Echoes of Broken Vows
Chapter 1
The vessel’s eyes remained open, staring at nothing. The soul within had already fled, leaving behind an empty shell. Even as one of the Eidolon’s senior members, Rowan still felt the weight of bearing witness to the holy rites of an ascension.
Every time that Rowan laid eyes on a vessel, he couldn’t ignore the discomfort and anger that he felt. The vessel was lying naked on the cold stone altar like it was a mere object, which Rowan knew no innocent man, dead or alive deserved such treatment.
The vessel’s skin was pale, a stark contrast to the full of life redness that Rowan remembered he had, nothing normal for a man just out of his teens.
Bearing witness to such an event covered Rowan’s body with goosebumps, his skin prickling beneath the heavy fabric of his ceremonial robes.
Each vessel sacrifice was carefully chosen by Rowan, a decision attentively made to meet the strict requirements of the coming lords. The chamber, circular and imposing with its high vaulted ceiling, seemed to close in around him as he recalled the memory of the vessel, Elias was his name, begging Rowan to change his decision. The young man’s desperate pleas echoed in his mind, a haunting reminder of the power he wielded. The Eidolon was both judge and executioner, once chosen to be sacrificed for an ascension, there was nothing to be done.
From the shadows of the chamber emerged Garron, his golden band across the bicep glinting in the dim light, marking him as a grandmaster. His face showed no emotion as he commanded, “Let the ascension begin. ”His voice reverberated off the stone walls, everyone in the chamber couldn’t ignore the authority that his voice carried.
At this cue, the elderly lord stepped forward, his ornate robes rustled softly against the floor. In his twig-like frame, wrinkled skin hanging loosely from brittle bones, he seemed even worse than the vessel.
Rowan knew him as one of the wealthiest merchants in Varesh, his sunken eyes betraying a desperate hunger for life that his failing body could no longer sustain.
“State your name and age,”
declared Garron, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. The elderly man’s reply came as barely more than a whisper, frail and quavering, “Kassian Varunius, 235 years.”
The grandmaster solemnly nodded, his lined face unreadable in the shadowy chamber. Beckoning to Kassian, he intoned, “Kneel and say this: ‘mors servus meus est’.”
Kassian did as ordered, his joints creaking audibly as he lowered himself to the cold stone floor. At this ceremonial cue, another cowled figure entered with heavy footsteps that echoed through the silence. In his hands, he held a golden chalice decorated with runic engravings that their meaning always riddled Rowan.
The chalice contained a viscous, dark purple liquid that seemed to absorb the surrounding light, its surface shimmering with an otherworldly glow. Everyone at the Eidolon recognized the liquid, Mytholite, the substance that bridged the gap between life and death.
Garron took the chalice, its weight causing his arms to tremble slightly. He put a gentle hand below Kassian’s chin, tilting his head backward. Garron pressed the chalice against Kassian’s withered lips. “Drink,”
he commanded once more, his voice brooking no argument.
Kassian finished what seemed to be half of the liquid, his throat working visibly as he swallowed. Without pause, Garron turned to face the vessel and poured the remaining content of the chalice into the young man’s gaping maw. The Mytholite seemed to move with a life of its own, disappearing down the vessel’s throat.
In an instant, Kassian crumbled onto the cobbled floor, his head making a sickening crack as it struck the stone. The sound echoed through the chamber, causing Rowan to wince involuntarily.
A tense silence fell over the room, broken only by the soft hiss of flickering torches. Then, the sound of rattling chains drew the attention of every attendant. The vessel’s eyes snapped open, no longer vacant but filled with a new awareness. Garron looked down at the naked form as it stood, chains falling away with a clatter. “State your name and age,”
he intoned once more.
“Kassian Varunius, 235 years,”
came the reply, the young voice felt as a stark contrast with the ancient name and age. With the flick of a finger, the grandmaster ordered the release of Kassian from his remaining chains. They dropped with a clang as Kassian rose in a fluid arc, his movements graceful and sure in his new, youthful body.
It always amazed Rowan – the same man in a different body, another chance for life. As Garron released the vessel, now Kassian, from his chains, Rowan couldn’t help but feel a mixture of awe and unease. The transformation was complete, but the ethical implications weighed heavily on his conscience.
The ceremonial chamber slowly emptied, the other attendants filing out in reverent silence. Rowan remained, feeling numb and disconnected from the scene he witnessed.
He decided to return to his room, his footsteps echoed in the now-empty chamber as approached the door. He looked back to the chamber with a heavy heart, He felt responsible for every life that was taken because of him.
Opening the wooden door to his quarters, Rowan stepped into the dimly lit space. It was a rather modest room, sparsely furnished with a narrow bed, a simple desk, and a small bookshelf. A single candle flickered on the bedside table, casting long shadows across the stone walls.
Rowan removed his ebony cloak with a sigh of relief, the heavy fabric pooling at his feet, exposing his muscular body, filled with old scars from years of training. The weight of his duty had been pressing on him for a while, growing heavier with each passing day. The mere thought of waking up to face another day like this was enough to make him desperate.
Sinking onto the edge of his bed, Rowan buried his face in his hands. This time, he decided not to fight the flow of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him with each day.
Hot tears began to run down his cheeks, falling silently onto the rough plank flooring. In the solitude of his room, Rowan allowed himself to confront the doubts and fears that he kept buried deep within, wondering how long he could continue to serve an order whose methods and values increasingly troubled his mind.