France, 1704 War had made beasts of men.

General Alastair Blackmoor, feared across Europe, led from the front—blade drawn, boots bloodied. Yet inside, his heart was heavy, worn thin by death and duty.

He met Sebastian Witherfork on a battlefield turned to ash.

The stranger arrived alone, sword on his back, face shadowed beneath a black hood.

“I heard you take in strays,” he said.

Alastair eyed him. “You don’t look like a stray. You look like you’ve strayed too far.”

Sebastian gave a mirthless smile. “Still—I fight well. I want no coin. Just purpose.”

It should’ve been a warning. But Alastair, desperate for good steel, let him in.

⸻

Weeks Later Sebastian fought like a ghost—silent, swift, and terrifying. He slept little. Spoke less. But Alastair noticed things:

The way Sebastian stared at fire. The way he flinched at nothing, but avoided churches entirely.

One night, Alastair followed him into a ruined chapel.

Sebastian knelt at the altar, moonlight on bloodstained armor.

“You pray?” Alastair asked.

“I try,” Sebastian murmured. “Not sure anyone listens.”

Alastair stepped closer. “You kill like a man chasing forgiveness. What did you do?”

Sebastian didn’t answer. But the silence screamed.

⸻

The Truth It came from a dying enemy officer.

“You’ve got Witherfork,” the man rasped. “The Black Crusader. He burned a monastery—children screaming, nuns ablaze. He made a holy place hell.”

Alastair froze.

That night, he found Sebastian by the river.

“Tell me,” he demanded.

Sebastian didn’t look up. “I followed orders. We were told heresy lived there. I didn’t ask questions. I should have.”

“You killed innocents?”

“Yes.”

Alastair’s fists clenched. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you’re the only man who’s looked at me without fear.”

Alastair sat beside him.

“I should kill you.”

“I wouldn’t stop you.”

But Alastair didn’t move.

“I don’t forgive you. Not yet. Maybe never. But you’re not that man anymore.”

Sebastian’s voice cracked. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“Then stay. And learn.”

The Vow Branded a heretic and a traitor, they fled. Fugitives. Deserters. Lovers.

One night, under a red sky, Sebastian knelt and held out a dagger.

“If I lose myself again… end it.”

Alastair cut his palm.

“I swear. Because I trust you.”

Sebastian did the same, pressing their bloody hands together.

Their bond wasn’t forged by forgiveness.

It was built on truth. And love—the kind that bleeds and binds.

But the bloody war Still continued..