Oath of the King-Chapter 32: Blood on the Stone

The world narrowed to a single, breathless point.

Alden moved through the square like a shadow slipping free of its master. His boots struck the cobblestones with the soft thud of inevitability. Bedringer swung lightly at his side—the worn cloth bundle wrapped tight, almost tender, against the violence that was about to come.

The first man never even saw him.

Alden grabbed him by the collar, yanking him backward with a savage twist. His fist crashed into the man's temple—once, twice—until he crumpled like wet parchment.

The others turned, startled—but not fast enough.

Alden was already moving, a storm uncoiling.

One rushed him with a dagger. Alden sidestepped, grabbed the wrist, and bent it backward until bone snapped with a sickening crack. The knife clattered uselessly to the ground.Another lunged—Alden slammed his forehead into the man's nose, feeling cartilage crunch under the force. Blood exploded down the man's face as he staggered back, howling.

Sylvie barely had time to drag Mira and Clara behind her, pressing them flat against the stone wall.

It wasn't a fight.

It was a slaughter.

Alden fought with brutal, ugly efficiency. No wasted movements. No hesitation. Every blow was a promise kept. Every broken bone, a fragment of a debt being repaid.

For what he had done.For what he had failed to do.For who he had left behind.

Someone tried to grab Bedringer off his belt.Alden spun, teeth bared—and for the first time, he drew it.

Not a blade.Not a weapon.

A doll.

Old. Threadbare. The cloth barely clinging to its shape. A stitched smile worn nearly away by time and grief. A child's toy, swaddled like something sacred.

The man recoiled, confused.

Alden didn't give him the chance to breathe. He drove his elbow into the man's throat, dropping him like a stone.

Blood dripped down Alden's knuckles. His chest heaved. Bedringer dangled from his free hand, absurdly gentle amid the carnage.

The alley smelled of iron and fear.

Only two remained—wary now, circling like jackals.

"You don't want this," Alden said, voice low, ragged.

One ran. The other hesitated—and Alden stepped forward, the promise of violence clear in every line of his body.

The last man fled without another word, boots slapping wildly against the cobblestones.

Silence fell.

For a long moment, Alden stood there, head bowed, fists trembling, blood pooling at his feet.He looked... not victorious.

But broken.Utterly and completely.

Sylvie approached slowly, her skirts whispering against the stones.She stopped a few feet away, heart hammering.

"Alden..." she said softly.

He didn't move.

Bedringer hung from his hand, swaying slightly, like a pendulum ticking down the moments between who he had been and who he was now.

She took another step closer, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal.

Then she saw it clearly—the doll.Not a sword.Not a weapon.A child's doll, stitched with love and sorrow.

Her breath caught in her throat.

He finally looked at her.

And in his eyes, there was nothing left of the hardened fighter she had seen every day in the training yard. No fury. No pride.Only the desperate, shattered boy he had tried so hard to bury.

"I couldn't save her," Alden whispered, voice raw. "I swore I would, and I didn't."

Sylvie swallowed past the lump in her throat.Her hands trembled.She wanted to say something—to tell him it wasn't his fault, to stitch up the bleeding edges of his soul with words he might actually believe.

But instead, she simply stepped forward.

And wrapped her arms around him.

At first, he went stiff, unresponsive. Like he didn't know how to be touched anymore.

But then—slowly, painfully—he dropped Bedringer.The doll landed gently on the blood-slick stones.

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And Alden clutched her back, like a drowning man clinging to the only thing keeping him afloat.

Around them, the market stirred again. Life moved on, indifferent.

But in that ruined alley, with ghosts howling silent in the cold morning air, something shifted.

Something broke.

And something healed.