Chapter 48 – The Oath Beneath the Stars
The chamber was silent.
No screams.
No chanting.
No heartbeat but their own.
The torches along the walls flickered weakly, throwing light over a floor layered with gray ash — all that remained of Koro's army. The smell of blood and sulfur had already begun to fade, replaced by the faint metallic scent that always followed Dokabas's magic.
The old man stood unmoving near the shattered altar, eyes half-closed, as the last fragments of the ritual circle burned away in golden light. Each rune peeled from the stone like paper curling in flame before dissolving into air.
No dark energy remained.
No whisper of corruption.
Only silence.
John exhaled slowly and lowered his sword. Ember, still in his larger form, padded close and pressed his glowing head against John's arm — the gesture calm, grounding.
Tamara leaned against John's shoulder, her breath shaky but steadying. The chain marks on her wrists still glowed faintly red, but her aura was returning — a soft frost shimmer pulsing beneath her skin.
Blake coughed nearby, struggling to push himself upright from the dirt. John stepped over, still holding Tamara close, and offered his free hand.
Blake blinked up at him, dazed. Then he took the hand and let John pull him to his feet. His arm trembled from the strain, but he managed a weak grin.
"You're late," he rasped.
John smirked faintly. "Got held up."
Blake chuckled once, then winced, clutching his ribs. "Figures."
Tamara turned toward him, her voice soft. "You're bleeding."
Blake glanced down at the deep cut along his side and shrugged. "Yeah. It's kind of my thing."
"Not funny," she murmured.
He gave a tired grin anyway. "Still trying."
Across the chamber, Dokabas moved among the remnants of the altar, his hand tracing slow, deliberate patterns through the air. Every stroke released a pulse of golden light that sank into the stone and silenced the last of the corruption.
The ground shuddered once — then stilled.
It was done.
The old man turned, his expression unchanged. "The rituals are erased," he said simply. "Nothing here will wake again."
He gestured once, and the cages along the far wall burst open. Dozens of frightened faces emerged from the shadows — the surviving merchants and caravan guards who had been captured, their eyes wide and trembling. They looked at the golden-robed elder, then at John, as though unsure which was more unreal.
John nodded toward the tunnel. "It's over. Go. Follow the lights out. Stay close to the wall until you reach the dunes."
They hesitated — until Ember growled softly, and a path of golden sparks lit the tunnel mouth. Then they ran, one by one, until the chamber felt empty again.
Only the Pride remained.
They gathered slowly — what was left of them.
Mara, scarred and limping, still clutched her shield though her arm trembled. Lysa, face streaked with soot, stared at the ash-strewn floor where Rendal had stood. Sera stood between them, eyes red but dry.
Kael was gone. So was Rendal. Half of Lion's Pride had died in that chamber.
Mara stepped forward, her voice low but steady. "You killed them all?"
John's eyes met hers. "He did." He nodded toward Dokabas, who remained silent, hands folded behind his back.
She followed the gesture, studying the old man with awe and fear. Then she turned back to John.
John said nothing. He didn't need to.
Mara dropped to one knee in the ash, planting the tip of her cracked shield into the ground. "Then from this day, my blade's yours. I'll follow wherever you walk."
Sera knelt beside her without hesitation, whispering, "As will I."
Lysa hesitated the longest — her eyes darted between the spot where Rendal had fallen and the man who had saved them. Then she bowed her head, pressing a trembling hand to her heart. "The Pride stands with you, John."
John's chest tightened at that word. He'd never wanted followers — not like this. But something in their faces told him refusal would only dishonor what they'd lost.
He nodded once. "Then we move together."
They left the aqueduct by torchlight.
The tunnels seemed smaller on the way out, as if the place itself were collapsing behind them now that its master was gone. The air was lighter, less poisoned by dark energy. Still, every step echoed like walking through a tomb.
Dokabas followed at the rear, silent as shadow. His presence filled the space like gravity — steady, unshakable. Even without words, every soul there felt safer because of him.
When they emerged from the mouth of the aqueduct, the night was already deep. The desert stretched out in every direction, silver under the moonlight. The stars burned clear and sharp, reflecting off the sand like scattered glass.
None of them spoke. Not at first.
They walked until the dunes swallowed the ruins behind them and the night breeze cooled the sweat on their skin. When they finally stopped, it was at a small ridge where the sand dipped low enough to block the wind.
There, they built a fire.
The flames crackled softly, throwing light across weary faces. Mara leaned back against her shield, eyes half-closed. Lysa sat cross-legged, tracing shapes in the sand with her finger. Sera tended to Blake's wound with a faint green glow of healing light.
Tamara sat beside John, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly of smoke and iron. She hadn't said much since the fight. Her eyes lingered on the flames, distant.
John watched the fire too, the golden light reflecting in his eyes. Ember lay curled near his feet, breathing slow, the glow from his body flickering like an ember ready to fade.
Across the fire, Mara spoke first. "You ever think the desert's alive?" she asked quietly.
Lysa gave a faint laugh. "If it is, it's got a sick sense of humor."
Sera smiled weakly. "Maybe it just gives back what we put into it."
"Then we're all doomed," Blake muttered, wincing as she tightened the bandage.
Tamara shot him a look that was equal parts annoyance and relief. "You should rest."
"I will," he said. "After I make sure we're not all dead."
John smirked faintly. "You're not that lucky."
Blake chuckled, then let his head fall back against the sand. "Guess not."
For a while, no one spoke again. The wind whispered over the dunes, carrying with it the faint hum of the world settling after violence.
Dokabas sat slightly apart from the group, cross-legged on the edge of the firelight, his eyes half-lidded as though meditating. Even at rest, his aura pulsed faintly — a constant, quiet reminder of the power he carried.
After a time, he opened his eyes and turned toward John. His voice was calm, measured, but carried through the quiet easily.
"When we return to the city," he said, "you must speak with the branch master. The Merchant Association keeps its promises — and expects them fulfilled."
Tamara turned her head, confusion flickering across her face. "Promise?"
John didn't meet her gaze. He simply nodded once, the firelight tracing the edge of his jaw. "I know."
Dokabas inclined his head in acknowledgment and turned back toward the dunes. His eyes reflected the firelight, unreadable.
Tamara studied John for a long moment, searching his face for answers, but found none. His expression was calm — too calm. Whatever deal he'd made to bring the old man here, it wasn't small.
The night deepened.
One by one, the Pride drifted into uneasy sleep. Sera first, then Lysa, then Mara — her shield still resting beside her. Even Blake's breathing steadied eventually, exhaustion pulling him under.
Only John and Tamara stayed awake, watching the fire die down to coals.
She spoke softly, almost afraid to break the quiet. "You really think it's over?"
John's eyes stayed on the flames. "For them, maybe. Not for us."
She hesitated. "What did he mean? About your promise?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then, finally, he said, "It was the price."
"The price for what?"
"For coming in time," he said quietly.
Her throat tightened. "John—"
He turned his head just enough for her to see the faint smile tug at his mouth — small, tired, but certain. "Get some rest, Tamara. We'll talk when we're home."
She wanted to press him, but something in his tone stopped her. She nodded instead and leaned her head lightly against his shoulder. His aura was steady, the quiet warmth of someone who refused to break.
Ember lifted his head once, watching them both, then lowered it again, sighing softly as his flames dimmed.
High above them, the stars stretched endless over the desert — sharp and bright, unblinking witnesses to everything that had burned and ended beneath their light.
And under that light, with the ashes of a hundred monsters behind them, the survivors of Lion's Pride — reborn, scarred, and bound by something new — sat in silence beside the man who had saved them.
For the first time in days, none of them felt the cold.