Shattered Oaths

The rain is falling in heavy sheets, a relentless rhythm against the cracked pavement. The distant sound of a siren fades as Conall Cernach pulls his collar tighter around his neck, the damp creeping through the seams of his worn coat. His boots splash through shallow pools of water as he weaves through the skeletal remains of what was once a vibrant part of the city. Now, it’s a ghost of its former self—burned-out cars, shattered glass, graffiti-tagged walls bearing messages no one reads anymore.

A gun is heavy in his pocket, pressing against his thigh like an accusation, the weight familiar and suffocating. His breath curls into the night air, his mind sharper than the cold cutting through him. He’s close now. His pace slows as the old library looms ahead, a crumbling edifice at the heart of the district, once a sanctuary for minds, now a tomb for forgotten causes.

A flickering streetlamp casts its weak light across the entrance, a glistening archway of grime and rot. Conall hesitates at the threshold. Inside, it smells of mildew and memories, the bitter stench of decay hanging in the air, mixing with something else—gun oil, sweat, the metallic tang of blood. There’s no turning back.

Lugaid is here.

The promise they had made, years ago, tightens like a noose around Conall’s throat. He swore to Cul—to Culann Cahalain, the brother he’d fought beside, the man who had saved him more times than he could count—that he would avenge his death. But now, standing in the ruins of their past, Conall wonders if vengeance will feel like the victory he once believed it to be, or whether it will tear him apart, piece by piece, the way Cul’s death did.

He takes a deep breath and steps inside.

The corridor stretches before him, long and dark, lined with dust-coated shelves. Fragments of broken glass crunch beneath his feet as he moves, careful, alert, his senses sharp in the silence. The faint flicker of a candle burns further down the hallway, casting a tremulous glow that leads him toward the heart of this decaying monument. His hand brushes against a half-broken shelf, the same one they had leaned against years ago, as they laughed and argued over tactics and philosophies. Back then, this place had been alive—echoing with their voices, their dreams.

Now, the silence is oppressive, broken only by the distant drip of water from the cracked ceiling.

Conall pauses, his pulse quickening. He hears the soft scrape of boots on the stone floor ahead—Lugaid’s men, no doubt. His fingers tighten around the grip of the gun, his breath slowing as he listens. There’s a beat of quiet, then movement, a shadow shifting through the doorframe up ahead.

Without a word, Conall presses himself against the wall, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline surge through his veins. He closes his eyes, letting the memories flood back—Culann’s voice, calm and clear: “Breathe, Con. Let them come to you. Then strike.”

He waits. The footsteps draw closer. A man appears—a guard, oblivious, carrying a rifle slung across his back. He doesn’t have time to register Conall’s presence before Conall’s arm snaps around his throat, the knife in his other hand sliding cleanly into the man’s ribs. The guard gurgles, struggling for air, but Conall holds tight until the man goes limp, his body slumping silently to the floor.

Conall wipes the blade on his sleeve and moves forward. His body hums with tension, but his mind is clear, focused. This is the easy part. The confrontation—what comes next—is what gnaws at him. The image of Lugaid’s face, the face of the man who betrayed them, who killed Cul, flashes before his eyes.

What would Cul think of this? Of him?

The memory hits him like a punch. The last time they had all been here, together.

It had been a different kind of night. The library was still intact back then, full of light and laughter. Conall, Cul, and Lugaid—three young men, each burning with their ideals, their ambitions. They’d sat around a table in the corner, pouring over maps and books, arguing, debating. Cul had always been the calm one, the diplomat, the one who saw the bigger picture. He had convinced them that change was possible, that their fight would mean something.

But it was Lugaid who had the fire, the passion. His speeches had stirred them, igniting something in Conall that made him believe in the cause, in the brotherhood they had built.

And yet, it was Lugaid who had shattered it all. Conall had seen him, standing over Cul’s broken body, his face cold, his eyes distant. The betrayal had cut deeper than the death itself.

The soft glow of the candle ahead flickers, pulling Conall back to the present. He approaches the room, his pulse thudding in his ears. Lugaid is inside. Alone.

The door creaks as Conall pushes it open.

Lugaid sits at a table, the flame casting shadows over his worn face. He looks older than Conall remembers, his eyes sunken, the fire that once burned so brightly in him now dimmed. The sight of him—alive, here—sends a surge of fury through Conall, but it’s tempered by something heavier, something that settles deep in his chest.

They stare at each other, the silence thick with unspoken words. Conall doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. He pulls the gun from his coat and levels it at Lugaid.

Lugaid doesn’t flinch. His hands remain on the table, fingers splayed. He looks tired, weary, but there’s no fear in his eyes. Only resignation.

“I know why you’re here,” Lugaid says quietly. His voice is rough, almost a whisper, as if it hurts him to speak. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

Conall’s hand tightens around the gun. His heart hammers in his chest, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a vise. He could end it now, pull the trigger, and fulfill the promise he made to Cul.

But something holds him back.

“Why?” Conall’s voice is raw, thick with emotion. It’s the first word he’s spoken, and it feels like it costs him everything. “Why did you do it?”

Lugaid doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes flicker to the candle, the flame reflected in the dark pools of his pupils.

“I thought I was doing what was right,” he finally says. “For the cause. For the future. I didn’t mean for it to… I didn’t mean for him to die.” He looks up, meeting Conall’s gaze. “But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

Conall shakes his head, his grip on the gun faltering. “You killed him.”

“I killed a part of myself that day, too,” Lugaid replies, his voice trembling with an emotion Conall can’t quite place. “I didn’t want this. Any of it.”

The room is suffocating, the air thick with years of regret, of betrayal, of loss. Conall can feel the weight of it pressing down on him, crushing him from the inside.

He had come here for revenge. But now, standing before Lugaid, hearing the sorrow in his voice, the grief etched into every line of his face, Conall realizes that no amount of vengeance will bring Cul back.

“You could have walked away,” Conall says, his voice breaking. “We all could have.”

Lugaid nods, the faintest hint of a bitter smile on his lips. “But we didn’t.”

The gun trembles in Conall’s hand. His vision blurs, his mind screaming at him to pull the trigger, to finish it. But his heart—his heart can’t bear the weight of it.

“I’m sorry,” Lugaid whispers.

The words hit Conall like a blade, cutting deeper than any wound. He closes his eyes, the memory of Cul’s laughter echoing in his mind. And with a choked breath, he lowers the gun.

Lugaid watches him, eyes full of sorrow.

“I’m sorry, too,” Conall says, his voice barely a whisper.

And in one swift motion, Lugaid reaches for the gun, pulling Conall’s finger on the trigger.

The shot echoes through the library, a sharp crack that shatters the silence.

Lugaid slumps forward, the candle flickering as his body hits the floor.

Conall stands frozen, the weight of it all crashing down around him. He looks down at Lugaid’s lifeless form, his hand still gripping the gun, and feels nothing but emptiness.

The rain outside beats harder against the windows, the world outside unchanged.