The Weight of Oaths

Cassian woke to the taste of salt and regret.

The inn was alive with the hum of morning, the scent of spilled ale and damp wood clinging to the air like a stubborn ghost. His head pounded in slow, deliberate waves, each pulse a reminder of the previous night’s indulgence. He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, only to realise he was not alone in the room.

“Rough night, Cass?”

A laugh—sharp, amused—cut through the haze of his mind. He cracked open an eye to see the innkeeper’s wife, an older woman with the kind of knowing smirk that suggested she had seen far worse than him slumped over a table. She slid a tin cup of water toward him, shaking her head as she wiped down the counter.

“Must’ve been some company you kept,” she mused.

Cassian winced at the memory. Thorne’s sharp gaze, the smirk that had curled at the edges of his mouth like a secret waiting to be told. The heat of their unspoken challenge, the tension that had crackled between them before the night turned to embers.

He grunted, sitting up with great effort, taking the water without thanks but draining it like a man half-dead from thirst. Around him, the morning crowd of the inn bustled—sailors nursing their own hangovers, merchants bartering for breakfast, a group of dockworkers muttering amongst themselves in low, conspiratorial voices.

It was their words that cut through the fog in his mind.

“They say the curse finally caught up to ‘im.”

“Didn’t think he’d last this long.”

“Verdugo’s gonna make an example of him.”

Cassian stilled. The murmur carried across the room, passed between mouths eager for gossip. He forced himself to focus, tuning his ears to the conversation as he rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes.

“The prisoner—marked, they say. A damned soul.”

Cassian’s stomach twisted. He turned, leaning against the counter as the dockworkers continued their talk.

“Locked up till the trial, but we all know how those go. Only way out is a royal pardon, and no one’s fool enough to grant that to the cursed.”

A trial. A curse. The unease curled around his ribs, pressing tight. His instincts told him to ignore it, to turn his back and move on. But the problem with instincts was that sometimes, they led you exactly where you didn’t want to go.

A commotion outside broke through his thoughts. Shouting—an official voice carrying over the clamor of the market. He rose to his feet, swaying slightly as the remnants of drink still lingered in his limbs. He followed the sound, stepping out into the morning light, blinking against the glare.

The marketplace was a sea of movement, bodies shifting around a raised platform where a man clad in the black robes of the Crown’s justice stood. His voice rang out, each word weighted with finality.

“The prisoner, found guilty of harbouring dark omens, will be held until the day of judgment. His only salvation lies in the blessing of the Crown, a mercy granted only to those whose souls may yet be redeemed.”

Cassian’s pulse quickened.

From his vantage point, he caught a glimpse of the figure being dragged forward. Dirty, bloodied—but unmistakable.

No.

Not him.

Cassian’s breath hitched. He hadn’t seen that face in years, not since the sea had swallowed him whole.

Yet there he stood. Bound, beaten, but alive.

His brother.

The world tilted. The distant roar of the crowd faded into a dull hum, drowned out by the pounding of his own heartbeat. It didn’t make sense. He had mourned him, had carried the weight of loss like a stone in his chest. And now—

He was here.

Alive.

A breath shuddered out of him. The ground felt unsteady beneath his feet, his mind running in circles. If his brother lived, then where had he been? Why hadn’t he come back? And why in all hells was he now branded as cursed?

Then—

Movement at the edge of the square. A figure stepping forward, cutting through the crowd like a shadow through mist.

Cassian knew before he even saw his face.

Thorne.

His posture was rigid, gaze fixed on the prisoner with something unreadable in his amber eyes. The same man who claimed to owe nothing, who carried the weight of superstition like a second skin, now standing in the presence of a curse.

Cassian’s blood ran cold.

What the hell did Thorne know?

Without thinking, he moved. His fingers caught the fabric of Thorne’s coat, yanking him back before he could do something reckless. The moment Thorne turned to face him, Cassian didn’t wait for answers—he dragged him through the throng of bodies, ignoring the startled protests, shoving open the door to the nearest inn chamber and slamming it shut behind them.

Then, breathless, furious, he turned on him.

“You’re going to tell me exactly how the hell you know him.”

Thorne’s expression was unreadable, but there was a shift in his stance—barely perceptible, but Cassian caught it. A tension in his shoulders, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Not surprise. Something else. Something deeper.

“Let me go.”

Cassian pressed him against the door, grip ironclad. “Not until you answer me.”

A muscle in Thorne’s jaw twitched. His breath was warm against Cassian’s skin, close enough that Cassian could see the way his throat bobbed, the way his fingers flexed at his sides as if deciding whether to shove him away or—

“He’s cursed, Cassian.” Thorne’s voice was quiet, but it carried weight. “He’s beyond saving.”

Cassian’s grip tightened. His mind swam with too many questions, too many suspicions. But beneath it all, one thought burned brighter than the rest.

He wasn’t going to let his brother die.

And whether Thorne liked it or not, he was going to help him.