Lira Valenti's boots slapped against Solara's slick cobblestones, the sea's tang sharp in her lungs. The night pressed close, heavy with mist from the harbor, where fishing boats bobbed like ghosts. Her arm throbbed, blood seeping through the tear in her sleeve where the assassin's bolt had grazed her. The glowing parchment in her hand pulsed faintly, its warmth a strange comfort against the chaos.
Beside her, the green-eyed stranger ran, his dark cloak flaring like a shadow. His grip on her wrist was firm, urgent, pulling her through alleys where lamplight barely reached.
"Faster," he hissed, voice low but sharp. "They're still coming."
Lira's heart pounded, her muteness a cage tighter than ever. She couldn't ask who he was, couldn't demand why he'd risked his life to save her. Those sea-glass eyes had burned with something—fear, duty, or something softer—back in the Grand Hall when he'd tackled her out of the bolt's path. Now, they flicked to her, sharp with focus.
"Left, now!"
They veered into a narrow street, fish stalls shuttered for the night, their wooden frames creaking in the wind. Solara's marble spires loomed above, their elegance mocking the slums below. Lira's chest burned, her legs screaming, but she matched his pace. The parchment's glow flickered, casting faint runes onto the cobblestones—swirling symbols she didn't understand.
What are you? she thought, glancing at it.
A shout echoed behind them.
"There!"
A cloaked figure darted from the shadows, crossbow raised. Another joined, their boots splashing through puddles. Lira's stomach lurched. The assassins were relentless, their blades glinting like the eyes of sharks circling Solara's docks.
The stranger yanked her behind a stack of crates, the reek of fish and salt overwhelming. He pressed her against the damp wood, his body close, shielding her. His breath was warm against her cheek, his heartbeat a drum through his cloak.
"Don't move," he whispered. "Not a sound."
Lira glared, her gray eyes flashing. As if I could. Her muteness was a wound, raw and aching. She wanted to shove him, to demand answers, but his gaze held her—green, piercing, and strangely gentle.
"I'm not your enemy, Voicekeeper," he said, softer now. "Trust me, just for tonight."
Trust him? She didn't even know his name. But the assassins' footsteps grew louder, their shadows stretching across the alley. Lira's fingers tightened around the parchment. It pulsed again, warmer, and a strange urge stirred in her chest. She needed to write. Her free hand twitched, aching for a quill, a stick, anything.
The stranger noticed. "What's that?" His eyes flicked to the parchment, narrowing. "It's glowing. What did Kael give you?"
Kael. Her mentor's name hit like a wave. He'd fought off an assassin in the hall, his dagger flashing as he'd shouted for her to run.
Was he alive?
The thought twisted her gut. She shook her head, unable to answer, and shoved the parchment into her pocket. Its glow dimmed, but the warmth lingered, like a heartbeat.
"Clear!" an assassin barked, closer now.
The stranger cursed under his breath, grabbing her hand again.
"We're not safe here. Follow me."
They sprinted through the slums, weaving past barrels and nets strung across alleys. Solara's underbelly was a maze—crumbling stone walls, flickering oil lamps, the distant crash of waves. Lira's mind raced.
Kael's words haunted her: A sixth nation, lost to time.
What did it mean? And why did someone want her dead?
The stranger led her to a derelict warehouse, its wooden door half-rotted. He kicked it open, revealing a dim interior strewn with crates and fishing gear. Moonlight spilled through a broken roof, silvering the dust.
"In here," he said, pulling her inside. "We lose them, then we talk."
Lira's arm burned, blood dripping onto the floor. She sank against a crate, catching her breath. The stranger barred the door with a plank, his movements quick but precise. He turned, his cloak settling, and knelt before her.
"Let me see that wound."
She flinched as he reached for her arm, but his touch was careful, peeling back the torn sleeve. His fingers brushed her skin, sending a shiver through her.
"It's shallow," he said, his voice steady but laced with concern. "You'll live, Voicekeeper. But you're not safe."
Stop calling me that, she wanted to snap. Instead, she met his gaze, her eyes demanding answers. He sighed, running a hand through dark hair that fell into his eyes.
"I'm Elias," he said finally. "And no, I'm not one of them. But I know who wants you dead."
Her breath caught. Who?
She gestured sharply, frustration boiling.
Elias hesitated, his jaw tight. "Not here. Not yet. But that parchment—it's dangerous. More than you know."
The parchment. She pulled it from her pocket, its glow brighter now, runes dancing across its surface. Her fingers trembled, an instinct pulling at her. She grabbed a splintered stick from the floor and scratched a single word into the dust:
Why?
The runes flared, and the air hummed. The word glowed, pulsing in time with the parchment. Lira gasped, dropping the stick. The glow spread, forming a faint symbol—a star within a circle, like the Accord's seal.
Elias's eyes widened. "What did you just do?"
She didn't know. Her heart raced, the warehouse suddenly too small.
Echowriting, a voice whispered in her mind, not hers but ancient, like the sea. Her muteness had always been a cage, but this—this was something else. A power she didn't understand.
Footsteps pounded outside.
"Check the warehouse!" an assassin shouted.
Elias cursed, grabbing her hand.
"Time's up. Move!"
They ran toward a back exit, but the door burst open before they reached it. Three cloaked figures stormed in, crossbows raised. Lira's pulse spiked, the parchment burning in her hand. Elias drew a dagger, stepping in front of her.
"Stay behind me," he said, voice hard. But his eyes, when they met hers, softened for a heartbeat. "I won't let them take you."
The lead assassin smirked, his bolt aimed at Lira's chest.
"The Voicekeeper dies tonight. And you, traitor, can't stop it."
Traitor? Lira's mind spun.
Elias lunged, dagger flashing, but a new tremor shook the warehouse, fiercer than before. The roof groaned, beams cracking. Dust rained down, and the parchment's glow erupted, blinding. Lira's hand moved on its own, scratching runes into the air.
The world pulsed, and the assassins screamed as light swallowed them whole.
When the glow faded, Lira stood frozen, Elias staring at her. The assassins were gone—vanished. The parchment burned hot, its runes now etched into her skin.
"What are you?" Elias whispered, his voice trembling with awe and fear.
Lira didn't know. But the ground shook again, and the sea roared louder, as if answering.