Oath of the Broken Sword Chapter 16

“No.”

The word was a stone dropped into the still pool of the illusory altar. It didn’t echo;

the emptiness seemed to absorb it, to swallow the defiance whole. The towering figure of light and shadow shifted, its form rippling like a heat haze.

*“Foolish child,”* the echo of the Shattered God boomed, less a sound and more a pressure against my mind. *“You cling to a sentimental moment when the fate of continents hangs in the balance. This is not strength. It is a flaw.”*

The vision of Rex and me in that dusty frontier town flickered, the memory threatening to be pulled apart into strands of light.

“It’s not a flaw,” I said, my voice stronger now. I looked away from the god-figure and directly at the memory-Rex, at the quiet understanding in his eyes that had been my first anchor in the storm of the Knight’s Garrison. “It’s the reason why. It’s why I fight. Not for power, not for some abstract ‘world,’ but for the people in it. For moments like that.”

I felt a warmth beside me, a solid, real presence. The real Rex stepped forward, his shoulder brushing mine. He didn’t look at the apparition;

he looked at the memory with me.

“She doesn’t fight alone,” Rex said, his voice a low rumble that was utterly, comfortingly mortal. “And we don’t build a future by destroying our past. We learn from it.”

The echo stared at us, its form flickering between blinding light and absolute dark. For a long moment, there was only the silent thrum of the perfect altar.

Then, the pressure vanished.

The illusory world shattered like glass. The Moonfall Altar, the Shattered God, the probing memories—all dissolved into mist that streamed away into nothing. Rex and I stood once more on the plateau before the Oathbreaker base, the twin moons casting our long shadows. The three dragons of the Conclave regarded us, their ancient eyes unreadable.

The golden patriarch inclined his massive head. The voice in my mind was different now, no longer a judgment but a… consideration. *“The Crucible does not measure power. It measures worth. You have chosen connection over dominion. A rare path. A dangerous one.”*

Ruin-Wing, the black dragon, let out a disdainful snort that scorched the air. *“A predictable outcome from fragile mortals. Sentiment will be their undoing.”*

*“Or their salvation, Brother,”* the green Lore-Singer countered softly, her gaze fixed on me with intense curiosity. *“The oldest songs speak of such choices. The Throne has been offered to colder hearts before. It did not end well.”*

*“The Conclave will watch,”* the gold declared, his finality settling over the plateau like a physical law. *“The Scion of the Sundered and the Keeper of the Border have passed the trial of spirit. You may proceed on your path. But know this: the stirring of the Throne accelerates the schemes of others. You are a beacon in the dark now, drawing both predator and prey.”*

With a beat of wings that stirred a small gale, the three dragons ascended into the night sky and vanished among the stars.

The silence they left behind was deafening. I became acutely aware of the dozens of Oathbreaker rebels staring at us, their expressions a mix of awe, fear, and newfound, grudging acceptance.

Liana was the first to break the stillness. She walked up to us, her stoic mask back in place, but I saw a new glint of respect in her eyes. “Well,” she said, her voice dry. “It seems our new… associates… have the attention of the planet’s landlords. That complicates things.”

“It simplifies them,” Rex countered, his hand finding mine, his grip firm. “It means we’re on the right path.”

***

The next few days inside the Oathbreaker base were a whirlwind of tense planning and fragile alliances. Liana and her inner circle—Nora, Windscar, and the others—could no longer dismiss us. The dragon’s judgment had seen to that. We pored over their glowing maps, sharing what we knew of Marshal Marcus’s deployments, his obsession with the “Grand Design,” and the whispers of the Twilight Coven’s influence within the Imperial court.

It was during one of these strategy sessions that Windscar, the half-elven ranger, slid a sealed scroll across the table toward me. “Came through my network in the Free Trade Cities,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “From a contact in the port of Surgingtide. The sender insisted it would only make sense to ‘the girl with the ghost of silver in her eyes.’”

My blood ran cold. *Silverlight?

*

*The description fits,* her voice, a welcome chill in my mind, confirmed. *Surgingtide is a nest of vipers, Little Storm. But even vipers can be useful.*

I broke the wax seal—it bore the symbol of a stylized wave encircling a coin—and unfurled the parchment. The script was elegant, looping.

*To the recent guest of the Draconic Conclave,*

*Rumors fly faster than gryphons these days. It appears you seek pieces of a broken chair. A tedious hobby, but one that can be profitable. I may have information regarding a certain… third leg. It is currently in my possession, awaiting the highest bidder. The Marshal’ agents are already sniffing around my harbor. Perhaps you would care to make a more personal bid?

*

*Come to Surgingtide. Discreetly. Ask for the Sunset Maiden.*

*—A.N.*

“Anastasia,” Liana breathed, reading over my shoulder. “The Pirate Queen of Surgingtide. She plays all sides against each other. This is a trap.”

“Or an opportunity,” Nora said, her engineer’s mind already working. “If she truly has a fragment of the Shattered Throne… Marcus cannot get it. The Coven cannot get it.”

“It’s also the perfect cover,” Rex pointed out. He tapped the map where Surgingtide sprawled along the western coast, a hub of chaotic freedom. “The Empire’s grip is loose there. We can move anonymously. A merchant couple, perhaps, looking to make fortune.”

The plan solidified with a terrifying speed. We would go to Surgingtide. Liana would provide false identification papers and a cover story. We were to be Elara and Rhys, minor nobles from a fallen house, seeking to rebuild their fortune through speculative trade. The irony of the ‘couple’ part of the cover story was not lost on me, nor on Rex, whose hand lingered on the small of my back a moment longer than necessary as we discussed the details.

***

The journey to the coast was a tense, week-long affair. We traveled with a small, trusted Oathbreaker caravan, blending in with other displaced people and merchants fleeing the Empire’s eastern expansion. The wide plains gave way to rolling, rocky hills, and the air grew thick with the salt-tang of the sea.

Surgingtide appeared on the horizon like a dream of controlled chaos. Towers of weathered stone and sleek, magically-treated wood rose haphazardly, connected by rope bridges that swayed high above the bustling streets. Ships of every conceivable design crowded the harbor, from Imperial galleons to sleek elven skimmers and ragged pirate sloops. The noise was a constant roar of commerce, shouting, and the cries of exotic seabirds.

Our papers were scrutinized by bored-looking guards at the main gate who cared more about the coin we slipped them than the authenticity of our seals. We were in.

We found a room in a noisy inn called the Drunken Kelpie, its clientele a colorful mix of sailors, smugglers, and individuals who clearly did not want to be looked at too closely. As Rhys and Elara, we moved through the tavern, listening to the gossip that flowed as freely as the ale. Talk was of rising port taxes, a new shipment of Aetherium crystals from the dwarf mines, and whispers of Imperial agents causing trouble down by the wharves.

That evening, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the harbor in shades of fire and gold, we made our way to the Sunset Maiden. It wasn’t a ship, but a tavern, the most opulent one I’d ever seen, built on a pier that extended out into the water. Silks draped the interior, and the air smelled of rare spices and expensive perfume.

We were led to a private balcony overlooking the sea. And there she was.

Anastasia, the Pirate Queen, was not what I expected. She was elegant, sharp-featured, dressed not in leathers but in fine silks that mirrored the sunset. She lounged on a pile of cushions, a crystal glass of some amber liquid in her hand. Her eyes, however, were the eyes of a predator—calculating and utterly fearless.

“Elara and Rhys,” she said, her voice a smooth, melodic contralto. “Or should I say, Elia and Rex? Your disguises are adequate for the gate guards, my dears, but not for me.” She smiled, a flash of perfect white teeth. “Welcome to Surgingtide. I trust your journey was pleasant?”

“It was informative,” Rex replied, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert, scanning the shadows of the balcony.

“Good.” She gestured for us to sit. “Let’s dispense with the tedious part. You want the Throne fragment. I have it. The Marshal wants it. The Coven wants it. The price is not just gold.”

“What is the price?” I asked, forcing my voice to remain calm.

“A service,” she said, sipping her drink. “A rival of mine, the alchemist Vulcan, has become… inconveniently ambitious. He has a laboratory in the cliffs, south of the city. He is attempting to create a synthetic magic-bloodline, selling his creations to the highest bidder. This upsets the balance of power. My balance.”

She leaned forward. “I want his research destroyed. All of it. Do this for me, and the Throne fragment is yours. I’ll even throw in safe passage out of the city.”

It was a trap, beautifully laid. We were to be her weapons in a underworld war. But looking at her, at the cold certainty in her gaze, I knew refusal wasn’t an option. We needed that fragment.

“We’ll need the layout of his laboratory,” Rex said, already into tactical planning.

Anastasia’s smile widened. “Of course. But first… the night is young. And it is so rare I get to host such… interesting guests.” She clapped her hands softly, and music began to drift from the main hall of the tavern—a lively, swaying melody. “Indulge me. A dance. Consider it the first step in our new partnership.”

She gestured to the open space on the balcony, the setting sun a breathtaking backdrop. It was a test, a moment of forced normalcy in the heart of the viper’s nest. Rex looked at me, a question in his eyes. I took a deep breath, pushing down the fear and the urgency. This was the game we had to play.

I placed my hand in his. “One dance,” I said.

And as the music swelled, under the watchful eye of the Pirate Queen and the painted sky, we moved together. It was our first dance, not in a dusty frontier town, but on the edge of a knife, the fate of a broken throne waiting in the wings. His hand was warm on my back, my hand secure in his. For these few, stolen moments, we were just Elia and Rex, and the world, with all its impending war, could wait.