Shadow's Oath

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Chapter 97: Accusation

Miela was crying.

She turned her face toward the wall to avoid being seen, but in doing so, she revealed herself to Ram, who had been hiding.

He hadn’t stayed beside the detention room just to eavesdrop on Miela and Jedrick’s conversation.

It was simply that his hiding spot left him no room to move without being noticed by the guards.

‘Why is she crying?’

Judging by the conversation he had overheard between her and Jedrick, he wouldn’t have expected such emotions from her.

It was surprising.

Ram could sometimes understand a man crying with the heart of a father, even if not completely.

But he often struggled to grasp a woman crying with the heart of a mother.

Lost in these thoughts, Ram momentarily neglected his reconnaissance.

Had someone from the village of Elum spotted him and shouted, calling him an intruder, he would have had no excuse.

He had been careless.

Of course, he had memorized the locations of the village houses, boundary stones, grass patches, and pits, using them to move unseen.

By the time he left the village, he had reached a narrow path at the bottom of a hill.

If anyone saw him there, he would look like nothing more than a wandering southern soldier—perhaps suspicious, but not necessarily alarming.

However, he hadn’t been discovered by chance.

At least, that’s what Ram felt.

Because the one looking at him was Hak Maraka.

Maraka stood in the grassy area below the hill, about twenty steps away from Ram, slightly removed from the village.

‘He was supposed to be imprisoned. How is he out here?’

Ram wasn’t in a position to question him, considering he, too, was sneaking around where he wasn’t supposed to be.

Come to think of it, where had Maraka been detained?

Had he even been imprisoned at all?

This small village couldn’t possibly have multiple holding cells.

That meant he should have been confined in the same house where Jedrick was now held.

Was Maraka, like Olga, locked up in his own home?

If Olga’s house was on the outskirts of the village, then Maraka’s would be as well.

Perhaps he had merely stepped out for a moment and happened to cross paths with Ram.

But after witnessing walking corpses with his own eyes, Ram couldn’t just dismiss this as a coincidence.

Ram did not attempt to hide.

Instead, he stood tall and stared at Maraka.

The old shaman, despite the chilly weather, was shirtless, wearing only a tattered pair of pants ripped up to his thighs.

He was nearly naked.

Maraka raised his index finger and pointed at Ram.

It seemed like a simple gesture, yet it carried an eerie, ritualistic air.

“You killed him, didn’t you?”

He spoke in the language of Geron.

There was no need to specify who he meant.

It was obvious.

The first time Maraka had caused a scene at the great banquet hall, it had been to find out exactly that—who the killer was.

Now, standing before the very person responsible, he was making his accusation, supposedly confirmed through his shamanic rites.

But perhaps this wasn’t just an accusation.

Maraka lifted something into the air.

It was armor, covered in dirt, soaked with water, and entangled with weeds.

A Southern army cuirass.

It wasn’t unusual for a Geron to have one.

Most of the looted items had been reclaimed, but some could have remained.

It was a fine piece of armor—something that could fetch a hefty sum if sold.

“You killed him, didn’t you?”

Maraka repeated, emphasizing his words as he thrust the armor forward, as if offering it to Ram.

At that moment, Ram felt his heart drop.

It was an event that had happened only a few days ago, yet it felt like a distant memory—something he had tried to forget.

It was from the moment he had infiltrated the enemy camp to assassinate Adian Mantum.

Back then, Zenri had insisted on following despite Ram’s warnings not to.

To cross the stream, Zenri had to remove his armor.

But before he could put it back on, he had been dragged away by wolves.

After burying Zenri, Ram hadn’t given the armor a second thought, let alone considered retrieving it.

Zenri had always boasted about its worth, saying it was valuable enough to buy dozens of slaves—but what did that matter now?

The armor Maraka held was none other than Zenri Selken’s.

Ram did not respond to the old shaman.

Maraka continued to speak, but his words were incomprehensible—muttered, almost slurred, as if they belonged to another language entirely.

‘What is he trying to say? What does he want?’

Ram couldn’t just walk away from this.

If Maraka was accusing him over Adian’s assassination, he could have ignored it—but this was different.

Ram took a step toward him.

At that instant, a trumpet sounded from the sky.

‘Again?’

A deep, resonant wail vibrated through the air, shaking the entire sky.

For someone with acute hearing like Ram, this sound was terrifying in itself.

It didn’t come from any single direction but seemed to fill the entire space—both from the sky and the earth.

From everywhere.

From nowhere.

Maraka didn’t react at all.

He took a step closer to Ram.

Ram turned and ran.

He fled as if Maraka himself were the source of the sound.

Normally, Ram wouldn’t have feared a hundred old men like Maraka attacking him all at once.

But now, he sprinted straight toward the military camp.

Just then, he spotted Lieutenant Aedun nearby, supervising soldiers who were loading supplies onto horses.

“Do you hear that sound?”

Ram grabbed his arm and asked urgently.

“What sound?”

Aedun glanced around in confusion before his face grew serious.

“Are the barbarians attacking? From which direction?”

Aedun knew that Ram was different, so he didn’t dismiss his words outright.

But the moment Ram asked, he realized something was off.

The trumpet sound still echoed through the sky.

If it were real, chaos should have erupted by now.

Soldiers moving supplies, those resting inside the tents, the Gerons in the village—every single person should have rushed outside in panic.

They should have been looking to the heavens, to the ground, praying in fear.

But no one seemed to hear it.

“…You don’t hear it?”

Ram’s voice wavered with uncertainty.

“I don’t hear anything. Wait a moment.”

Aedun, ever thorough, didn’t dismiss Ram’s claim.

Since Ram had been seen accompanying royalty, generals, and nobles lately, most soldiers didn’t look down on him.

That was convenient at times, but for Ram, it felt strangely uncomfortable.

“You, come here! Do you hear anything?”

Aedun called over a cavalryman leading a horse.

“What sound?”

The cavalryman strained to listen, then added apologetically,

“I suffered an ear injury in battle, so my hearing’s not great.”

“Then let’s ask another—”

Aedun was about to call another soldier when Ram stopped him.

“No… Never mind. I must have misheard.”

The trumpet still echoed through the sky, but Ram stepped back.

“I’m sorry.”

“…Alright then. Get some rest.”

Aedun gave him a puzzled look but returned to his duties.

Ram considered asking someone else but decided against it.

There were only two possibilities.

‘Either I imagined it…’

But it was still there.

The sound had never stopped.

He couldn’t dismiss it as an illusion.

‘Or I’m the only one who can hear it.’

Ram stood still, listening intently.

The first time he had heard it, he had only panicked.

Now, he tried to focus.

Where was the sound coming from?

What did it mean?

What kind of sound was it?

How was it being produced?

[Translator - Night]

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The soldiers had called it the trumpet of doom.

To Ram, it sounded like a warning.

Like the urgent call of a war horn signaling an attack… Or the march of an advancing enemy.

Different intentions.

Same sound.

The two had different meanings but sounded the same.

‘Why can only I hear it?’

As Ram was thinking that, someone spoke.

“Can you hear it?”

It was a small voice.

Even as the trumpet sound filled the space, that voice reached Ram clearly.

This was how Ram communicated with General Terdin.

Speaking softly enough that others wouldn’t hear well.

There was one more person with whom he had spoken this way.

The mage, Kura.

Ram didn’t know where the trumpet sound was coming from, but figuring out where a person’s voice was coming from was not difficult for him.

Ram climbed up the hill.

On the other side of the camp, beyond the hill, stood a man on horseback.

He was positioned at an angle where he couldn’t be seen from the camp or the village of Elum.

If even one patrol soldier had been nearby, he would have been spotted immediately, but by chance, there were none at that moment.

Of course, the patrol soldiers mainly watched the north and east.

There was little reason to expect enemies from the south.

That didn’t mean they left it completely unguarded.

There were occasional patrols.

But just now, at this particular moment, none were around.

At this particular moment.

Ram approached the man until he stood directly in front of him.

It was Astian Terdin, the second son of General Illiam Terdin.

Even as Ram stood right before him, Astian remained silent.

As if he had been waiting for Ram to call him over.

Just like the first time they had met, his expression remained calm.

A clean, unblemished face that had never suffered on the battlefield, a slender frame lacking muscle, calm brown hair, serene brown eyes, and arms so thin that they seemed to have never wielded a sword.

A small scar on his neck.

“Why do you have the same wound that Kura inflicted?”

The trumpet sound faded, and as soon as Ram spoke, it completely ceased.

It was a coincidence, but it felt as if it had been done intentionally—like Astian had silenced it to prevent it from interfering with their conversation.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Astian spoke gently.

Ram asked bluntly.

“Who are you?”

“You’re not asking because you don’t know. I am the second son of General Terdin.”

“That’s not what I meant, Astian.”

“Call me Captain.”

“I won’t.”

“You’re bold. That’s not your place to be speaking like that.”

“You’re quite skilled at lying. Normally, a person’s heart would race when they lie, but yours remains steady.”

“Did it ever occur to you that I don’t react because I’m not lying?”

“No. You addressed me in a way that suggests you know something you shouldn’t.”

“I know plenty about you. My father has spoken highly of you.”

“He wouldn’t have spoken about this particular matter.”

“Oh, but he did. He mentioned your keen sense of hearing.”

“The way you answered just now proves you already knew the answer.”

“I answered because I know.”

“I’m suspicious, and you know the answer to my suspicion. But if you were truly unaware, you wouldn’t even understand the meaning of my question, let alone answer it. Because my question already contained something you shouldn’t have known.”

“What part are you referring to?”

“With your first answer, you practically admitted to being the mage I met.”

“I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“When I asked about the wound, you should have first asked what wound I was referring to. Before that, you should have thought my question made no sense. Instead, you responded naturally with confusion. That means you already knew. You’re lying. I don’t know how you’re able to suppress even your heartbeat so flawlessly, but you are.”

Anyone falsely accused in such a manner would naturally become flustered.

In fact, the more innocent they were, the more likely they were to react strongly.

“You’re clever. But your expression isn’t gentle, so your wisdom feels sharp to me.”

Astian smiled as he spoke.

“Who are you? The real you.”

Ram asked again, but Astian shook his head.

“You’re clever, but you haven’t learned how to use that cleverness. If you can see through everything, you should learn to conceal rather than reveal.”

“I had no opportunity to learn such things while living as a slave.”

“Whether you’ll get the chance to learn in the future, I don’t know. But you should be careful. Someone like you—so pure—will only be taken advantage of.”

“Why are you here?”

“To see.”

“To see what?”

“Not what, but who.”

“I’ll ask again. Who did you come to see?”

Before Ram could finish his question, Astian turned his horse southward.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to where I came from.”

“You mean the main camp, where His Majesty is?”

“Who knows?”

“You’re just leaving? Without doing anything?”

“The sun blazes down on the earth all day and then turns the west red as it sets—would you say the sun did nothing all day?”

“What was your purpose?”

“The sun doesn’t shine on the earth with a purpose.”

“So you didn’t come to do something… but to prevent something?”

“You really are clever. I hope someday you gain the wisdom to hide your wisdom.”

Without looking back, Astian rode away at a leisurely pace.

It was as if he was enjoying how restless Ram became with each question.

Out of sheer stubbornness, Ram refused to ask further.

‘Wasn’t he here to see General Terdin? To come all this way and not even meet his own father?’

Astian’s unhurried figure on horseback gradually disappeared.

Even with vision keen enough to see the horizon’s edge, Ram eventually lost sight of him.

Ram traced his memory back to the moment Astian arrived.

He hadn’t noticed Astian first—Astian had deliberately spoken to draw Ram’s attention.

That meant his purpose had been Ram.

‘He came all that way just to see me? Just for that one conversation?’

Though Ram knew that it was simply because the sun had set and the light had faded, it felt as if Astian had vanished using some kind of magic.

‘So if he prevented something… does that mean he stopped me from doing something? What was I supposed to do?’

Night fell.

It felt as though Astian had brought the night with him.

In the end, Ram never figured out what he had failed to do—or what he should have done.

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