Original Draft

Those of you who've followed me for a while know I've threatened to write an original story approximately ten thousand times. Well—today’s the day I actually do it.

Consider this snippet a dark fantasy appetizer: raw, unrefined, and with absolutely no promises attached. Will it become a full story? Maybe. Do I have any idea what I’m doing? Absolutely not. But here’s the gist:

The Premise

A broken knight. Garran Dornblade, once sworn to crown and gods, now branded "Oathbreaker."

A hellish exile. His choices? The noose—or Lastlight, a festering wound in the world where criminals fight demonic hordes spilling from the Maw.

A mission gone wrong. A routine scouting patrol twists into catastrophe when the Maw does the one thing it’s never done before: go silent.

What crawls out of that silence will make hanging seem merciful.

The Snippet

Moon‑pale candles crowned the inner sanctum, their flames shivering in the hush. Garran Dornblade stood at the center of the circular dais, linen tunic clinging to muscle and sweat.

The six acolytes—faces hidden beneath ivory hoods—approached in measured cadence, each bearing a gleaming plate of armor as though it were a sacrament.

The High Priest of the Radiant Court—robes stitched with gold thread, voice like hammered bronze—stepped forward with a scroll in hand.

A silver greave was braced around Garran’s right shin.

“What is your pledge to Auretheon, Lord of Light and Law?”

Garran’s voice rang clear, carrying to the shadowed colonnades above.

“My sight—unclouded by pride. My step—never straying from the path.”

A second acolyte fitted the matching greave.

“What is your pledge to Velmara, Lady of Mercy and Compassion?”

“My body—a shield for the frail. My blood—the price of their breath.”

Bronzed vambraces clasped about his forearms with a muted click.

“What is your pledge to Khorveth, Lord of Forge and Flame?”

“My will—to endure the fire of tribulations. My wrath—to scourge the unworthy..”

A gleaming cuirass descended, locking across his chest.

“What is your pledge to Seravain, the Whispering Thorn?”

“My heart—stripped bare of deceit. My silence—a vault for the dead..”

Acolytes lifted broad‑edged pauldrons onto his shoulders, their weight like miniature ramparts.

“What is your pledge to Ardun, God of War and Dominion?”

Garran set his jaw as the metal settled.

“My sword—for the wicked. Their blood—to quench his thirst.”

Only the helm remained, cradled in the priest’s hands like a newborn star. The old man’s eyes narrowed, voice dropping to a solemn hush.

“And to your king, sovereign of realms and chosen by the Five—what pledge binds your life to his?”

Garran turned.

High upon the obsidian throne sat the king: robed in cobalt silk, circlet agleam, visage the portrait of noble gravity. Garran opened his mouth to swear fealty—

—and watched majesty curdle.

The king’s lips peeled back too wide, revealing rows of needle teeth. Regal eyes ignited into pits of molten gold. A hush swept the hall; torch‑flames bent inward as if drawn to that abyssal hunger.

Garran’s words shriveled in his throat.

...

“Oi, Garran!”

Garran lurched upright, lungs dragging cold night air. No gold‑lit hall, no shining steel—only a threadbare tent reeking of sweat and mildew. His “bed” was a burlap roll stuffed with straw; his “armor” a patchwork of cracked leather and scavenged mail links.

A silhouette stooped at the entrance, torchlight paling across a scar‑cheeked face.

“Up with you—your turn on watch. Try not to break any oaths while you're at it, eh?”

The man spat and disappeared.

Garran’s pulse hammered as he found his feet. The branded sigil—blackened sun of treachery—itched beneath the collar of his torn gambeson. He belted on a nicked longsword, the blade more rust than iron, and stepped into the bitter wind.

Beyond the ragged tents, the Maw’s horizon glimmered—an endless bruise against the stars.

Garran stepped toward the watch-fires, the ghost of armor heavy on his back, an oathbreaker walking a line no god would bless.