Lira Valenti's heart pounded as the dockside cavern shook, stone cracking like bones under the Fracture's wrath. The masked woman stood above, her crimson cloak billowing, her unmasked eyes burning with a hate Lira knew but couldn't place—like a shadow from a dream. Beside her, a second figure loomed, his blade at Veyra's throat, his voice cold: "You're all out of time."
Lira's runes blazed on her arm, silver light pulsing through her torn sleeve. The parchment in her pocket scorched, its runes humming with power she didn't understand. Elias gripped his dagger, shielding her, while Veyra, the mapmaker, stood frozen, her wild curls trembling. "She knows what I took," Veyra had said. What did it mean?
"Lira, move!" Elias shouted, his sea-glass eyes darting to the collapsing ceiling. A chunk of stone fell, splashing into the cavern's water. Lira's muteness choked her—she wanted to scream, to demand who these people were, why they hunted her. Her gray eyes locked on the glowing map carved into the stone ledge, its desert star pulsing in time with her runes.
The sixth nation. It was calling her.
The masked woman raised her hand, dark energy crackling like a storm. "The Voicekeeper dies," she said, her voice sharp as shattered glass.
Lira's instincts kicked in. She scratched a rune into the air—a jagged star, born of panic. The parchment flared, silver light surging outward. The woman staggered, clutching her cracked mask, but the second figure lunged, his blade grazing Veyra's shoulder.
Veyra yelped, ducking free. "You'll regret that!" she snapped, pulling a dagger from her satchel.
Elias shoved Lira toward the water, where a smuggler's boat bobbed, tethered to a rusted ring. "Get to the boat!" he yelled, parrying the second figure's strike. The cavern groaned, more stone falling.
Lira hesitated, her runes burning. She couldn't leave Veyra or Elias. But the map's glow pulled at her, whispering, Go.
She sprinted to the boat, her boots splashing, and untied the rope. Veyra followed, blood seeping from her shoulder. "Nice trick with the light," she said, grinning despite the pain. "You're more than a mute, aren't you?"
Lira glared, her frustration boiling. Who are you? She wanted to write it, but the cavern's collapse drowned her thoughts.
Elias dove in, shoving the boat into the current. The masked woman's energy pulsed, cracking the ledge. "You can't escape!" she roared, her voice echoing as the cavern caved in.
The boat shot through a tunnel, emerging into Solara's harbor. Moonlight silvered the waves, fishing boats swaying like ghosts. Lira's chest heaved, the sea's tang sharp in her lungs. Solara's marble spires gleamed in the distance, their beauty hiding the city's secrets—smugglers, rebels, and now assassins.
She'd grown up on these docks, cleaning fish while sailors spun tales of the Accord, a magic that kept the Five Nations from war. "The Voicekeeper sings, and kings kneel," they'd said. But Lira's silence broke that story.
Elias rowed, his arms straining. "The Accord's more than a treaty," he said, his voice low. "It's magic, woven to stop wars—Sarn's warriors raiding Veyra's forests, Thryme's smiths arming Kyris's riders. The Voicekeeper's truth binds it. But you…" He glanced at her, eyes softening. "Your silence is tearing it apart."
Lira's heart sank. My fault? She clutched the parchment, its glow dim but warm. The runes on her arm pulsed, and she traced them, feeling their power. Echowriting, that ancient voice had called it. Could it fix what her silence broke?
Veyra leaned over, studying the map in Lira's lap—the parchment's runes mirroring the cavern's star. "That's Sarn's desert," she said, her voice sharp with excitement. "The sixth nation's buried there, where the Accord began. Sarn's warriors guard their sands like gods, but they hate the Accord—say it chains their honor. Thryme's smiths built its seals, Veyra's scholars wrote its laws, Kyris's plains feed it. Solara? It's just the pretty stage."
Lira's eyes widened. The nations, so different, held together by the Accord—and her.
She glanced at Elias, his Veyran roots a sore spot. "My family served Veyra's scholars," he said, his voice bitter. "They hid the Accord's flaws, lied about the sixth nation. I wouldn't, so they exiled me." His hand brushed hers, lingering, and her pulse raced. "You're different, Lira. You don't bend."
Her breath caught, his touch sparking warmth. She wanted to trust him, to lean into that spark, but Veyra's words echoed: She knows what I took. What had the mapmaker stolen?
Lira's eyes narrowed, studying Veyra's satchel, its bulge suspicious.
The boat rocked as waves grew rough, a storm brewing. Lira's runes flared, the parchment burning hot. A vision hit—sand, ruins, a woman's face, her own, weaving light. Then a voice, cold: "The Voicekeeper's silence is ours."
She gasped, the vision fading. The Silent Council. They'd cursed her voice—why?
"Lira, you okay?" Elias's hand steadied her, his eyes searching. She nodded, but her runes glowed brighter, stinging.
Veyra frowned, her hand on her satchel. "That power's dangerous," she said. "And it's why they're hunting you."
A shadow loomed on the horizon—a ship, its black sails marked with a star-in-circle, the Accord's seal twisted. Lira's heart stopped. The Silent Council.
A chant drifted across the water, low and chilling: "Silence binds, silence breaks." Veyra's face paled, her hand clutching her satchel. "They found it," she whispered. "The relic I took—it's tied to your voice, Lira."
The ship surged closer, crossbows glinting on its deck. Lira's runes blazed, the parchment searing her skin. A figure stood at the ship's prow, unmasked, her eyes the same as the masked woman's—burning, familiar, a mirror to Lira's own.
"You can't run, sister," she called, her voice cutting through the storm.
Lira froze, the word echoing.
Sister?