The Sundered Sky
THE STRANGER
They left the chapel at dawn.
Davin led her through the Whispering Woods, following paths that seemed to appear and disappear at will. He moved with the ease of someone who had walked these trails a thousand times, his feet finding the solid ground while Lyra stumbled over roots and rocks.
“The trees are helping you,” he said, noticing her struggles. “They’re guiding your feet. You just have to trust them.”
“I don’t trust anything that talks to me without a mouth.”
“The trees don’t talk. They… hum. It’s different.”
“It feels the same.”
Davin laughed. It was a warm sound, unexpected. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Someone more… pious. Someone who spoke in riddles and quoted ancient texts. Someone who wore white robes and smelled of incense.”
“My robes are gray. And I smell like the gutter.”
“Much better.”
They walked in silence for a while. The forest was waking around them. Birds sang in the branches. Squirrels chattered. A deer watched them from a distance, its ears twitching.
“The Thornwood Order,” Lyra said. “Tell me more.”
“We were founded by a Chorister named Elara Vane.”
Lyra stopped walking.
“What did you say?”
Davin turned. “Elara Vane. She was one of the last Choristers before the Silence. She saw what was coming — the persecution, the hunting, the burning. She gathered a group of soldiers who had fought beside her in the old wars. She trained them. Taught them how to fight shadows. How to hide from the Inquisitor. How to protect the ones who could still sing.”
“That’s my mother’s name. Elara Vane.”
Davin’s eyes widened. “Your mother was Elara Vane? The founder of the Thornwood Order?”
“I don’t know. My mother was a Chorister. She was burned when I was seven. I don’t remember much else.”
Davin ran a hand through his hair. “This changes everything.”
“Why?”
“Because the prophecy —” He stopped. Shook his head. “Never mind. We need to keep moving. The shadows are still out there. They’re waiting for us to leave the forest.”
He turned and walked.
Lyra followed.
THE HIDDEN VALLEY
They traveled for two weeks.
The forest gave way to the Sundered Plains, and the plains gave way to the mountains. Davin knew the land well — the secret paths, the hidden passes, the places where the shadows were thin. He led her through canyons and over ridges, always moving, never stopping for long.
He talked little, but when he did, he spoke of the Thornwood Order. Of their history. Their purpose. Their sacrifices.
“We were never large,” he said. “At our peak, maybe two hundred members. Now? A dozen, if that. The Inquisitor has been hunting us almost as long as he’s been hunting Choristers. He sees us as threats. Enablers. People who help his prey escape.”
“He’s not wrong.”
“No. He’s not. But he’s also not right. We’re not helping Choristers escape because we want to defy the gods. We’re helping them escape because they deserve to live.”
“Even if their songs could wake the Sundered King?”
“Especially then. The Sundered King is waking anyway. The Choristers aren’t causing it. They’re the only ones who can stop it.”
They traveled at night, sleeping in caves and hollow logs during the day. The stone in Lyra’s hand kept them hidden, its golden light masking their presence from the shadows that hunted them.
On the fifteenth day, they reached the mountains.
The Hidden Valley was exactly where Davin’s maps said it would be — a narrow canyon, invisible from the air, protected by ancient Chorister wards that still flickered with faded magic. He led her through a waterfall, into a cave, through a tunnel that sloped downward for what felt like hours.
When they emerged, Lyra gasped.
The valley was beautiful.
Small — maybe half a mile across — but lush and green, untouched by the Sundering. Trees bore fruit. Streams ran clear. Flowers of every color bloomed in the grass. And in the center of the valley, a cottage.
Smoke rose from its chimney.
Someone was home.