The Broken Word – Part 1

Snow fell in slow spirals over the Highmarch Summit, blanketing the stony ridges and pine-cloaked cliffs in silence. Only the wind dared speak here—an old, bitter voice that whispered of blood feuds and buried oaths.

Elira adjusted the clasp of her outer cloak as they neared the gathering site. Her breath curled in the frozen air, but it wasn’t the cold that made her chest tight—it was the weight of what was about to unfold.

Two clans. One vow. And the fragile thread of peace stretched taut between them.

Vaelin walked beside her, silent but watchful, his dark cloak fluttering with each step. His left hand rested near the hilt of his sword—not quite threatening, not quite idle. Just ready. Always ready.

“Tell me again why we agreed to mediate a summit between clans that have been trying to stab each other since the days when dragons still breathed?” he asked without looking at her.

Elira gave him a sideways glance. “Because we’re neutral. Trusted. Respected.”

“Respected?” He snorted softly. “Pretty sure Calder of Dunweld tried to strangle me last time I offered him ale.”

“You made a joke about his war cry sounding like a dying goat.”

“It does sound like a dying goat.”

“You bleated it at him while he was mid-chant.”

Vaelin shrugged. “Timing is everything.”

Despite herself, Elira smiled.

The summit clearing opened before them—a wide plateau ringed by pine and jagged stone, flanked on one side by an ancient cliff-face. In the center stood the Vowstone—a massive slab of gray-veined obsidian etched with crimson runes that shimmered faintly beneath the snow.

Two groups stood on opposite sides of the stone. On the east, the warriors of Thraymor, mountain-born and fierce, draped in shaggy furs and adorned with runes carved into their armor. Their leader, High-Sister Ylra, stood tall and grim, her spear planted in the snow beside her like a staff of office.

On the west, the Dunweld delegation—leaner, more disciplined, their garb marked with the soot-black dyes of the stoneforged lowlands. War-Prince Calder, broad-shouldered and storm-eyed, scowled across the distance like a wolf waiting for permission to bite.

As Vaelin and Elira stepped into the center, silence fell.

Elira raised her voice, letting it carry. “By tradition, you have come to renew the pact written in blood and word. The Vowstone holds the memory of your ancestors’ oath. You will each speak the Binding Tongue, and with it, the bond shall be sealed once more.”

Ylra nodded solemnly. Calder gave a reluctant grunt.

They approached the stone, each drawing a blade and slicing across their palms. Blood dripped onto the carved channels of the stone, sizzling faintly as it met old enchantments buried deep.

The air grew still—too still.

Elira stepped forward, lifting her hands in invocation. “Repeat after me. We bind not our blades, but our hearts. We speak the tongue of unity. Let the old word hear us.”

The Binding Tongue wasn’t just language. It was intent. A resonance. Spoken from the root of the self. When performed correctly, the Vowstone would absorb the words and blood together, reigniting the pact with a flare of protective sigils.

Ylra spoke first, her voice low and guttural, syllables older than the common tongue. Calder followed a breath later, gruff but precise.

Elira watched the stone.

The runes flared.

And then—

They shattered.

The sigils blew apart like shards of glass. Blood hissed into steam. A concussive crack split the air, and the ground beneath the Vowstone groaned. A pulse of unseen force knocked Ylra and Calder back.

From the broken runes, spectral chains erupted—twisting, glowing red-hot, thrashing across the summit like serpents unbound.

Elira stumbled, reaching for the magic—but the moment her lips parted to recite a stabilizing word, nothing came.

No power. No hum of ancient syllables. No connection to the flow of spellcraft she’d known since childhood.

She gasped.

“Elira!” Vaelin caught her elbow, steadying her. “What is it?”

“I—” Her throat clenched. “I can’t speak the Tongue. It’s gone. The voice… it’s gone.”

Before he could respond, a Dunweld warrior let out a furious yell and hurled a spear toward the Thraymor line. It narrowly missed Ylra and embedded itself in the ground.

That was all it took.

Weapons were drawn on both sides.

The summit erupted into chaos.

Vaelin drew his blade with a hiss of steel, pivoting toward the nearest charging warrior—a Thraymor berserker, face painted with blood, roaring as he came down with a twin-headed axe.

Vaelin sidestepped, catching the shaft of the axe with his forearm guard and twisting it out of the berserker’s grip. A kick to the knee dropped the man, and a swift pommel-strike sent him into unconsciousness.

Another came—a Dunweld fighter, this time—sword raised high. Vaelin parried, slipped past the man’s guard, and drove his elbow into the side of his skull.

He moved like smoke through flame—fluid, precise, efficient. The kind of fighting that said I don’t enjoy this, but I’ll end it quickly if I must.

Elira, recovering her bearings, fell back toward the treeline. Her hands worked fast as she retrieved alchemical flasks from her belt, hurling one into the crowd. It burst in a haze of smoke and light, blinding several combatants and buying Vaelin a moment’s cover.

“I’m not sure we’re helping,” Vaelin called, ducking under a blade.

“We’re not losing,” Elira replied through clenched teeth. “Yet.”

She tried again—closed her eyes, centered herself, reached for the spell that should have always been there. A simple binding word. A flicker of resonance.

Nothing.

Just silence.

She shivered—not from cold, but from something deeper. Something cut loose inside her.

The summit was a battlefield turned graveyard, then hastily reshaped into a camp. Fires burned low. Injured warriors lay under thick hides while healers muttered over wounds and curses. Accusations had started already—each clan blaming the other for sabotage. Peace was gone, perhaps for good.

Inside a makeshift tent, Elira sat beside a low brazier, hands trembling over a cup of lukewarm tea. She barely felt the heat.

Across from her, Vaelin knelt by the fire, sharpening his blade. He was quiet, but his eyes never left her.

Ylra stood with crossed arms. “You said you’d bind the pact. Instead, we got blood, fire, and broken oaths. What happened, mage?”

Elira looked up. “The spell didn’t fail. I failed. Or something forced me to. My voice—it’s like someone locked it away.”

“That’s not possible,” Ylra snapped.

“It is if the lock was forged in the Binding Tongue itself.” Elira’s voice was hoarse. “This isn’t a misstep. It’s deliberate. Someone wanted this vow broken.”

Vaelin spoke for the first time. “Who?”

Elira hesitated. “I don’t know. But if I want to get my voice back… we’ll have to find out why it was taken.”

Later, Elira stood near the edge of the summit cliffs, wind howling around her, eyes on the dark pines far below. The stars glimmered cold and distant.

Vaelin joined her silently.

“You okay?” he asked.

“No,” she said truthfully.

They stood there in quiet for a while.

“I’ve never felt like this,” she admitted. “Disconnected. Muzzled. Like I’m walking around with half of me missing.”

He glanced at her. “You’re still dangerous without magic.”

She smirked faintly. “Flattery won’t get you out of carrying the tents.”

“I’m not flattering. Just... stating the facts.” He hesitated. “You’re still you, Elira. Voice or not.”

That earned him a softer look. “You always know what to say when I’m unraveling.”

“I don’t,” he said. “But I try.”

She stared at him a moment longer—something shifting between them.

Then she looked away. “We need to find where this started. The oldest record of the pact. The original vow.”

“Where?”

“There’s a place,” she said. “A tomb, I think. Where the Binding Tongue was first passed from blood to blood. If anything can explain this... it’s there.”

Vaelin nodded. “Then we leave at dawn.”

___________________________________________________

All Parts of the Series

The Broken Word Part 1

The Broken Word Part 2

The Broken Word Part 3

The Broken Word Part 4

The Broken Word Part 5