Erynd woke knowing something had changed.
Not healed.
Marked.
The chain had not held him—but it had touched him long enough to leave a question burned into his being.
He sat up slowly, black hair falling across his eyes, and pressed two fingers to his wrist.
There it was.
A faint, dark line—like a half-formed sigil that refused to close.
Lyra noticed instantly. "That wasn't there before."
"No," Erynd said. "That's the cost of refusing certainty."
Caelis stood nearby, silent, his sword planted in the ground like an apology.
They left Keth Hollow before sunrise.
The village had changed overnight.
People spoke more carefully now. Not because they were afraid—but because they meant what they said.
That frightened Erynd more than the Devourer ever had.
On the road, Caelis finally spoke.
"I felt it," he said. "When I swore. Not the chain—the choice."
Erynd nodded. "A living oath. One that can break and reform without enslaving you."
Caelis looked at him. "You still refuse to swear."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Erynd stopped walking.
Because if I swear… the world will lean on it.
But he did not say that.
"Because someone has to prove restraint," he said instead.
They reached the ruins of Tirn-Ael, a city that had once been held together entirely by contracts. The Devourer had passed through here days earlier.
What remained was worse than destruction.
People bound to promises that no longer had meaning—still obeying them, even as the reasons were gone.
A woman scrubbed blood from a stone endlessly.
"I promised to clean," she whispered, sobbing.
Erynd knelt beside her.
"Stop," he said gently.
"I can't," she cried. "I swore."
Erynd closed his eyes.
This was the edge.
If he did nothing, she would break herself.
If he swore to free her—
The chain would tighten.
He felt the scar burn.
Choice hurt.
"I won't swear," he said quietly.
Instead, he placed his hand over hers.
"You are released," he told her. "Not by oath. By understanding."
The words carried no authority.
Only truth.
The woman hesitated.
Then stopped.
She looked at her hands—empty, shaking, free.
The scar on Erynd's wrist darkened.
Far away, the Covenant Devourer screamed.
Something was being taken from it.
Not power.
Food.
That night, Erynd finally admitted it to himself.
He could feel the shape of an oath forming inside him.
Not demanded.
Not imposed.
Invited.
A single, dangerous promise.
Lyra saw his expression.
"You're thinking about it," she said.
"Yes."
"Don't," she whispered.
He stared at the fire.
"If I don't," he said, "someone else will. And they won't be careful."
The Watcher observed.
No update followed.
Some variables could not be reduced.
Erynd stood alone before dawn, scar burning like a question that wanted an answer.
For the first time since Oathfall—
He considered swearing.