Shadow's Oath - Chapter 25
Chapter 25: Prince Damion
Prince Damion noticed his father returning from outside the camp late at night.
Four royal guards followed closely behind him.
“Where have you been at such a late hour?”
Damion asked as politely and amiably as he could.
“I just went for a night walk.”
Though the response wasn’t entirely curt, the tone was harsh.
A night walk?
That was unlikely!
But the atmosphere wasn’t one for further inquiry.
The men following him all looked grim.
The one at the rear, in particular, Captain Claive of the royal guard, was holding one eye with his hand, breathing heavily.
He seemed both angry and exhausted.
“Are you alright, Captain Claive?”
“Nothing happened.”
Claive brushed past Damion quickly, nearly shoulder-checking him as he left.
Even though they passed close by, Damion couldn’t tell if the substance on Claive’s hand was mud or blood.
But one thing was clear—nothing had happened, as the captain claimed, was definitely not the truth.
“I asked if you were okay, and you said ‘nothing happened’? What a bluntly honest answer, my friend.”
None of the royal guards were close to Damion.
They were knights who had sworn loyalty solely to the king and obeyed only his orders.
Their ranks were above everyone else’s, and beneath no one’s.
They operated independently from other royal knights and had the privilege of ignoring all but the king’s commands.
This autonomy was to ensure they could refuse orders from higher-ups in the event of a rebellion.
Even while stationed with Terdin’s army, they acted independently, refusing to take orders even from General Terdin.
Naturally, they could remain silent toward the prince as well.
Though Damion was curious about the situation, he refrained from pressing further.
His father wasn’t one to answer questions until he initiated the conversation himself.
Not even his most cherished eldest son, Crown Prince Lamuel, received warm treatment from him.
At least this impartiality spared Damion any jealousy.
‘Now is not the time for this.’
Damion waited for his father to enter the grand pavilion and then moved.
His target was Bishop Aikob’s personal supply warehouse.
The army had two general supply tents and one for his father’s provisions, but Aikob’s personal warehouses numbered three.
“Prince, what brings you here at this hour?”
The person managing the tent wasn’t a supply officer or royal administrator but a priest Aikob had personally brought along.
Despite the late hour, the priest was impeccably dressed in his robes and showed no sign of drowsiness.
He was as imposing as the royal guards.
“I’ve come to fetch a bottle of wine.”
As Damion attempted to step inside, the priest naturally moved to block his way with a wide smile.
“You need the bishop’s authorization.”
“What? He’s likely asleep at this hour. I’ll bring the authorization tomorrow. Just let me take one bottle now.”
Damion maintained his smile, and the priest kept his.
“That won’t do, Your Highness.”
“Come now, I’ll take responsibility—”
“Everyone in the royal family knows Your Highness never takes responsibility for such things.”
“When have I ever—”
At that moment, Aikob’s voice came from behind.
“What’s going on?”
Damion bit his lip but quickly masked his irritation with a polite smile, bowing to Aikob.
“I wanted to pray late at night but couldn’t concentrate. I thought a bottle of wine might help. As you’ve often said, only wine can help one focus on prayer, isn’t that right?”
Aikob chuckled heartily.
“Even out here, you don’t forget to pray. Truly, the second prince is the perfect candidate to rule this heathen land. But instead of relying on wine, why not join me for prayer directly?”
“How could I intrude on your rest, Bishop? If you could just allow me a bottle—”
Before Damion could finish, Aikob was already heading toward his tent.
Damion sighed through his nose.
The old man just had to come along!
Why not just stay in your sanctuary?
‘Then again, since he came, so did the wine.’
Damion reluctantly followed into the tent, where Aikob waited, as always, with a stiff and solemn expression.
When Damion stood before him, the bishop gestured with a nod.
Damion removed his upper garment, his thin frame shivering in the cold northern air.
He didn’t bother asking for a blanket; Aikob would surely deliver a sermon about how “faith blooms in suffering” and recount tales of saints enduring blizzards without clothing for an hour.
Thankfully, the floor was covered with a woolen rug, though its intricate patterns clearly came from a foreign heathen land.
Damion knelt on the rug beneath the sun-cross, the symbol of the official faith.
As always, Aikob stood before the sun-cross, blocking it from view.
This made Damion feel as though his prayers were directed at Aikob rather than the divine, a peculiar sensation.
Being shirtless also bothered him.
If this was uncomfortable for a man, how much worse must it be for women?
Of course, women also prayed before the sun-cross while disrobed, but they did so in private or with nuns present.
This prayer ritual, conducted in secret, had sparked many rumors accusing Aikob of immoral behavior with young noblewomen.
Such accusations never surfaced openly; anyone who voiced them faced religious trials and punishments equivalent to murder charges.
This applied even to a prince.
Damion knew the rumors weren’t baseless, but he said nothing.
After reciting three prayer verses, Damion was finally allowed to dress.
“Well done, Your Highness.”
Aikob seated himself in a grand wooden chair adorned with carvings and images symbolizing saints’ miracles.
It was as imposing as the king’s iron throne.
‘Why did this man insist on coming along for this campaign? Isn’t it the chancellor’s duty to guard the throne during the king’s absence? He’s missing a golden opportunity to exploit merchants while the king is away.’
Aikob stared at Damion as if to ask why he was still there.
Damion, contemplating how to get the wine, changed the subject.
“Have you heard? They say the king of the Geron tribe died to the sound of trumpets from the heavens.”
Aikob’s face twisted into displeasure.
“Do not call them the Geron tribe. Call them savages. If you address them by their chosen names, you’ll eventually grant them their desires. Names are important. A soul resides in a name.”
This was clearly the prelude to a lecture.
“Yes, I’ll keep that in mind.”
Realizing his mistake, Damion quickly sought to appease him, but it was too late.
“Listen carefully, Your Highness. As the future ruler of this land, you must always remember: never regard savages as equals. Treat them as beasts, or worse. If they wish to be treated as humans, teach them it comes only by accepting our god. Your duty here is to spread the word of the divine as quickly as possible.”
“Of course, Bishop. Now, please rest well.”
Just as Damion turned to leave, Aikob answered his earlier question.
“I heard about those heavenly sounds as soon as I arrived. It’s all the soldiers can talk about.”
“Really? What did you tell them? I’d like to hear your explanation. Surely, it wasn’t the trumpet of the apocalypse?”
Aikob chuckled.
“All things are explained by divine providence. If it were the trumpet of the end times, wouldn’t there be signs of judgment? The earth splitting, fire raining from the skies? Are clergy like us ascending to heaven?”
Aikob spread his hands as if inviting those around him to look.
“No.”
“Then it’s nothing.”
“Couldn’t it be the sound of heaven weeping, as God attempts to deliver a revelation to us?”
“We must distinguish between the temptations of the devil and the revelations of God. The soldiers might simply have imagined it together.”
“But General Terdin heard it too.”
“In my view, being a general doesn’t make one any different. Only a clergyman like myself can hear and discern the truth. If that sound rings again and I hear it, only then can I say anything about it. Not that it will happen, but until then, there’s no need for Your Highness to worry.”
Damion considered asking Aikob what he thought of the soldiers’ opinion that it might be the voice of the war god the Gerons believed in.
‘If I do that, I’ll end up listening to a sermon until sunrise tomorrow.’
Damion simply nodded with a smile.
“Oh, and I heard you met the chieftain of the barbarians.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you meet him?”
Aikob asked sharply.
“Well…”
Damion racked his brain for an answer to avoid being assigned the task of flogging himself while reciting prayers a hundred times.
“To spread God’s word to the barbarians, wouldn’t we first need to move their king? That requires careful effort, so I thought I’d start by showing my face.”
“How was he?”
“It’ll take a long time.”
“Of course, it will.”
“I’ll also need a bottle of wine.”
“Surely, you’re not thinking of giving wine to that barbarian?”
“I thought I’d show them how superior wine, the drink we call divine, is compared to their honey mead.”
Aikob considered this for a moment before nodding solemnly.
“You mean to test if their crude tongues can appreciate such profound flavors.”
“Exactly.”
“In that case, take a bottle.”
“Thank you.”
“But not the wine at the very bottom. That’s a rare bottle I’m saving for the altar.”
Aikob handed over a signed certificate.
The moment Damion received it, he quickly turned to leave.
“Oh, Your Highness.”
“Yes?”
Damion flinched as though caught in the act of a crime.
“Congratulations on your engagement in advance.”
“Engagement? What are you talking about?”
“Oh dear. I spoke too soon. I assumed His Majesty had already told you. My mistake! Then, I’ll stop here so as not to spoil your joy.”
Aikob placed a finger on his lips and winked.
It was a grotesque sight, but Damion’s curiosity was stronger than his disgust.
And the fact that Aikob had mentioned it so hastily meant he was willing to share more.
“Could you at least give me a hint?”
Damion asked earnestly.
Aikob sighed as if there was no other choice.
“Then I’ll give you just one word: Vormont. Nothing more.”
“Thank you,”
Damion said with a smile and bowed.
As soon as he left the tent, Damion spat on the ground.
“Engagement? Vormont?”
Damion returned to the supply tent, waved the certificate at the strict priest there, and declared,
“I’m taking a bottle of wine.”
The priest examined the certificate with a frown before leading Damion inside and pointing at two crates of wine.
“Which one will you take?”
“The one at the bottom.”
“Are you sure? That one’s meant for the altar—”
“I said, the one at the bottom.”
The priest tilted his head and muttered, “That can’t be right…” but couldn’t argue with the written authorization and opened the lower crate.
An engagement he knew nothing about?
Names of noble families flashed through Damion’s mind.
Duke of Vormont had three children.
The firstborn, Rusef, was from his first wife, who had passed away.
The twins—a daughter, Sharlon, and a son, Aduer—were born to his second wife.
‘So my fiancée must be Charlon Vormont.’
The Vormonts had waged war against the Kingdom of Triton about a decade ago, a war that General Terdin himself had ended.
The defeated Vormonts were forced to pay massive reparations, cede territory, and send their firstborn, Rusef, as a hostage.
Since then, the Gallant and Vormont families had avoided direct conflict.
Trade between the two territories grew, and diplomatic disputes ceased.
But that didn’t mean relations had improved.
To this day, the mention of Vormonts stirred anger in many soldiers who had not yet forgotten their fallen comrades.
The sentiment was mutual on the other side.
And now, out of the blue, the only daughter of that family was to marry Damion, not even the firstborn?
Holding the bottle of wine, Damion glanced toward his father’s tent, still brightly lit as if it were midday.
‘Father must’ve struck some deal involving me.’
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