The chains did not bind flesh.
They bound meaning.
Erynd felt them before he saw them—threads of obligation pulling at the edges of thought, tightening whenever someone said I promise without understanding the weight of the words.
Keth Hollow slept uneasily.
Promises whispered in dreams.
The Devourer arrived without sound.
No sky-darkening. No divine trumpet.
Just absence.
Where it stood, words lost strength. Contracts crumbled to dust. Marriage vows tasted like ash on the tongue.
It wore a shape only because mortals needed one to be afraid: a tall silhouette wrapped in broken sigils, chains floating around it like orbiting moons.
Lyra woke screaming.
Erynd was already on his feet.
"Stay back," he said—not as a command, but a calculation.
The Devourer's voice came from everywhere.
"Oathfall has made the world hungry," it purred. "I merely feed."
People gathered despite their fear.
They always did.
The Devourer raised one chained hand.
"Swear yourselves to me," it said kindly, "and I will return certainty."
A man fell to his knees instantly. "I swear!"
The chain pierced him—not through skin, but through choice.
He stood again, smiling.
Empty.
Erynd stepped forward.
"No," he said.
The word landed heavier than any spell.
The Devourer turned.
"You," it hissed. "The one who taught them to doubt."
Erynd drew his sword.
Not to strike.
To define space.
The Devourer attacked with inevitability.
Chains lashed, not toward Erynd's body—but toward his future, trying to lock him into a single outcome.
Erynd moved sideways in time—not by teleporting, but by acting before the chain decided where he would be.
His blade cut nothing.
Yet chains shattered.
"How?" the Devourer snarled.
"You assume promises are external," Erynd replied. "They're internal structures. You can't steal what isn't surrendered."
The Devourer laughed.
"Then swear you'll stop me."
Erynd hesitated.
Just for a heartbeat.
And that was enough.
The chain wrapped around his wrist.
Pain bloomed—not physical, but existential.
A promise tried to form.
I will protect them.
The world leaned toward it.
Erynd screamed—not in agony, but refusal.
"I won't swear," he gasped. "I'll choose—again and again!"
He plunged his sword into the ground.
The blade rang—not metal on stone, but thought on reality.
The chain cracked.
But did not break.
Erynd fell to one knee.
Blood hit the dirt.
The Devourer loomed.
"You cannot win without becoming what you hate," it whispered.
A second presence arrived.
Steel rang again.
Caelis stepped between them, blade drawn, stance imperfect—and human.
"I'll swear," Caelis said.
Erynd's eyes widened. "Don't."
Caelis shook his head. "Not to it."
He faced the Devourer.
"I swear to protect my choice to change."
The chain struck.
And shattered.
The Devourer reeled—howling.
"No oath is absolute anymore!" it screamed.
Caelis smiled grimly. "Exactly."
The Devourer retreated—not destroyed, but wounded.
It vanished into the night, dragging broken chains behind it.
Silence returned.
Erynd collapsed.
Lyra caught him.
Caelis knelt beside him. "You were right," he said quietly. "Certainty is a cage."
Erynd laughed weakly. "Took you long enough."
Above, the Watcher updated its record.
New Variable Confirmed:
Self-renewing Oaths — unstable for predatory entities.
For the first time, the Watcher flagged something as hope.