Oaths did not break loudly.
They failed in silence—one promise at a time.
Valecross burned through the night, but by dawn, the fighting slowed. Not because peace had come.
Because everyone was tired of being right.
Erynd stood in the shattered square where the cathedral once rose. Black hair plastered to his forehead by rain, coat torn, eyes calm in a way that unsettled those who saw him.
They whispered a new word now.
Oathfall.
The moment when a promise lost its authority.
The moment a god's command stopped mattering.
Lyra watched the crowd gather—leaders, preachers, fighters, survivors.
"They want you to decide," she said quietly.
Erynd shook his head. "They want me to replace what they lost."
A man stepped forward, armor scorched, hands shaking. "Tell us what's right," he begged. "Tell us whose oath still holds."
Erynd met his gaze.
"No oath holds," he said. "Not anymore."
Murmurs spread. Fear followed.
"My oath fell," the man whispered.
"Yes," Erynd said. "And now you live without its shadow."
The shard embedded beneath the square responded—glowing, trembling.
Not with power.
With memory.
Images spilled into the air: warriors bound by vows they hated, kings trapped by promises made in desperation, gods enforcing rules long after they forgot why.
The crowd watched their own history accuse them.
Some screamed.
Some cried.
Some turned away.
The shard cracked fully.
Not destroyed—liberated.
It sank into the ground, dissolving into countless fragments that embedded themselves into people's hearts.
Each fragment carried the same rule:
No promise is sacred unless you choose it every day.
The city fell silent.
That silence was heavier than any divine command.
Far beyond Valecross, Caelis felt the change like a blade sliding free from his spine.
He dropped to one knee on the road.
"No more destiny…" he whispered.
For the first time in his life, he did not know what he should do.
Only what he wanted.
And that terrified him.
Above the world, the Watcher recorded a new concept.
OATHFALL — a systemic collapse of binding absolutes.
Probability fractured further.
Yet strangely—
Total annihilation did not follow.
Instead, variance stabilized.
Chaos learned restraint.
The Watcher did not understand why.
It simply observed.
That night, Lyra sat beside Erynd on the city wall.
"They'll blame you when this goes wrong," she said.
Erynd stared at the stars—no longer arranged for meaning.
"They should," he replied. "But they'll also live."
A shadow moved behind them.
Not hostile.
Familiar.
Erynd did not turn.
"You came back," he said.
Caelis stepped into the moonlight, eyes no longer glowing with certainty—only resolve.
"I don't know who I am without my oath," Caelis said.
Erynd finally faced him.
"Good," he answered. "Then you're finally dangerous."
The wind carried ash and possibility in equal measure.
The age of fallen oaths had begun.