Chapter 22: Blades and Banners
The first attack didn't come from a blade.
It came from a scroll.
Nailed to the walls of every city in the Caedrian Empire by royal decree, it read:
"The one called Andrew, bearer of the sword Ashren, is hereby declared an enemy of the realm."
"His organization, the so-called 'Vowbound,' is unsanctioned, unauthorized, and dangerous."
"Those who support him, harbor him, or spread his creed shall be treated as insurgents."
The King's seal gleamed in red wax at the bottom—pressed by a trembling hand.
The city of Caedros stirred like a nest of hornets.
Merchants whispered warnings behind locked doors.
The nobles clenched tight to their power.
And the people? They chose sides.
Some tore the decrees from the walls.
Others added Andrew's symbol in chalk beside them—a silver flame surrounded by a shadowed ring.
Lines were being drawn.
And war wasn't far.
In the heart of the Vowbound's new sanctuary—an old fortress outside the capital—Andrew read the decree with calm eyes.
Kaelira paced beside him.
"We should strike first," she hissed. "Before they use their full force."
Andrew shook his head. "No. That's what they expect."
"We're not here to overthrow the Crown. We're here to protect the realm—even if the realm doesn't know it yet."
Mihai crossed his arms.
"And what of the people who do believe in us?"
"We can't just sit and train while Veyrux's shadow grows."
Andrew nodded.
"Then we move."
Their first mission came not from rumor, but from a scream in the wind.
A small village, three days east of Caedros—Branholme—had gone silent.
No letters. No trade. No signs of life.
Andrew and four Vowbound departed at dawn.
When they arrived, Branholme wasn't silent.
It was singing.
Low, awful chants in a language older than any tongue spoken by man.
The villagers stood in perfect rows, eyes blank, veins glowing faintly violet.
In the center of the square stood a man with no face—literally.
A being wrapped in pale flesh with no eyes, no mouth. Just a brand on his forehead: the same black sigil Andrew had seen burn in the sky.
Andrew drew Ashren.
The being turned its head slowly.
"You carry the Endblade," it said without lips.
"You are the First and the Last."
"Veyrux remembers you. And he sends this…"
It raised its hand—
—and the villagers screamed as one, their bodies twisting, cracking, forming into creatures of bone and lightless flame.
Andrew didn't hesitate.
The battle was unlike anything before.
These weren't soldiers. They weren't even monsters.
They were people. Corrupted. Controlled.
Andrew had to fight without killing—using Ashren's aura to cut through the influence, not the flesh.
And in the heat of it all, the sword's power awakened again.
He felt the past rise—an echo of a moment when the Endblade had once saved a city… not with destruction…
…but with remembrance.
Ashren's blade flared.
And one by one, the villagers collapsed—unconscious, alive, free.
The faceless creature hissed as its control shattered.
But before Andrew could reach it—it vanished.
The Vowbound had won the battle.
But Andrew could feel it:
"This was a test," he whispered.
"Veyrux wanted to see if I'd break."
He looked at the village, at the people he'd saved.
"I didn't."
Back in Caedros, the King read the report from Branholme and paled.
"Even with the decree… the people still follow him."
And in the shadows of the capital's crypts, a voice answered him:
"Then perhaps it is time… we remind them who truly rules from the dark."