The Sundered Sky
THE SONG OF SHIELDS
They reached the foothills of the Spire mountains on the seventh day.
The terrain was rougher here — steep cliffs, narrow passes, rivers that had to be forded or swum. Davin took the lead, picking the safest routes, while Morwen brought up the rear, her old legs somehow keeping pace.
Lyra walked in the middle.
Her voice had returned, but it was still weak. She practiced when she could — humming, singing fragments of old songs, trying to rebuild the muscles that had atrophied during twelve years of silence.
Morwen taught her a new song on the fifth night.
“This is the Song of Shields,” the old woman said. “It creates a barrier. A wall of sound that shadows cannot cross.”
“How do I sing it?”
“With intention. You must want to protect. You must feel the need to shield. The song is not about power. It is about will.”
Lyra closed her eyes.
She thought of the villagers in Wren’s tavern. The fear in their eyes. The way they had looked at her like she was their only hope.
She thought of her mother. The way she had stood between Lyra and the flames.
She thought of the shadows. The way they killed without mercy, without thought, without reason.
She wanted to protect.
She sang.
The sound that came out of her mouth was not beautiful.
It was harsh. Jagged. It scraped against her throat like broken glass. But it was strong.
The air around her shimmered.
A wall of golden light appeared — translucent, flickering, but solid.
Davin reached out and touched it.
His hand stopped.
“It works,” he said.
Lyra stopped singing.
The wall vanished.
“Again,” Morwen said.
Lyra sang again.
The wall reappeared.
Stronger this time. Brighter.
“Again.”
She sang again.
And again.
And again.
By the end of the night, she could hold the wall for almost a minute.
It wasn’t enough.
But it was a start.