Oathbreaker Shorts: Kill you later

Hey everyone! Just a small short story gift for you. I'm almost done with Cursed Covenant Chapter 6, so it should be released before this month ends!
In the meanwhile, let me know if you like short stories like this, and I can share some whenever I have the free time to do so! <3



The air was thick, stifling—far too warm for a night so near to winter. Across the open field, soldier’s tents lay scattered, sprawled like weary beasts upon the scorched and sullied plains. Battlefields were no stranger to him, though he had to concede this one bore its own grim signature of carnage. They were losing. That much was clear. Why, however, was a mystery. Virion barely knew what they were fighting, aside from the muttered speculations of restless soldiers.

A warlock, some claimed. But he was a warlock himself. And whatever had wrought this ruin, whatever had twisted this land into a wretched pit of death, could not have been one of his kind. There were only so many explanations for the horrors before his eyes, and few made any sense. One, however, lingered uncomfortably in his thoughts. A demon.

Powerful. Ancient, perhaps. It would account for the relentless tide of fiends, pouring in from all sides as though the very earth had cracked open to release them. A right bloody nuisance, that was. He ought to have been back in Aldwen, reclining in some brothel, indulging in the well-earned spoils of victory. But no—here he stood, ankle-deep in blood and mud, fighting a war for reasons he could scarcely fathom. And to make matters worse, the only redeeming sight in this forsaken hellscape had just passed him by, acknowledging his presence without so much as a second glance.

The general. Or at least, that was what they called her now. Commanding the charge, barking orders—oh yes, a proper hard-arse. But he knew her as Dawnkeep’s Reaper. The sharpest thorn in his side. And yet, if he were being honest, he found himself rather enjoying the ache she left behind. No, he would not deny it. He would shout it from the rooftops, if only to exorcise the heat that lingered in his blood, the memories that haunted his nights.

Damn her. Damn her and her infuriatingly perfect bosom. And everything else.

"Care to turn your eyes this way, to matters that actually matter, my lord?"

Virion rolled his eyes before reluctantly turning to face the speaker—a voice far too familiar, far too attuned to his wants and vices.

"Weren’t you off scouting the outskirts with the others?"

Ruven merely shook his head, his dirty-blond hair now a shade filthier, streaked with ash and blood. The filth had a way of clinging here, sinking into your skin, refusing to leave no matter how many times you scrubbed. Not that Ruven cared. Unlike Virion, a connoisseur of elegance, Ruven gave no thought to appearances. A stark contrast, and yet, for all his gracelessness, he was the only man Virion would call a brother. A brother-in-arms first, and then an actual brother, with all the nuisance that entailed.

"Nah. Too many fiends."

With that, he slung an arm over Virion’s shoulder, utterly heedless of the grime caking his sleeve. Virion eyed the offending limb with mild distaste—too close, too filthy for his liking. If Ruven noticed, he gave no sign. And even if he did, he’d sooner smear more dirt across his own face than deign to remove it.

"Who’s the girly?"

Now that was a question Virion would very much prefer to leave unanswered. If not for the general’s sake, then for his own. He was, after all, the esteemed lover of the king he served, and any entanglement with her would see both their heads rolling before sunset.

"No idea. Nice bottom, though," he deflected smoothly, sending a silent prayer to Xiris that Ruven would let it drop.

Mercifully, a mere shrug was his answer. A welcome distraction, considering the trouble already upon them.

"Listen, something’s up," Ruven muttered, his voice taking on a rare edge of seriousness. "They've pulled the Writ of Delora."

Virion halted mid-step, the weight of those words settling like a vice around his temples. A headache in the making. He’d known they weren’t here under Calywen’s orders, but the Writ of Delora? That was another matter entirely. It meant he could not speak of this to his king—not even in passing. A secret bound to those present and the Magistracies of all kingdoms.

And there were many. Dwarves moved among them, as did Kag’ash, and if his memory served, he’d even glimpsed a few Khell in their ranks. The pieces were falling into place, though the picture they formed was far more perilous than he cared for.

Instinctively, his gaze sought the General once more. She was at the heart of this. She would know what was truly at play. Though whether she would deign to speak to him was another question entirely. Their acquaintance had been forged in battle—most of it spent trying to kill each other. Still, Virion had long since considered that a form of foreplay. He wondered if she did, too.

Regardless, if the Writ of Delora was in play, catastrophe was not just likely—it was inevitable. And given the sheer size of the battlefield, the number of soldiers he’d seen, this was shaping up to be a particularly fatal one.

“Where the hell are you going?”

Ruven’s voice barely registered. Virion’s feet were moving before his thoughts could catch up. He needed answers. He needed to find her.

A foolish part of him—one he pretended didn’t exist—longed to see her, just once more, if these were to be his final days. Perhaps she’d take pity on him, grant him an answer. And then a kiss. And then clothes, scattered carelessly to the floor. Hands tracing bare skin, learning one another in ways more intimate than the countless battles they’d fought against each other.

But more than that, he needed to know what in the hell was happening. What exactly they were up against.

His eyes scoured the camp. Her tent was somewhere near Walinad’s Magistracy encampment—he’d seen her speaking with a Dinean woman and an older man there earlier. With any luck, she’d still be lingering in the same area.

“Are you lost, Aldwen?”

Virion halted mid-step, though not quickly enough to mask the smirk tugging at his lips. He was barely out of his own camp, close to the General’s tent but not quite there. A quiet place, blessedly away from prying eyes.

“If you’re looking for a fight, I’d suggest saving your strength for what lies ahead.”

Music to his ears. For Xiris’ sake, she was stunning, and that voice—low, husky, dangerously enticing—was the kind men started wars over.

“General.” He turned to her with a courtly bow, every bit the gentleman. He would have kissed her hand if she offered, but her arms were folded firmly across her chest, far out of reach. Daring him to try anything foolish.

And by the Divines, was it tempting to be the daftest elf in Aldwen.

“What a lovely night. Warm. Cozy. What with all the fire and the screaming—really sets the mood. Had I known you had such a taste for an outing, I’d have invited you to Aldwen for the summer.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t so much as twitch. And yet, her eyes wouldn’t leave his. A pair of violet gems, peering straight through him, peeling him apart layer by layer. Depthless pits, reminiscent of Xiris’ endless chaos.

His gaze flickered to the marks winding down her arms—etched by a master warlock, no doubt. Her master, he wondered? To craft such markings, they must have been… something.

It was tradition among warlocks to bear the script of their lineage—an inheritance written in their tongue, legible only to another of their kind. Aldwen warlocks carved protections into their skin, barriers against the madness that came with drawing too near to Xiris’ divinity. But hers? Hers were different. Not shields, not safeguards, but invocations. Fire and destruction, without a single mark to temper the cost.

“It’s a demon.”

Her voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he blinked, startled. Of all the things he expected from her, honesty was not one of them.

Her gaze shifted toward the mountain, to that pit of fire and fiends where the battle raged at its bloodiest.

So that’s where it was. And what it was.

“So I gathered. It was either that or a dark dragon, but I suppose a dragon would’ve grown bored and left by now.”

She looked at him again, and Virion found himself smiling.

“What did you do to piss him off this much?”

“That, I cannot tell. But his name is Thar’akith. One of the first children of Xiris.”

For fuck’s sake. Virion sighed, but only within the confines of his mind. They were fighting a lost battle. A child of Xiris. In the middle of a damned plain, surrounded by mountains, dangerously close to Mendamar. A secret from the kings of all nations, possibly even from the Ascendancy. And if they caught wind of this? Oh, they would love the excuse to declare all warlocks a menace to the entire realm.

“I’m guessing you have a plan that doesn’t involve sacrificing half of Aradove’s population, General?”

Her brows furrowed—just for a flicker of a second—before smoothing over. A reaction, but to what? The title? Did she not care for it? Or perhaps she simply didn’t like hearing it from him. Whatever the reason, the moment passed, and that ice-cold stare of hers pinned him in place once again.

Shivery…

“Keep your people to the skirts of the battlefield. Hold off the horde there,” she instructed, her voice a steady blade. “You’ll face the fiercest of his fiends, but a few small teams of warlocks should manage. Keep your mages well away from the mountain, however—use them for healing and support at the fields.”

“That’s all well and good, but do you see a badge anywhere on me, my lady?” Virion swept his arms out, mocking a bow. No insignia marked his leathers, no title bound him. He wasn’t a general. He wasn’t even captain of his own damned unit. Yes, he stood high in the ranks, but being the king’s lover granted him little privilege when it came to command. A shame, really. Not that he yearned for such things—Virion fought for the pleasure of it, not for the weight of responsibility.

“You should talk to our captain for… whatever that was.”

“I can’t.”

A simple phrase, yet every syllable of it clawed at something beneath his ribs. There was a strain in her voice, a quiet ache he hadn’t heard before—not in battle, not in the heat of their clashes. Warlocks thrived in hopeless fights. Especially warlocks like her. And him.

Yet here she was, standing before him, gaze unsteady, shoulders heavier than he remembered. Wrong. Something about her was wrong, and Virion wasn’t sure he wanted to know why. He wasn’t built for this kind of feeling—this restless, unfamiliar knot in his throat. He knew the pleasures of the body, the sharp thrill of combat, but this? This strange pull toward something softer, something dangerously close to concern? He didn’t care for it. Not in the slightest.

“You can’t speak Aldwen? Well, I suppose I can help with that.”

“I have to go.” Her words were brisk, her attention already elsewhere—on the mountain, the pit of fire and ruin, where Thar’akith loomed. “Get your people ready and head out at dawn. You’ll find your opening soon enough.”

And then she moved. Purposeful steps, gaze locked on the distant inferno.

No.

No, surely she wasn’t planning to go alone.

Even for her, that would be—what? Stupid? Reckless? A death wish wrapped in misplaced heroism?

“General.”

She stilled but didn’t turn.

“Kill you later?”

A promise. A taunt. A desperate hope disguised as levity.

For a breath, silence stretched between them. Then, he caught the faintest hint of amusement in her voice as she answered, “Kill you later, Warlock.”

And that was it.

The only way he could say what he truly meant.

Don’t die yet.
I haven’t even met you properly yet.
I don’t even know your name yet.
I haven’t even bought you a drink yet.

“Live, General,” he murmured under his breath, too quiet for her to hear.

A slow exhale. A bitter smirk.

“I haven’t even kissed you yet.”