Lira Valenti's breath came in sharp gasps as she stumbled through Solara's dockside alleys, the sea's roar a constant drum in her ears. The night was thick with mist, cloaking the fishing boats that swayed in the harbor. Her arm stung where the assassin's bolt had grazed her, but the runes now etched into her skin burned hotter, glowing faintly under her torn sleeve. The parchment in her pocket pulsed like a second heart, its runes whispering secrets she couldn't yet read.
Beside her, Elias moved like a shadow, his dark cloak blending with the fog. His green eyes scanned the alleys, dagger in hand, every step precise.
"Keep up," he said, voice low but urgent. "We're almost there."
Lira's legs ached, her boots slipping on wet cobblestones. She wanted to demand answers—who he was, why he'd saved her, what traitor meant—but her mute throat trapped her words. In the warehouse, her Echowriting had done something, vanishing the assassins in a blaze of light. The memory made her skin prickle.
What am I? Elias's question echoed in her mind, his awe and fear a mirror to her own.
They rounded a corner, and a tavern's crooked sign emerged from the mist: The Drowned Anchor. Its wooden walls sagged, stained by salt and time, but warm light spilled through cracked shutters. Elias pushed open the door, revealing a smoky interior. Fishermen hunched over tankards, their voices a low hum, while a barmaid wove through tables, her apron stained with ale. The air smelled of seaweed and spilled wine.
"This way," Elias said, guiding Lira to a corner table shrouded in shadow. He nodded to a burly man behind the bar, whose scarred face softened briefly. "Toren's a friend. We're safe here—for now."
Lira sank into a chair, her heart still racing. Safe? She didn't feel it. The runes on her arm pulsed, faint but insistent, like a song she couldn't hear. She pulled the parchment from her pocket, its glow dimmer now, but the runes swirled, alive. Her fingers itched to write, to test this Echowriting again, but fear held her back.
What if it consumed her next?
Elias sat across from her, his dagger on the table, close enough to grab.
"Let me see your arm," he said, his voice softer now.
She hesitated, then rolled up her sleeve. The runes glowed silver, curling like waves across her skin. Elias's breath caught.
"Gods above, Lira. That's no ordinary magic."
She glared, frustration boiling. Ordinary? She gestured sharply, demanding more.
He leaned closer, his sea-glass eyes searching hers.
"I don't know what it is," he admitted. "But the parchment—it's tied to the Accord. And someone wants it, bad enough to kill you."
Her chest tightened. Kael's words haunted her: A sixth nation, lost to time. She traced a finger over the parchment, and a rune flared, stinging her skin. She flinched, knocking over a tankard. The crash drew eyes, and she froze, suddenly aware of the tavern's stares.
A fisherman muttered, "That's her, ain't it? The mute Voicekeeper."
Elias's hand shot to his dagger. "Ignore them," he said, but his jaw was tight. He reached for her arm again, his touch gentle as he examined the wound beneath the runes.
"This needs cleaning. Hold still."
He pulled a cloth from his cloak, dabbing at the blood. His fingers lingered, warm against her skin, and her pulse quickened. His eyes flicked to hers, a flicker of something—concern, maybe more—before he looked away.
"You're not what I expected," he said quietly. "The Voicekeeper, mute or not… you're no pawn."
His voice held a weight, like he knew more than he said. She wanted to trust him, but that word—traitor—gnawed at her. Who was he, really?
The tavern door slammed open, and Lira's heart lurched. A figure staggered in, cloaked and bloodied.
Kael.
His gray hair was matted with blood, his dagger hand trembling. The barmaid gasped, and Toren rushed over, catching him as he swayed.
"Lira," Kael rasped, his voice a broken thread. "They're closer than you think."
Elias stood, dagger raised. "Kael, what happened?"
Kael's eyes locked on Lira, fierce despite his wounds.
"The assassins… they serve the Silent Council." He coughed, blood flecking his lips. "They've been inside the Accord all along. They want your power, Lira. Your silence."
The Silent Council?
Lira's mind spun. The Accord was peace, unity—how could it hide enemies? She clutched the parchment, its glow surging. The runes on her arm burned, and without thinking, she grabbed a splintered quill from the table and scratched into the wood:
Who?
The runes flared, and the air hummed. A vision flashed—dark cloaks in a circle, chanting under a starlit ruin. A voice, cold and ancient, whispered:
"The Voicekeeper must fall."
Lira gasped, dropping the quill. The tavern seemed to spin, the vision fading but leaving a chill in her bones.
Elias grabbed her shoulder. "What was that?" His voice was sharp, but his touch grounded her. "Lira, what did you see?"
She shook her head, unable to explain.
Kael slumped against Toren, his eyes fluttering. "The sixth nation," he whispered. "Find it, Lira. Before they do."
A crash echoed outside. Boots pounded, and a crossbow bolt shattered a window, lodging in the wall.
Toren cursed, drawing a blade. "They found us!" he roared.
The fishermen scrambled, some fleeing, others grabbing makeshift weapons.
Elias pulled Lira to her feet, his hand tight on hers. "We're leaving. Now."
But as they moved toward the back door, a figure blocked their path—a woman in a crimson cloak, her face hidden by a silver mask. Her voice was ice.
"The Voicekeeper stays. The traitor dies."
Lira's runes burned brighter, the parchment nearly scorching her hand. She didn't know this woman, but the hatred in her masked eyes was personal.
Elias stepped in front of Lira, dagger raised, but his hand shook.
"You," he whispered, voice raw. "Not you."
The woman raised a hand, and the air crackled with dark energy. Lira's heart stopped.
Whoever this was, Elias knew her—and she wanted them both dead.