Lira Valenti's pulse thundered as the trapdoor above the cellar rattled, the masked woman's voice cutting through the wood like a sharpened blade. "You can't hide, Voicekeeper." The words hung in the damp air of The Drowned Anchor's underbelly, where crates of smuggled spices and silks cast jagged shadows.
The oil lamp flickered, barely illuminating the stone wall where a carved map glowed—a star in a desert, marking the lost sixth nation. Lira's arm burned, the silver runes etched into her skin pulsing in time with the parchment in her pocket.
Elias stood before her, dagger drawn, his sea-glass eyes fixed on the trapdoor. Toren, the tavern's scarred owner, propped up Kael's bloodied form, the old man's breath shallow.
"She's got others with her," Elias whispered, his voice taut. "We're running out of time."
Lira's muteness was a chokehold, her seventeen years of silence heavier than ever. She wanted to demand who this woman was, why Elias's face had paled at her voice, what traitor meant.
Her gray eyes burned with questions, flicking to Kael. His words in the tavern above had gutted her: The Silent Council… they've watched you since you were born. Your silence… it's their doing.
Her muteness, crafted by enemies? The thought clawed at her, sharp as the blood drying on her grazed arm.
The trapdoor splintered, wood groaning under a heavy blow.
Toren gripped his blade, his bulk shifting. "I'll hold 'em," he growled. "Get her out, Elias."
Lira shook her head, gesturing frantically at Kael. He's dying. Her heart twisted—she couldn't lose him. Kael had raised her when the sea took her father, teaching her to read the stars, to fight with a knife, to endure Solara's pitying whispers.
His eyes fluttered open, weak but piercing. "Lira," he rasped, blood flecking his lips. "The map… it's your truth. The sixth nation holds your voice."
My voice? Hope and dread crashed together.
She grabbed a splintered quill from the floor, its tip stained from her last Echowriting. She scratched into the dust: How?
The runes on her arm flared, silver light spiking through the cellar. The air hummed, and a vision flickered—sand-swept ruins under a starlit sky, a woman's silhouette weaving light without sound.
Lira's breath caught, the quill slipping. Was that her future? Or a ghost of the past?
Elias's hand found her shoulder, steadying her. "Lira, we can't stay." His voice was urgent, but his touch lingered, warm through her torn sleeve. His green eyes held hers, a flicker of something—concern, maybe more—softening his edge.
Her pulse quickened, caught between trust and the sting of traitor. He'd said he was a Veyran noble, exiled for defying his family's lies. But what wasn't he telling her?
A crash shook the cellar.
The trapdoor buckled, and the masked woman's silhouette loomed, her crimson cloak a bloodstain in the lamplight. Her silver mask, cracked from Lira's earlier Echowriting burst, glinted with menace.
"No more games, Voicekeeper," she said, her voice ice-cold. "Your silence ends tonight."
Lira's runes burned hotter, the parchment in her pocket searing. Instinct took over. She scratched a rune into the air—a star within a circle, echoing the map's mark.
The parchment flared, silver light surging outward. The masked woman staggered, her mask cracking further, revealing a sliver of pale skin and a burning eye.
"You dare?" she hissed, dark energy crackling around her hands.
Toren roared, charging with his blade. "Not in my house!" The woman dodged, her cloak swirling, and a pulse of dark energy sent him crashing into a crate. Splinters flew, and the lamp flickered, plunging the cellar into near-darkness.
Elias yanked Lira toward a rusted grate in the corner, hidden behind crates. "Smugglers' tunnel," he said. "It's our only shot."
Lira glanced at Kael, slumped and pale. No. She couldn't leave him.
But his eyes met hers, pleading. "Go," he whispered. "Be what they fear."
Her throat tightened, tears burning. Elias's hand found hers, firm but gentle. "We'll come back for him," he said, his voice a vow. "I swear it."
His touch sparked something—trust, fragile but growing. She nodded, swallowing her fear.
Toren kicked the crates aside, prying open the grate. The tunnel beyond reeked of seawater and rot, its walls slick with moss. Lira and Elias slipped inside, the grate clanging shut as Toren braced it with a plank.
The masked woman's voice echoed above: "Find them!" Boots pounded, and another tremor shook the cellar, the Fracture's anger rattling the stones.
The tunnel was a suffocating squeeze, water sloshing at their ankles. Lira's runes glowed faintly, lighting the way. Elias's hand stayed in hers, guiding her through the dark.
"Keep going," he said, his voice steady despite the chaos. "It opens at the docks."
Her mind raced. The masked woman's hatred was personal, and Elias's reaction—You—screamed secrets. The parchment pulsed, its warmth a lifeline. She wanted to stop, to write, to unravel its power, but shouts echoed behind them.
The assassins were close.
The tunnel widened into a cavern beneath the docks, moonlight streaming through cracks above. Boats creaked overhead, their shadows swaying on the water. A stone ledge held a carved map, identical to the cellar's—a river, mountains, and a glowing star in a desert.
Lira's runes pulsed in sync, her skin tingling. It's calling me, she thought, awe and fear twisting together.
Elias stopped, his breath catching. "That's no myth," he said, staring at the map. "The sixth nation… it's real."
Lira turned to him, her eyes demanding. You knew? She pointed to the map, then to him, frustration flaring.
He ran a hand through his dark hair, his face tight. "Not like this," he said. "My family—they guarded secrets about the Accord. Lies they died for. I ran because I wouldn't carry them."
His voice cracked, and he stepped closer, close enough that she felt his warmth. "Lira, your power… it's why they're hunting you." His hand brushed her arm, lingering on the glowing runes.
Her heart stuttered, a spark igniting despite her doubts. She wanted to lean into him, to believe him, but traitor lingered like a shadow.
A splash broke the silence. Lira spun, her runes flaring.
A girl emerged from the tunnel, no older than Lira, with wild curls and a satchel slung across her chest. "You're a hard pair to track," she said, her voice sharp but laced with amusement. "Lira Valenti, the mute Voicekeeper, right?"
Elias's dagger flashed up. "Who are you?"
The girl grinned, unbothered. "Veyra, mapmaker. And that?" She nodded to the glowing map. "I know where it points. But you've got bigger problems."
Lira's heart skipped. A mapmaker, here?
Before she could react, the cavern shook, a Fracture quake cracking the walls. Water surged, splashing their boots. Veyra's eyes widened.
"She's coming," she whispered, her grin gone.
The masked woman's voice rang from above, through the dockside cracks: "You're mine, Voicekeeper." Lira's runes blazed, the parchment searing her hand.
A vision hit—sand, ruins, a woman's face, her own, weaving light without sound. Then darkness, and a laugh, cold and familiar.
The cavern groaned, stone splitting. The masked woman dropped through a crack, her mask gone, revealing eyes that burned with hate—eyes Lira knew, like a memory she couldn't grasp.
Elias grabbed Lira, pulling her toward the water. "Run!"
But Veyra froze, her face pale. "She knows me," she whispered, her voice trembling. "And she knows what I took."
The masked woman raised her hand, dark energy crackling. A shadow moved behind her—a second figure, cloaked, holding a blade to Veyra's throat.
"The mapmaker's right," a new voice said, low and chilling. "You're all out of time."