Chapter 69: Chapter 69

The moment they stepped into the entryway of the estate, the air was still buzzing with the aftershocks of recent events.

They had barely set foot inside when Brunhild, having caught wind of their conspiracy, asked, “Was that apology sincere, or was it another one of your ploys?”

Margiory held her sworn sister’s stare, her own eyes unwavering and filled with a rare, raw determination. “I meant every word, Brun.”

A heavy sigh escaped her lips before she continued, her voice softening slightly, “I know how much it hurt you what happened. Even after you and Hilda became the last of your family, I promised you that you would never be alone again.”

She stepped closer to Brunhild, reaching out to take her hands, her touch grounding. “I failed to fulfill that promise because of my son’s pride. And for that, I’m sorry, truly sorry, but you will always be a sister to me.”

Brunhild’s grip tightened on Margiory’s hands, her eyes searching, analyzing, lingering on Margiory’s face for a long moment.

Margiory, usually so composed, found herself growing subtly fidgety under the intense scrutiny.

Sokram considered stepping in, but before he could speak, Brunhild finally said, “Then the three of us need to go somewhere.”

"Three?” Margiory glanced around at their gathered family, hoping it would become clear who Brunhild meant.

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Brunhild clarified, her voice low and firm, “You, Sokram, and I will be going for a walk.”

She then turned to Hilda, a subtle, knowing smile forming on her lips, “Will be right back.”

Pushing open the heavy front door, the hinges groaning in protest, letting in a whisper of the outside world and a whisp of cold air.

A sense of urgency in Brunhild's tone as she glanced over her shoulder. “Come on, what are you waiting for?”

Hannah stepped forward. "Should I go too?"

Brunhild shook her head firmly, a resolute expression settling upon her features.

“If it were your late husband, the one who shared our name, he could've, but this time you will have to sit this one out, alright?”

“I see. Alright then.” Hannah nodded and followed the others, retreating into the estate.

"Where are we going, Nana?" Sokram asked as he followed Margiory through the door.

The evening air was thick with the scent of damp earth, and the streets were still lively with the distant sounds of the neighboring estates.

“You’ll know when we get there.”

As she led the way, Brunhild’s expression remained unreadable, a carefully constructed mask.

Her shoulders seemed tighter, her gaze fixed forward.

Her silence was a complete contrast to her usual demeanor.

A pensive, almost tense aura surrounded her.

Sokram and Margiory exchanged concerned glances tinged with guilt, perhaps even fear, as they sensed her inner turmoil.

Following her, their slow-paced steps led them toward the city’s east side. Sokram's mind raced. Trying to anticipate their destination, sifting through his vast memories for any significant landmark in that area.

Nothing immediately came to mind.

Suddenly, the answer became clear.

As the towering gates came into view, a hushed realization escaped Margiory’s lips, “The city’s burial grounds…”

When Brunhild finally broke the silence, her voice trembled.

She paused mid-sentence, swallowing hard the lump in her throat.

Finally, she whispered, almost too softly to hear, “Yes… It’s time we talk to them."

Beyond the towering iron gates, the snow-covered ground added a subtle raspy sound under their footsteps as they walked.

A blanket of fog mingled with snow that extended around the bases of countless stone structures.

Each was etched with symbolic markings from their families or cultures.

Each glimmered faintly under the moonlight.

Though none of the catacombs were grander than the humble cottages in the slums, their craftsmanship was undeniably richer.

Reaching the entrance to the Dracnakrid’s catacombs, a structure that, while small, was richly adorned, they paused.

The walls were etched with intricate, ancient draconic runes, their carvings telling tales of forgotten eras.

Looming over the formidable double steel doors, a fearsome sculpted head of a dragon, a silent guardian.

Brunhild reached out, her hand resting on the cold metal doors, and froze. Sokram’s sharp eyes noticed the almost imperceptible trembling in her fingers.

Her gaze seemed distant, dazed, her eyes glistening with a film of moisture.

“When we left Frozen River after Sokram was born, I told you I would never allow you to set foot here again.”

Brunhild turned to Margiory, the raw pain and deep regret etched onto her face, as clear as the runes on the walls.

“I’m sorry, I had no right. But what happened hurt me so damn much..." Brunhild's head lowered, her hand clenched into a fist, “I had already lost all my family, and then I felt like I had lost my sister too.”

Her voice caught in a swallowed sob. “And I’m not good with grief.”

“I know,” Margiory’s voice was equally soft, filled with a reciprocal understanding.

“I’m sorry too. I should have handled things better, but it was an unusual circumstance for all of us. That’s no excuse, but I didn’t know how to deal with it all.”

Margiory rarely displayed her emotions openly. Her face was typically a carefully controlled canvas.

But now, looking at Brunhild, the usual masks were gone, revealing a vulnerability Sokram rarely witnessed.

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“We introduced Mikhail and Astrid together, and I didn’t have the strength to come back here without you to introduce him,” Brunhild said, a wry smile touching her lips as she extended her hand to Margiory.

Brunhild produced an intricate key, a small, octagonal box crafted from gleaming gold, and with practiced movements, unlocked the complex mechanism of the doors.

With a grunt of effort, she pushed the right door inward, while Margiory pushed the other.

As the heavy steel parted, a wave of air, reeking of wet stone and long-sealed decay, clung to their skin.

The rot was so thick Sokram could almost taste it.

Beyond the threshold, a set of stone stairs descended into the darkness below.

“, son.” Brunhild’s voice was shaky, but holding Margiory’s hand seemed to lend her the strength to face whatever lay waiting in the depths.

Sokram remained silent, not only out of respect but because he had never seen this vulnerable side of his grandmothers before, not even in the face of death.

Whatever introduction Brunhild referred to had never occurred in the past timeline either.

‘I keep surprising myself with how much my Fate keeps changing…’ Sokram mused as he followed them down.

He noted they made no attempt to light torches or cast spells for light. Brunhild seemed fearful of disturbing the solemn rest of their ancestors.

Yet, despite the pitch blackness, both women navigated the uneven steps without faltering, clearly knowing the way by heart.

Sokram could see perfectly in the deep darkness, his Night Vision painting the catacombs in shades of gray.

The catacombs swallowed the sound of their footsteps, leaving only the drip of distant water and the rustle of their clothes.

The air thickened as they descended, growing heavier and warmer with each step.

It clung to their skin, carrying the faint, distinct scent of damp earth and ancient stone.

Familiar names began to appear on the tombs lining the walls, carved into the stone.

‘Mirah vid Dracnakrid – Beloved mother, sister, and daughter. A True dragon on the battlefield.’

Passing Mirah’s resting place, Sokram saw Brunhild’s grip tighten on Margiory’s hand and heard a quiet sniffle escape her lips.

His gaze shifted, following their steps, and he saw his grandfather’s name: ‘Sorah vid Dracnakrid – a loving husband, father, brother, and son. The Wind Dragon of Norwinter.’

Finally, they came to a halt before two distinct tombs.

Unlike the others, these were crafted from pure, dark steel, their sides adorned with ancient, intricate engravings.

Standing sentinel beside them were two statues made of ivory.

For the first time, Sokram could see just how much he resembled his great-grandfather.

Golden plates were affixed at the feet of the statues, bearing the word ‘Patriarch.’

Situated between the two tombs was a small, ornamented bowl, its surface engraved with a peculiar array, a blood magic spell.

The tomb on the right bore the inscription: ‘Sodram vid Dracnakrid – beloved father and grandpa, a dreamer to the bitter end. The Fire Dragon of the Norwinter.’

But then, Sokram’s eyes widened in surprise as he read the inscription on the other tomb: ‘Arnold di Androny – Brother, father, and uncle.’

Instead of a title or praise, a personal message was carved below the name:

‘To my brother, I fulfill the promise that once we die, we’ll rest side by side so we can easily meet at the Land of the Restless, forever together, so not even the Nether may overtake us.’

With a flick of her wrist, Margiory sent two flames arcing through the darkness, each finding its target with precision to ignite a torch.

The flickering torchlight danced across the walls, making the intricate draconic runes seem to writhe.

On the dark steel tombs, the ancient engravings stood in stark relief, their lines sharp and deep, telling silent stories that weighed on Sokram's heart as he read them.

Revealed by the new light, Sokram saw their faces, tears carving paths through powdered composure, smudging kohl and rouge.

Two of the strongest women he knew, now two little girls who wanted nothing more than to embrace their father and uncle.

Instead, they found solace in each other's supportive presence.

"Daddy..." Brunhild’s voice was a child’s whisper. "I-I’m sorry it took me so long to visit."

She turned to Arnold’s grave, sobs shaking her frame. "Uncle... I’m sorry I kept Marg away all these years."

"It was my fault, Dad." Margiory clutched Brunhild’s shoulders tightly. "I’m sorry too."

She bowed her head to Sodram’s statue. "I haven’t been a good sister. Please forgive me, Uncle."

They knelt as one, foreheads pressed to cold stone.

Then, they turned to Sokram, their eyes, though tearful, conveying an obvious invitation.

Stepping forward, Sokram followed their lead.

“Great-grandfathers,” he said softly and bowed.

Even though dragons never bow to anyone but their matrons, a deep, innate feeling compelled him to do so here.

“We came to introduce him to you as the fulfillment of our Oath,” Brunhild began, her voice still thick with emotion as she struggled to wipe away the relentless flow of tears.

“This young dragon is the one who will lead both our families as one from here on out,” she declared, her voice gaining strength with each word.

“He has awakened both of our families’ bloodlines,” Margiory added, a surge of pride momentarily amidst her sorrow.

She, too, was struggling to control her tears. “A genius like no other,” she affirmed. “His name is Sokram.”

Raising their heads, Brunhild pointed to the ornamented bowl situated between the tombs.

“Son, spill your blood on that bowl.”

Sokram nodded, a deep, unwavering trust in his two grandmothers overriding any hesitation.

He didn’t even pause to examine the spell engraved into the bowl.

As soon as a drop of his blood touched the surface, the inscriptions within the bowl began to glow.

The light, initially a deep, pulsing red, then shifted to a vibrant orange, a warm yellow, a brilliant green, and finally settled on a pure, dazzling white.

Once the light reached its peak intensity, the entire floor of the catacomb was bathed in its radiant glow.

A small, intricate array shimmered into existence directly above the bowl. And as if summoned by Sokram’s blood and the activated spell, a small, ornamented golden metal box surged upwards from the array, landing gently in Sokram’s outstretched hand.

"I knew it." Brunhild’s breath hitched, wonder cutting through her grief like sunlight through storm clouds.

“Now, more than ever,” Margiory’s voice was laced with the same astonishment and surprise, a hint of triumphant laughter bubbling up.

"No one will ever be able to contest him being my chosen successor; both the previous patriarchs seem to have agreed. Haha.”

Sokram glanced back at Brunhild, who offered a subtle, encouraging nod, silently urging him to open the box.

Lifting the lid, he found a single item nestled within: a golden, ornamented key.

The golden key bit into Sokram’s palm, its edges sharp with forgotten purpose.

“Do you know what this is for?” Sokram asked, genuinely at a loss.

This development was entirely unexpected; none of this had ever transpired in his previous timeline.

“Yes, but only Hilda can tell you,” Brunhild explained, a newfound calmness settling over her features.

“And only when she decides you’re ready. It is an oath she made to my father, I hope you can understand, son.”

Sokram could see the surprise mirrored in their eyes as well.

“I understand,” Sokram nodded. “Did my siblings get something , too?”

“No.” Brunhild shook her head.

She then glanced at Margiory, who gave a subtle nod, granting permission to reveal more.

Brunhild continued, her voice regaining strength, “Before the last war, both of our fathers brought us here. They had been researching something they believed could finally allow us to take a step toward Ascension. They asked for two things: The first was for us to unite the families. And the second was that whichever heir carried the bloodlines of both our families needed to be brought here to have their bloodline tested by that spell. Whoever received their inheritance…” She gestured towards the key in Sokram’s hand, “…Was to lead our families as one.”

“The Oath we made to them was to find that person, and that person is you, baby.” Margiory finished the sentence, her voice resonating with the weight of their shared history.

As if on cue, as if something unseen had been waiting for them to acknowledge the fulfillment of their oath, a crimson circle shimmered into existence on the stone floor beneath them.

“The Mark of the Judgment…”

Sokram understood the weight of Blood Oaths.

They were far more than simple vows; they were potent pacts of blood magic, willingly entered into.

These Oaths and Blood Contracts, whether for secrecy, honesty, or partnership, were governed by the Mark of the Judgment and overseen by the Tribunal, powerful Existences subordinated to the Records, Fate, and Evolution, who ensured their adherence.

Breaking such an oath typically demanded the life of the transgressor.

For contracts, the Mark of the Judgment would only claim a life if the agreed-upon compensation was not delivered.

However, Oaths of promises, like the solemn pledge Margiory and Brunhild had made to their fathers, acted differently.

The Mark of the Judgment was invoked not upon failure, but upon their fulfillment, a visible sign that lifted the burden of the promise from their hearts.

This was what they witnessed now as the crimson circle pulsed, spun around them, and shone intensely with a green light.

As that happened, Margiory and Brunhild felt a tangible weight lift from their shoulders, a burden they had carried for years finally released.

A feeling of profound joy and deep peace flooded their hearts.

“We did it!” Brunhild cheered, her voice ringing with relief and triumph. “We honored them.”

Margiory embraced Brunhild tightly, a mutual understanding passing between them. “Yes, we did it!”

They remained in the embrace for a while, the silence of the catacombs enveloping them, allowing the waves of emotion to subside until a sense of calm returned.

When their gazes eventually met Sokram’s, the grief that had shadowed them earlier was gone, replaced by a serene acceptance.

Though the lingering melancholy of the place remained, like a soft echo in the quiet air.