The Sundered Sky
THE FIRST SONG
The blue flame dimmed but did not die.
It settled back into its candle shape, smaller now, but steadier. It had fed on Lyra’s song, and it was satisfied.
For now.
Lyra sat with her back against the altar, her legs stretched out in front of her, the stone in her hand cool now, the pulse of its light barely visible. Her throat was raw. Her voice was hoarse. But she had never felt more alive.
She had sung.
For the first time in twelve years, she had sung.
The Binding was gone.
She could feel its absence like a missing tooth — strange, unsettling, liberating. The iron chains that had wrapped around her vocal cords for so long had dissolved, leaving behind only the ghost of their weight.
She opened her mouth.
“Hello,” she said.
Her voice was rough, rusty, unfamiliar. It cracked on the second syllable. But it was hers.
She laughed again.
“Hello, world. I’m back.”
The chapel did not answer. But the shadows in the corners seemed to retreat, just a little.
She closed her eyes.
She did not sleep — she was too wired, too alive for sleep. But she rested. Let her body recover. Let her voice settle into its new freedom.
And then she heard footsteps.
Not outside. Inside.
Someone else was in the chapel.
She tensed. Her hand went to the knife in her sleeve.
A figure emerged from the shadows at the far end of the chapel. Tall. Lean. Moving with the quiet confidence of someone who had spent a lifetime learning how not to be heard.
He was young — perhaps twenty, perhaps twenty-five. His hair was dark, cut short and practical. His eyes were gray, sharp, watchful. They moved constantly, scanning the chapel, the altar, the statues, the shadows in the corners. He missed nothing.
He wore traveler’s clothes — leather and wool, worn and patched, practical for the road. A sword hung at his hip, its hilt wrapped in worn leather. A dagger was strapped to his thigh. A bow was slung across his back, with a quiver of arrows beside it.
He stopped a few feet from her.
“That was quite a song,” he said.
Lyra said nothing.
He tilted his head. “You’re the Chorister. The one they’ve been hunting.”
Still nothing.
He sighed. “I’m not going to hurt you. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it while you were singing. You were rather distracted.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“My name is Davin Cole,” he said. “I’m a member of the Thornwood Order. We’ve been protecting Choristers for generations. Hiding them. Smuggling them out of cities before the Inquisitor’s hunters can find them.”
“I’ve never heard of you.”
“We’re good at being forgotten.” He sat on the floor across from her, folding his long legs into a cross-legged position. His sword scraped against the flagstones. “I was in Ironhold when the Sundering happened. I saw the shadows. I saw them flee from you. From your song.”
He paused.
“I’ve been looking for the Choristers for a long time. I thought they were all dead.”
“Almost.”
“But not you.”
“Not me.”
He studied her face.
“You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t know you.”
“Fair.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small object — a badge, silver, engraved with a symbol Lyra didn’t recognize. A tree, its roots intertwined with a river. “This is the mark of the Thornwood Order. We’ve been watching over the Choristers since the Silence. My great-grandmother was one of the first members. She was a soldier in the old wars. She fought beside the Choristers. She swore an oath to protect their descendants.”
Lyra looked at the badge.
“The Inquisitor,” she said. “You know about him?”
“Everyone knows about him. He’s the reason the Choristers are gone. He’s been hunting them for three hundred years.”
“He took my mother.”
Davin’s expression softened.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“She was burned at the stake. In the market square. I watched.”
He was silent for a long moment.
Then he said, “The Inquisitor is not human. Not anymore. He’s a vessel — a hollow thing, carved out by the waking gods and filled with their hunger. He doesn’t feel pain. He doesn’t feel mercy. He doesn’t feel anything but the need to serve his masters.”
“How do you stop something like that?”
“You don’t. Not alone.” He leaned forward. “There are others. Choristers who survived. Hiding in the mountains, in the sunken city, in the spire. I can take you to them.”
“Why would you help me?”
“Because you’re the last hope of Aeldwyn. Because without you, the Sundered King will wake. Because my order has been waiting for someone like you for a very long time.”
Lyra looked at the stone in her hand.
“What’s your name again?”
“Davin Cole.”
“I’m Lyra.”
“I know.”
She stood.
“Take me to the others.”