The Oath of the Frozen Barrow

In the northern reaches of Albion, where the snow never melted and the wind howled like a wounded beast, lay the Frozen Barrow. Encased in eternal ice, the barrow was said to hold the Oathstone, a relic of ancient magic. The legends claimed that those who swore upon the stone would be bound by their words until death—or until the oath was fulfilled. It was a place of last resorts, where only the desperate or the determined dared to tread.

Eadric of Blackmere stood at the base of the frozen hill, his cloak whipping around him in the biting wind. His breath misted in the frigid air as he surveyed the barrow’s entrance, a jagged maw of ice carved into the hillside. Behind him, a small band of warriors waited, their faces etched with exhaustion and fear.

The Dragon Kin had taken the coastal city of Raethwyn, slaughtering its defenders and driving its people into the sea. To reclaim the city, Eadric needed allies—but the clans of the north would not follow him without a blood oath. And so, he had come to the Frozen Barrow, where oaths were not just words but chains forged in ice and magic.

The Descent

The barrow’s entrance was dark and narrow, the walls slick with frost. Eadric led the way, his boots crunching on the frozen ground. The air grew colder as they descended, the temperature biting even through layers of fur and leather. The others followed in silence, their weapons drawn, their breaths shallow.

At the heart of the barrow, the Oathstone awaited. It was a massive slab of black granite, its surface veined with glowing blue runes. The air around it pulsed faintly, and the temperature dropped further with every step they took toward it.

Eadric approached the stone, his gloved hand hovering over its surface. The runes flared brighter, casting eerie shadows on the icy walls.

“Eadric,” one of the warriors, a burly man named Garrick, said hesitantly. “Are you sure about this? The Oathstone doesn’t just bind you. It takes from you.”

Eadric nodded, his expression resolute. “If we are to unite the clans and reclaim Raethwyn, they must know we stand by our word. This is the only way.”

The Keeper of Oaths

A figure emerged from the shadows, its form wreathed in frost. It was tall and thin, its face obscured by a hood of glimmering ice. When it spoke, its voice was like the cracking of a glacier.

“You come to swear upon the Oathstone,” the Keeper said, its tone both curious and cold. “Do you understand the weight of what you ask?”

“I do,” Eadric replied. “The clans of the north will not follow without an oath. I will swear to reclaim Raethwyn and to stand with them against the Dragon Kin.”

The Keeper tilted its head. “The Oathstone demands more than words. To swear upon it is to bind your soul. If you fail, your life is forfeit. If you succeed, the weight of the oath will remain with you forever.”

Eadric met the Keeper’s gaze, his voice steady. “I will pay the price.”

The Keeper stepped aside, gesturing to the stone. “Then make your oath, Slayer, and let the stone judge your worth.”

The Oath

Eadric knelt before the Oathstone, removing his glove to place his bare hand on its freezing surface. The moment his skin touched the stone, the runes flared, and a sharp pain shot through his arm. He gritted his teeth but did not pull away.

“I, Eadric of Blackmere,” he said, his voice echoing in the chamber, “swear upon this stone to reclaim Raethwyn from the Dragon Kin. I swear to unite the clans of the north and to fight by their side until the shadow of the dragons is banished from Albion.”

The Oathstone pulsed, and the runes rose from its surface, wrapping around Eadric’s arm like glowing chains. He gasped as the magic burned into his flesh, leaving behind an intricate pattern of blue runes that glowed faintly even as the light of the stone dimmed.

The Keeper watched in silence, its icy form unmoving. When the light faded, it spoke. “The stone has accepted your oath. The clans will see the mark and know your words are bound by the ancient magic.”

Eadric stood, his arm still throbbing from the pain. He turned to his warriors, raising the marked limb. “We march for Raethwyn. The clans will follow us now.”

The Trial of the Barrow

As they began their ascent from the barrow, the walls trembled, and the ground beneath their feet cracked. The Keeper’s voice rang out, its tone sharper now.

“An oath sworn upon the stone does not come without trial. To leave this place, you must prove your resolve.”

The shadows in the barrow coalesced, forming into wraithlike figures with glowing blue eyes. They moved swiftly, their forms flickering like flame and ice. Eadric drew Vigilance, its silver blade gleaming in the dim light.

“Hold the line!” he shouted, stepping forward to meet the first wraith. His blade cut through it, but the cold it left behind was like a frostbite that seared his skin.

The warriors fought valiantly, their weapons clashing against the ethereal foes. Garrick let out a roar as he cleaved through two wraiths with a single swing of his axe, but more appeared, their whispers chilling to the bone.

“You will fall,” the wraiths hissed. “Your oath will break.”

Eadric gritted his teeth, the mark on his arm burning as though in defiance. “I will not break.”

With a final surge of strength, he drove Vigilance into the ground, the runes on his arm flaring brightly. The wraiths shrieked as the light consumed them, leaving only silence in their wake.

The March to Raethwyn

When Eadric and his warriors emerged from the barrow, the first rays of dawn were breaking over the frozen landscape. The mark on his arm still glowed faintly, a constant reminder of the oath he had sworn.

The clans awaited them at the edge of the vale, their leaders watching warily. When they saw the mark, they knelt, their expressions shifting from doubt to respect.

“We follow you now, Slayer,” one of the clan chiefs said. “Your oath binds us as it binds you.”

Eadric nodded, his gaze turning to the west. The shadow of the Harbinger loomed over Raethwyn, but for the first time, he felt the strength of unity at his back.

“Then let us reclaim what was taken,” he said. “For Albion.”

Epilogue

The Frozen Barrow stood silent once more, its magic dormant but not forgotten. And as Eadric led the united clans toward Raethwyn, the mark on his arm burned brightly, a beacon of hope and a reminder of the cost of leadership.

For an oath sworn upon the Oathstone could not be broken—and neither could the will of a true Slayer.