The Sundered Sky
THE INQUISITOR’S TRAP
They stayed in the village for three days.
Wren and her people were generous, sharing their meager supplies, offering what shelter they could. Lyra helped where she could — carrying water, chopping wood, tending to the wounded. But her mind was elsewhere. On the Spire. On the sleeper. On the Inquisitor.
On the third night, she woke to screaming.
She sat up, her heart pounding. The stone in her hand was blazing — golden light spilling through her fingers, illuminating the dark room.
Outside, the shadows had found them.
Davin burst through the door, his sword drawn, his face grim.
“They’re here. Hundreds of them. We need to go.”
“Wren. The others—”
“They’re fighting. But they won’t last long. We need to go. Now.”
Lyra ran to the door.
The village was burning.
Shadows poured through the streets, their shapeless forms writhing in the firelight. People were running, screaming, dying. Wren stood in the center of the chaos, her knife flashing, cutting down shadow after shadow. But there were too many. And they kept coming.
Lyra opened her mouth.
She sang.
The song was not gentle. It was not the lullaby she had sung in the cemetery, or the mourning song she had sung in the chapel. It was a battle song — old and fierce and full of fury.
The shadows recoiled.
They screamed — that terrible, silent scream that Lyra could feel more than hear. They turned and fled, pouring out of the village, disappearing into the darkness.
The village was still.
Lyra stopped singing.
Her throat was raw. Her voice was gone. She collapsed to her knees, gasping for breath.
Davin caught her.
“We need to move. He’ll know where we are now. They’ll all know.”
“The villagers—”
“They’re alive. Thanks to you. But they won’t stay that way if we linger.”
Morwen appeared at Lyra’s side, her staff in her hand, her rust-colored eyes blazing.
“The Inquisitor set this trap,” she said. “He used the villagers as bait. He wanted to hear your song. He wanted to know where you are.”
“Does he know now?”
“He knows. And he’s coming.”
They fled into the night.
The bone road stretched before them, white and cold in the moonlight. Behind them, the village burned. Ahead, the Spire waited.
Lyra’s throat ached. Her voice was a whisper. But the stone in her hand was warm, and she held onto it like a lifeline.
“We need to go faster,” Davin said.
“We can’t,” Morwen said. “Lyra needs rest.”
“Rest will get us killed.”
“Panic will get us killed faster.”
They argued. Lyra didn’t listen. She walked, one foot in front of the other, her eyes fixed on the horizon.
The Spire was out there.
She could feel it.
Calling her.