Echoes of Broken Vows

Chapter 17

The Grand Chamber, once a place of ritual, now felt like a tomb. Rowan stood rigid, his face barely contained the anguish as he watched Sam being led to the altar.

Normally a vessel won’t be sacrificed at the altar. This time was different.

The chamber looked the same as the way Rowan remembered, the only thing that changed were the subjects for the ascension.

Garron stood at the head of the altar, his ornate robes seeming to shimmer in the otherworldly light. Sam was secured to the cold stone, his eyes met Rowan’s one final time - a look of resignation, sorrow, and a flicker of something else.

Sam started to cry softly, finally allowing himself to break, to feel hopeless.

They hoped that something would happen, that some miracle would get them out of this twisted situation. But the miracle will not come.

Garron slowly approached Sam, placing a palm on his forehead. Sam and Rowan looked at each other one last time, “I love you, brother,”

Sam sobbed. “I…”

Before Rowan even managed to say anything, Sam collapsed to the floor.

The life from his kind green eyes was gone in an instant. Rowan’s heart pounded frantically as he watched Sam’s lifeless form on the altar.

Rowan burst into tears, wanting to run to Sam and hold him tight, to say goodbye.

The scene was hauntingly familiar, making him recall the countless ascensions he had witnessed before.

But this time, it was personal. This time, it was he and Sam. Garron moved with practiced precision as he prepared for the ritual.

Rowan couldn’t shake the sorrow he felt, the grief he felt as he looked at Sam’s naked body laid out on the cold stone altar.

As Garron commanded, “Let the ascension begin,”

his voice reverberated off the stone walls, filling the space with an almost tangible authority.

Rowan felt the weight of bearing witness press down on him, his flesh prickling beneath the heavy fabric of his ceremonial robes.

“State your name and age,”

Garron recited, his eyes locked on Rowan. Rowan’s voice cracked as he replied, “Rowan... 22 years.”

He kept sobbing, he felt his knees weak.

The words felt like ashes in his mouth. “Kneel and say this: ‘mors servus meus est’,”

Garron ordered. Rowan’s legs shook, but he remained standing, defiance burnt in his eyes. This was his time to prove himself, his time to use every force he had to resist.

“No,”

he growled through clenched teeth. “You’ll have to kill me before I’ll take part in this madness.”

Garron was unfazed by this reaction, and if he was, he didn’t let it show. Rowan felt the hilt of a sword hitting him on the back, two guards flanked Rowan, their grip on his arms felt as hard as iron.

“You seem to misunderstand,”

Garron said, his voice low and menacing. “This is not a request.”

At another signal from Garron, the guards forced Rowan to his knees, the impact so painful it sent vibrations through his bones.

Rowan struggled against their hold, but it was pointless. Garron moved closer.

“Now,”

Garron commanded, “say the words.”

Rowan clamped his mouth shut, glaring up at Garron with all the hatred he could muster, they’ll have to make him talk. Garron nodded to one of the guards, who delivered a swift punch to Rowan’s stomach and then an uppercut straight to his nose.

The air rushed from Rowan’s lungs, and he started to bleed. Gasping for breath, Rowan felt Garron’s hand grip his jaw, forcing his head up.

“The words, Rowan,”

Garron hissed. “Say them, or we’ll extend your suffering before the ascension. Is that what you want?”

Rowan knew they could keep him alive for eternity to suffer and be tortured. They didn’t need to keep his body intact to do that.

The threat hung in the air, and Rowan’s firmness crumbled. The thought of enduring pain eternally was worse than death. With tears of rage and despair in his eyes, Rowan finally whispered, “Mors servus meus est.”

Garron’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “There...”

He said, releasing Rowan’s jaw.

“Was that so difficult?”

A cowled figure entered with heavy footsteps, carrying the infamous golden chalice.

Rowan didn’t intend to go without trouble. He rammed his head backward to the guard’s nose and intended to kick the chalice out of the hands of the figure that came in front, but as quick as it started this attempt failed.

Another guard dropped him down with a knee to the groin, Rowan fell to the ground feeling pain so intense he almost fainted.

Garron took the chalice and rolled his eyes, his arms trembling slightly under its weight. He approached Rowan, who was still held firmly by the guards.

Rowan clenched his jaw, determined to resist until the last possible moment. But Garron merely nodded to the guards, who wrenched Rowan’s head back, their grip painful and unyielding.

Garron pressed the cold rim of the chalice against Rowan’s lips, the acrid smell of Mytholite filling his nostrils.

“Drink. Now.”

Garron commanded. When Rowan kept his mouth stubbornly shut, Garron sighed and pinched Rowan’s nose closed. His nose was probably broken and he almost couldn’t suffer the pain.

The seconds ticked by, Rowan’s lungs burning for air, until finally, instinct overrode will.

As Rowan gasped for breath, Garron tipped the chalice, and the viscous purple liquid poured into his mouth.

The guards clamped Rowan’s jaw shut, forcing him to swallow. The Mytholite burned like liquid fire as it went down, spreading an unnatural and alien warmth through his body.

Rowan’s vision began to blur, the world tilting and swaying around him as the Mytholite took its effect. Rowan blurringly saw Garron’s figure approaching Sam’s body, moments later he collapsed.

Consciousness returned to Rowan like a tidal wave. His eyes snapped open, and for a moment, the world was a blur of purple-tinged light and indistinct shapes.

As his vision cleared, he found himself staring at his own face, lifeless and pale on the altar before him, his body dead in a pool of blood.

A scream built in his throat, but it emerged as an unfamiliar voice – Sam’s voice. Rowan’s hands – no, Sam’s hands, flew to his face, fingers traced the face he knew so well, but not his own.

The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow: the ascension had worked. He was trapped in Sam’s body, his friend’s consciousness gone, replaced by his own.

Bile rose in his throat as the full horror of what had been done to them settled into his bones.

He could feel Sam’s heart – his heart now, pounding frantically in his chest, a reminder of the life that had been sacrificed for this abomination, the life he loved.

Rowan’s mind reeled, he refused to accept what happened.

He wanted to scream, to rage against the injustice, but all he could manage was a choked sob as he stared at his own corpse, knowing that his friend was truly gone.

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