softly, almost like a prayer.

I let go of the sword with care.
Then, I obeyed.

I slowly lifted my hands, mirroring the knight’s posture in the painting behind me. My knee still touched the cold floor, yet a warmth had begun to spread—gentle, like the first light of dawn.

Finally, I raised my face.
And when my eyes met hers—the statue’s—the world… stopped.

Everything around me fell silent. There was no sound, no time, not even breath. Only that gaze.

The lady’s stone eyes felt alive—not in a physical sense, but in spirit. There was a calm tenderness in them, a flame untouched by time. An unreachable beauty, yet close—like the echo of a love long ago.

And that’s what I felt: an unexpected warmth, a sudden passion, a love that wasn’t mine… but somehow knew me.

A feeling that came from outside, yet rooted itself within me as if it had always been there.

But I didn’t let myself get lost in the enchantment.
With reverence and control, I reached forward to the lace cloth resting in her hands.

My palms touched it gently, and my thumbs folded over its edges—and in that instant, a shiver ran down my spine.

Not of fear, but of something greater.
Something that brushed the edge of the sacred.

The temperature of the world seemed to shift—not sharply, but with comforting ease, like the warmth of a blanket after a cold night.

For a fleeting second, I thought her eyes moved…
And that her marble smile had softened.

As if she approved.
As if she smiled… at me.

Then time resumed.

The room was the same.
The statue remained still, eternal.
But I… was no longer the same.

The soft warmth lingered in my chest. And the invisible anchor stayed—firm, as though embedded in my very soul.

Damian stepped forward in silence, his eyes glinting with quiet pride.

“Welcome to the Order of Gentleman… Sir Alexander.”