Vyren's promise to the Vow sat heavy in his stomach as he stepped into the fortress courtyard. It felt wrong, like something cold twisting inside him. The place was loud and chaotic. Men shouted orders. Horses screamed and stomped. Metal armor clanged everywhere as soldiers got ready to leave. The air smelled like sweat, leather, horses, and nervous energy.
Vyren stood there awkwardly, not knowing where to put himself. His hands moved to the new cloak they had given him. Thick wool. Dark green. Heavy. It kept the cold out, sure, but it did not feel anything like the blanket he had shared with Chandrel. That warmth felt far away now, like something from another life.
He scanned the crowd and spotted Chandrel near the main gate. Calm as ever. Focused. He was checking his warhorse like this was just another day. Two guards stood close to him, stiff and serious. General Vanya lingered nearby, watching Vyren like a hawk. Her eyes never left him.
"Historian," Chandrel said when he noticed him. No warmth. No softness. Just duty. "The King orders immediate departure to the Northern Border.
Vyren's stomach flipped. The promise he made to Chandrel, the idea of coming back and helping him, all of it suddenly felt unreal. Like a stupid dream. His real life in 2521 felt distant now, almost fake. This world was real. And he was stuck in it.
"Understood," Vyren muttered, forcing his voice to stay calm. Inside, panic bubbled. He was not ready for this. He did not sign up for a hunt. Or a war. He was a doctor. Not this.
Vyren followed Chandrel's gaze and froze.
The horse meant for him was massive. All muscle. Tall. Black as night. It stomped the ground impatiently, shaking it under its weight. Its eyes were sharp and wild.
"I'm supposed to ride that?" Vyren muttered.
His heart started racing. He came from the futuristic city life. He used trains that floated and cars that drove themselves. He had not ridden anything alive in years. Not even a bike.
His palms got sweaty as he stared at the horse, but General Vanya stepped closer.
"The Historian is valuable," she said coldly. "He rides that horse. Chandrel, you make sure he does not fall. We will not slow down for incompetence."
Vyren swallowed and forced himself forward. His legs felt weak just looking at the horse.
He grabbed the stirrup, his heart pounding. The horse snorted and blew hot air into his face. Vyren jumped back without thinking.
"How do I even get up there?" he whispered to Chandrel.
Chandrel, already mounted, turned his head toward him. For a second, something like amusement crossed his face.
"You use the stirrup," Chandrel said patiently. "Foot in. Push yourself up."
Vyren nodded and tried. He placed his foot in the stirrup and grabbed the saddle. He pushed hard but only got halfway before his foot slipped. He slammed into the horse's side. The horse shifted, annoyed, almost throwing him off completely.
Vyren hit the ground with a dull thud.
General Vanya clicked her tongue in disgust. "He cannot even mount. What mess did you bring us, Chandrel?"
Chandrel laughed. Actually laughed. Sharp and real. Vyren froze. He had never seen Chandrel laugh before. It caught him off guard.
"You must have been facing the wrong way," Chandrel said, still amused. "The front is where the head is."
Vyren groaned as he untangled himself. "How was I supposed to know that" he muttered.
General Vanya slammed her fist against her saddle. "Enough. This ends now. Chandrel, you will carry the Historian. His life is your responsibility."
The laughter vanished from Chandrel's face. His expression hardened instantly. The air shifted. Vyren felt small. Exposed.
"As the general commands," Chandrel said stiffly. "Mount behind me. Hold the saddle. Do not speak."
Burning with embarrassment, Vyren climbed up behind him. Being that close was overwhelming. Chandrel's back was broad and solid. Cold armor pressed against Vyren's chest. He smelled like leather and smoke and something sharp and steady.
"Hold the straps," Chandrel warned. "Not me. Do not move."
Before Vyren could reply, the horse lurched forward. The road was rough, full of bumps and rocks. Vyren struggled to stay upright. His hands slipped, grabbing Chandrel's tunic without thinking as the horse jolted him closer.
His head spun. He did not know if it was the ride, the closeness, or everything crashing down at once.
As the fortress gates disappeared behind them, Vyren felt it fully. This was not a dream anymore. His promise. His choice. It was real.
The road stretched ahead, broken dirt and sharp stones cutting through forests and empty land. Vyren thought of his home, but the feeling of being trapped would not leave him.
When the sun dipped low, he realized how far they still had to go. And the road was not the heaviest part. The weight of his vow, of staying, of Chandrel, pressed harder with every step forward.
Chandrel led the group without hesitation. Blindfolded, yet seeing everything. Vyren's chest tightened. He did not know what this journey meant. Help. Punishment. Fate.
All he knew was that he had stepped into something he could not walk away from anymore.