A Brother’s Promise

Lantar’s grin widened as he stepped through the wrecked wards, hands outstretched. “Ah… there she is.” His voice was calm, eerily serene, like a predator spotting its prey after a long hunt.

He reached for Bilia.

Bilia struggled, kicking against his grasp, her silver hair falling across her terrified eyes.

Juni tried to shield her, arms flailing. Lantar barely glanced at her, sweeping her aside with a casual shove, laughing. “Come here…” he muttered, almost to himself, voice soft but terrible. “I like watching the fear, the screams…”

Bilia’s small body shook violently in Lantar’s grasp.

Her breath came in quick, shallow bursts, lungs tight with panic. She could feel the warmth of the blood smeared across Lantar’s hands. Could smell it, iron and smoke, an unmistakable scent that screamed of violence and death.

“G-Galir!” she screamed, voice high and shrill, cracking with terror. “Help! Galir… please!”

Her struggles became frantic, kicking and thrashing against the firm, unyielding hold of the sorcerer who had snatched her from safety. But Lantar barely seemed to notice, holding her firmly so she couldn’t turn toward the shattered doorway behind him.

Through the open doorway she could only see the mangled remnants of the corridor, the twisted forms of those who had tried to intervene. Her gaze drifted instinctively to the small gap where she had last seen Galir.

Her trembling lips whispered what she could barely say aloud. “…Y-You… y-you didn’t… kill… him, did you?”

Lantar tilted his head, one darkly tattooed side of his face catching the flickering flame. He chuckled softly and leaned closer to her.

“Did I?” His voice was almost teasing, calm yet full of menace. “What if I had? Brothers… are meant to be killed, little one.”

Bilia froze entirely, shock coursing through her small frame. Her heart slammed in her chest. She couldn’t reconcile the words with her reality. Her brother, Galir, who protected her, the one who had fought for her, killed? The idea made her stomach drop in waves of nausea and fear. Her tiny hands clenched at Lantar’s flame-scorched clothing, and for a moment, she wished desperately that she had awakened her own magic.

If she had… if she could do anything… she would strike, defend, fight. She swallowed hard, tears welling in her eyes, hot and stinging as they began to stream freely. She felt utterly powerless, the world contracting around her.

Lantar’s dark eyes softened with amusement at her despair. He tilted his head again, voice smooth, serene. “You’ll have to come with me, little one. Come… meet the others. They’re waiting.”

The words sent a chill through her bones. Others. The implication was unthinkable. Her small mind raced as visions of Galir, her mother, Kade, Hanel, even Juni, all brave, all fighting back, flickered before her. She remembered their courage, and a flicker of determination rose despite her fear.

She clenched her small fists, throwing every ounce of her tiny strength into a desperate punch aimed at Lantar’s jaw. It barely grazed him, yet the impact made him pause.

Lantar’s eyes widened ever so slightly, and in that brief, fleeting moment, his gaze locked on hers. For a heartbeat, he saw not just the trembling girl before him but the memory of a face he once knew, his little brother’s. Shock, recognition, and an incomprehensible mixture of guilt and fury flashed across his features. His mind, already fractured by grief and madness, splintered further.

And then, as though answering her unspoken prayers, Galir appeared.

He had risen despite his wounds, every movement fueled by sheer will. Red hair slick with blood, gray eyes cold with resolve, swords raised. He sliced through the air from behind Lantar, the steel singing as it cut with precision. The attack wasn’t just skill, it was the weight of desperate protection, the accumulation of every lesson, every instinct honed through years of training.

Lantar’s grip loosened on Bilia as the strike came from behind, slicing his back. He fell down. And she fell forward, scrambling to her feet, utterly elated. Relief washed over her in raw, unfiltered waves. Galir was alive. He was here.

“Galir!” she cried, voice raw with joy and disbelief, tears still streaking her cheeks. She didn’t even notice the bruising on her arms from his previous hold. The mere fact that he was there was enough.

Galir didn’t waste words. He turned to the small group of survivors clustered behind the wrecked doorway, his voice commanding even through exhaustion. “Everyone out. Now. Move!”

Even as Lantar stayed on the floor, seemingly dead by the blade and surprise, Galir knew better than to assume the man was down for long. His eyes flicked to the figure on the floor.

Bilia, still trembling, looked up at Galir with desperate, pleading eyes. “I-I won’t leave you!” she said. Her voice was small but firm, blue eyes wide with stubborn bravery. “Come with me! Don’t stay!”

Galir shook his head slightly, bending to gather her into his arms. His own chest heaved, blood and sweat slick along his skin, hair matted. “Bilia… I’m fine. You’ll be safe, I promise. Go with them. I just need to.. To finish this. It is over now.”

The girl whimpered, trying to wriggle free, refusing to be parted from him. But Juni scooped her up gently yet firmly, guiding her toward the corridor leading out. Her small hands reached for Galir’s red hair, grasping at the tangle in a desperate bid to keep him close.

“G-Galir!” she screamed, voice breaking. “Don’t leave me! Don’t!”

Galir’s gray eyes softened as he looked at her, voice filled with authority and reassurance. “I’ll meet you outside. Go now. Move fast. Stay safe, both of you. Trust me, Bilia.”

Bilia’s tears fell freely as she was carried away, still kicking, still protesting, still holding onto the hope that somehow Galir would come with her.

Lantar began to rise. The brief hesitation, the split in his fractured mind caused by the flicker of recognition, the memory of his brother’s face, mirrored in Bilia’s defiant eyes, still front in his mind. Barely coherent. His stood on swaying, a grin on his face, wolfish, yet somewhere beneath it, a shard of the human he once was flickered, twisted by guilt and memory.

Galir’s eyes locked onto him, swords raised, body trembling with exhaustion yet unyielding. Every wound, every cut, every burst of fatigue was irrelevant. He had to protect. He had to deliver the final strike.

“Come on, then,” Galir muttered under his breath, voice a mix of pride and grim determination. “Let’s finish this.”

Lantar’s laugh rose again, high and wild, echoing off the broken stone. The air shimmered around him like living fire, but not as bright as before. The wolf had sensed the hunt again. But now the prey had teeth, and he had nothing left to lose.

He saw the boy before him, the protector, the older brother, the one who stood in the way of his flame. Galir’s gray eyes were steady, calculating, alive with a resolve that mirrored something he had once known. And in that gaze, Lantar saw Aeren. His own brother, scared yet never defeated, always standing back up again.

A sharp memory ripped through him, vivid and raw: the dorm room, the smell of smoke and singed wood, Aeren’s small hands shaking as he begged him not to obey the Oath. “You are stronger than this,” the boy had whispered, voice breaking. “You can break free.”

The Oath. The word burned through his mind like acid. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. The binding was absolute. His Flame of Will pulsed in obedience. Every fiber of his being screamed to protect, to stop, to flee. But the magic forced his hands. The fire obeyed the command, his will couldn't stop it.

He moved again, red-black flames streaking in arcs spinning around the debris-strewn corridor. Every step was a dance of madness, a predator stalking prey, yet the prey mirrored the image of his brother. Lantar’s vision blurred between reality and memory. Galir’s strike, precise, steady, reminded him painfully of Aeren’s tentative magic during training, the hesitant movements that once made him sigh and sigh again. He saw that hesitation now, mirrored in Galir’s defense.

“Why… why won’t you fall?” Lantar’s voice was hoarse, low, threaded with disbelief and awe. “I should… I should kill you… like I killed him.”

The corridor shifted in his mind, reality folding. Each impact of fire against steel reverberated with ghostly echoes. Lantar saw Aeren’s face in every reflection of Galir’s movements, the fear, the trust. He remembered the night the mission went wrong, the civilians screaming, the Guild’s accusations, the starved punishments he was desperate to escape. The fire that had torn through his brother’s chest. He had obeyed. He had killed because the magic left him no choice.

And then he remembered the look in Aeren’s eyes just before he died, soft, serene, accepting. “I forgive you,” Aeren had said, and Lantar had wanted to scream, to claw at the world, to undo what had been done. But the flames, his own hands, had made it impossible. He had killed. And in that moment, he had killed a part of himself too.

Now he moved toward Galir with renewed fury, every step heavier, every swing sharper. Yet every time he glanced into Galir’s eyes, he saw Aeren again, whispering, shaking, forgiving. He faltered, and then surged forward, caught in the impossible loop of memory and action. His mind split. Each motion alternated between instinctive rage and fractured recollection.

“Brother…” he muttered under his breath, voice almost inaudible beneath the roar of fire. “I…” He faltered mid-leap. His fist swung wide, narrowly missing Galir, sparks raining as it cut through the air. “…I tried to… I tried to stop it… I tried to break the Oath.”

That pause was all Galir needed. Steel flashed, a sword pierced with precision born of desperation, of survival, of protection. Lantar staggered backward, pain searing through his chest where a sword went through his ribs. He fell, knees hitting the scorched floor with a heavy thud.

The corridor tilted in his vision, every image fragmented by flame and memory. Galir’s silhouette stood above him, a living reflection of the brother he once cared for.

Galir murmured, “It’s over.”

Lantar coughed, crimson saliva spilling over his teeth. Red-black flames sputtered and danced weakly around him. His hands shook, memories swirling into a torrent he could not withstand. Aeren’s voice, the soft, forgiving whisper, echoed in his mind, and for a second, the fire within him went cold.

“I… I couldn’t… break the Oath…” he gasped, every word ragged. “…I tried… I… broke me instead.”

Galir’s blades stayed poised, wary, yet there was a shadow of sorrow in his gaze. Lantar’s eyes, once wild, dark, wolf-like, began to dim. He tried to raise his hand, to cling to what was left of the madness, but the world tilted, and life seeped through. Lantar’s chest heaved, shallow and uneven. His lips parted, a faint whisper: “I… I… tried…” And then, silence.

****

Galir’s eyes softened as he stepped back, twin swords lowering slightly. His legs were trembling, every muscle quivering from exertion, blood loss, and exhaustion, yet his mind reeled from the weight of what had just occurred.

He sank to his knees beside the fallen man, the heat of the red-black flame fading from the corridor, leaving the scent of charred stone and ozone behind. His hands, still gripping the swords, shook. He had killed.

A man broken by oath magic, unhinged by trauma, someone who was human once. Lantar had been a soldier, a brother, and Galir had taken his life.

He remembered Bilia, trembling, tears on her cheeks, the hope and relief in her eyes when he had returned for her.

And yet… he could not shake the weight pressing on his chest.

Galir’s swords clattered to the floor as he leaned back, finally letting himself fall fully.

He thought of the Oath, the power that had forced Lantar to kill his brother. And he knew, in the deepest part of himself, what he had never considered before.

Being born Unblessed, with no magic, he had given him a choice that few Marked had.

Galir closed his eyes, letting himself finally slump against the scorched wall, pale faced. He had fought, he had protected, and he had killed.

And he understood, in a way that could never be undone, the true weight of power, of choice, and of consequence.

Around him, the black-red magic sparks still hung in the air as spiks of glowing dust.