The Orb and the Oath

The cart jolted, one wheel screeching over a hidden root. Dust rose in curtains behind the convoy. Tam pulled his blue cloak tighter around him and glanced at Gally, the other traveler, who stared at the horizon without truly seeing it. Both wore the same golden pin on their collars—a mark of a prestigious magic academy in the western county of Ellé—but the orb wrapped in cloth against Tam’s chest spoke of a far less ordinary mission.

They had left their county with a merchant delegation, tasked with a duty that went beyond trade.

“You should try to sleep,” Tam said quietly. He was twenty, still carrying the raw anxiety of someone who’d never seen real combat.

“I’ve rested,” Gally replied, his voice cracked with age. His face was hard, temples lined with creases, and his eyes held a glint Tam couldn’t explain.

Tam’s fingers brushed the cloth. The object they carried was unlike anything he’d ever known—a black sphere, veined with pale runes, that seemed to swallow light.

“And then what?” Tam murmured. “Once we give it to Count Estria… what will he do?”

Gally turned a red stone on his belt, the rune etched into it glowing faintly. “The Count will know. That’s his role. But remember: the Children of Emotep are everywhere. They circle their prey like a serpent.”

Around them, the merchants kept up their quiet exchanges, voices lowered as if not to disturb the road itself. A man at the back of the neighboring cart grumbled, “If Lucian doesn’t bless the seas this year, we should cross the strait. I’ll go bankrupt. We’ve had enough storms.” Another replied bitterly, “Speak for yourself. We’ll fill our pockets, but who’ll pay for the prayers?”

The cart came to a sudden halt. The crack of wood made Tam flinch. Ahead, two soldiers in lacquered leather blocked the path, panting, their coats bearing the county’s insignia. Military checks weren’t rare, but they were always a test. A brigadier’s voice rang out: “Passage papers! No one crosses without them!”

Tam handed his over without thinking—a slip of parchment sealed with red wax. Gally did the same, his knuckles pale. The soldier scanned the documents quickly, frowned briefly, then waved the slower carts through. The tension eased—slightly.

Then, without warning, Gally stood. Tam caught a flash of metal just before one of the blades sliced through the air and cut a soldier’s throat clean. The body collapsed with a dull thud, a strangled gurgle escaping his lips.

“Why…?” Tam whispered, fear folding his voice.

Gally looked up. His face had changed; the weariness had hardened into cold certainty. “See that tattoo?” he said, pointing to the soldier’s palm. Tam saw it—an eye encircled by a serpent biting its own tail, inked into bloodied flesh.

“Don’t forget what I told you, Tam. The Children of Emotep are everywhere.”

Chaos erupted around them. Soldiers burst from the underbrush, others charged in with weapons drawn. The cart became a narrow arena. Gally grabbed a red stone, pressed it to his palm, and murmured syllables no man should know. The runes lit up, and Tam saw the air shimmer. A flame burst forth—round, mournful—striking a soldier square in the chest. His scream was brief.

“Run!” Gally shouted to Tam. His voice was no longer that of a mentor, but of a man standing at the edge of a chasm. “Take the orb. Go to Vanelagon. Give it to the Count!”

Tam didn’t hesitate. He leapt from the cart, clutching the orb. He turned for a split second: Gally was still standing, casting spells—his lips forming incantations, his voice trembling and sometimes laughing without joy. Flames licked the soldiers, but the enemy had a weapon.

A man in black armor—blacker than night, like polished void—appeared. His helmet was raised, revealing a sharp smile, clean and cutting like a blade. The magic in his hands was dark and compact, unlike Gally’s glowing spheres. When he raised both arms, a wave rippled through the air: Gally’s red stone trembled in his hand as if pulled by invisible force. One by one, his spells shattered against a vacuum or turned back toward him.

The fight became a death dance. Gally let out a roar no longer human, a hollow note. Tam heard in that cry both deliverance and madness. The old man charged a final sphere—larger, denser—and hurled it straight at the black armor. The impact shook the ground. The adversary’s smile split into a laugh that wasn’t human. He didn’t move. Instead, he placed his hand on the red stone still hanging from Gally’s belt, and the stone exploded into red shards like insects.

Gally was thrown backward. A heavy silence swallowed the screams. Tam heard the ragged breath of his own heart. He saw Gally rise like someone surfacing from a drowning, his eyes gleaming with something Tam didn’t want to recognize—magic had consumed him, and something else had taken its place: a dangerous clarity, a joyless smile.

Tam screamed in near echo. He ran, leapt over a root, never looking back—because deep down, he knew. Gally was gone.

He reached the edge of the woods, breath short, lungs burning. From there, he looked back one last time. Gally stood, half-shadow, half-spark, and the man in black advanced slowly toward him, like a predator approaching prey that no longer struggles. A flash crossed the black armor; then, like a tear in time, the figure collapsed—not in flames, but in dust.