Oath of the Broken Sword Chapter 17

The salt-stained planks of Surgingtide’s docks groaned underfoot, a constant, creaking chorus to the city’s chaotic symphony. Beside me, Rex moved with a predator’s ease, his hand never far from the hilt of the blade concealed beneath his merchant’s cloak. We were Elara and Rhys now, two minor nobles from the eastern provinces seeking fortune in the West’s infamous free port. The disguise felt flimsy, a layer of silk over armor, but it was the key Liana had given us.

*The air here tastes of greed and desperation,* Silverlight’s voice whispered in my mind, a cool silver thread amidst the humid press of humanity. *Be wary, Little Storm. Every shadow here has a price.*

“Easy, love,” Rex murmured, his voice a low rumble meant only for me. He nodded toward a market stall overflowing with strange fruits, but his eyes were scanning the crowd, noting the armed guards, the furtive exchanges. “We’re just another couple dazzled by the sights.”

I forced a smile, the expression unnatural on Elara’s face. My own mind was a storm. The dragon Conclave’s judgment, the Shattered God’s echo, the weight of the scroll in my inner pocket—it all clamored for attention. But the most persistent echo was the memory the Conclave had pulled from me: the dusty tranquility of the border town, the quiet understanding in Rex’s eyes. That memory was my anchor, the ‘flaw’ the god had mocked. It was also my strength.

“The Sunset Maiden,” I whispered back, leaning into his feigned affection. “Where do we even start?”

“A tavern by the western wharf,” Rex said, his gaze locking onto a sign swaying in the sea breeze. It depicted a woman wreathed in orange light, plunging into the waves. “There. Looks like our kind of place.”

The Sunset Maiden tavern was a cacophony of languages and the smell of spiced rum and sweat found a corner table, half-hidden in shadow. Before we could order, a hulking man with a scarred face and a Kraken tattoo coiled around his forearm approached. He didn’t speak, merely jerked his head toward a narrow staircase at the back.

The room upstairs was a stark contrast to the chaos below. Silks draped the walls, and the air was sweet with incense. A woman stood by a window overlooking the harbor, her back to us. She turned slowly, and I recognized the sharp, calculating beauty from Liana’s descriptions.

“Elara. Rhys.” Anastasia’s voice was like honeyed wine, smooth and intoxicating. Her eyes, the color of a stormy sea, swept over us, missing no detail of our poor disguise. “Or should I use your real names? The Draconic Conclave’s newest favorites.”

Rex tensed beside me. I placed a hand on his arm, a silent command to stay calm. “You sent the scroll,” I said, keeping my voice neutral.

“I deal in information and objects of power, my dear. And you are currently the most interesting source of both on the continent.” She gestured to two plush chairs. “Please. Let’s discuss the ‘third leg’ of your broken chair.”

We sat. Anastasia paced before us, a shark circling its prey. “Marshal Marcus wants it. The Twilight Coven wants it. Even the stuffy elves of the Silver Federation have sent feelers. The bidding war is… entertaining.”

“What do you want?” Rex asked, his tone blunt.

“What I always want. Advantage.” She stopped, fixing her gaze on me. “Specifically, I want a favor. From you, Scion of the Sundered.”

Ice traced my spine. She knew *exactly* what I was. “What kind of favor?”

“A simple one. In the future, when the winds of fate shift, you will speak on my behalf to the Dragon Conclave. A word of recommendation, assuring them that Anastasia of Surgingtide is a… valuable ally.” She smiled, a razor-thin line. “urgingtide’s independence is my life’s work. I intend to preserve it, no matter which god or emperor claims the mainland.”

*A political gambit,* Silverlight observed. *She bets on your survival and influence.*

“And in return?” I prompted.

“In return,” she said, walking to a lacquered chest and lifting the lid, “you get this.” Nestled on black velvet was a shard of crystal that pulsed with a faint, sickly light. It was about the length of my forearm, and looking at it made the world tilt slightly, as if reality were fraying around its edges. A fragment of the Shattered Throne.

“How do we know it’s real?” Rex challenged.

Anastasia’s smile widened. “Touch it.”

Against every instinct, I reached out. My fingertips brushed the cold surface.

*PAIN.*

A vision slammed into me. Not a memory, but a fracture of the future. I saw Marshal Marcus, not on a throne, but fused into a colossal machine of writhing metal and magic, his eyes glowing with the same sickly light as the shard. A city burned below him—I recognized the spires of the Imperial capital. Voices screamed, a chorus of agony. Then, a shift. I saw *myself*, standing over Rex’s lifeless body, my hands stained with silver blood that was not my own. The weight of a crown made of broken crystal pressed into my brow, cold and absolute.

I gasped, snatching my hand back. The tavern room swam back into focus. Rex was holding my shoulders, his face etched with concern.

“It’s real,” I choked out.

“The Throne shows potentialities,” Anastasia said calmly, replacing the lid. “A useful, if unsettling, feature. Do we have an accord?”

My heart hammered against my ribs. The future I saw was a nightmare. But letting Marcus or the Coven have the shard would make it a certainty. “We do,” I said, the words tasting like ash.

“Excellent.” She produced a contract, the terms glowing with magical script. “A blood seal, to ensure mutual goodwill.”

As I pricked my finger, pressing it to the parchment, a commotion erupted downstairs. Shouts, the ring of steel. Anastasia’s expression tightened. “It seems one of the other bidders has grown impatient. The Marshal’s hounds, by the sound of it.”

Rex was on his feet in an instant, his merchant’s cloak discarded, his true sword in hand. “The back way?”

“There is no back way,” Anastasia said, drawing a pair of elegantly curved daggers from her sleeves. “This is my home. I defend it. Your ship is the *Sea Serpent*, at berth seven. Get the shard to your Oathbreakers.”

The door burst open. Imperial soldiers in the grey uniforms of Marcus’s personal guard flooded the room. Their leader, a cold-eyed man with a facial scar, pointed at me. “The bloodline traitor. Take her alive. Kill the rest.”

The world narrowed to the dance of steel and the surge of primal magic. Rex became a whirlwind, his blade a blur, meeting the soldiers with brutal efficiency. I reached for the Source Runes, feeling the familiar burn as power answered my call. A wave of concussive force erupted from my hands, throwing two soldiers back against the wall.

*Use the bond,* Silverlight urged. *Do not hold back.*

I felt her presence surge within me, a tide of ancient power. Silver light flickered around my fists. I didn’t summon it;

it was just *there*, a part of me. I moved faster, saw clearer. When a soldier lunged, my hand moved on its own, deflecting his blade and sending a jolt of freezing energy up his arm. He screamed as frost crawled over his armor.

Beside me, Anastasia fought with lethal grace, her daggers finding gaps in armor with surgical precision. “Impressive,” she said, barely out of breath as she ducked under a swing. “The stories don’t do you

We fought our way back down to the main tavern, now a raging battlefield. The Pirate Queen’s crew had joined the fray, battling the Imperials in a chaotic melee of clashing steel and shouted curses.

“The docks!” Rex yelled, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the door.

We burst out into the twilight air, the shard a heavy, malevolent weight in my pack. The sounds of combat faded behind us as we sprinted toward berth seven.

But a figure blocked our path. Tall, clad in the ornate armor of a high-ranking officer. He removed his helmet, revealing a face I knew from the Knight’s Garrison—a face that had once offered gruff encouragement, now twisted with fanatical loyalty.

“Lieutenant Valerius,” I breathed, skidding to a halt.

“It’s Captain now, traitor,” he spat. “The Marshal offers you one last chance. Renounce your heresy. Surrender the artifact. Your… companion… will be granted a swift death.”

Rex stepped in front of me, his sword held ready. “The answer is no.”

Valerius sighed, a sound of genuine disappointment. “A pity.” He raised his hand. Runic symbols glowed along his vambrace. “Then die for your foolish sentiment.”

He attacked. This was not the brawling style of the dockyard soldiers. This was the refined, deadly combat art of the Knight’s Garrison, enhanced by powerful battle-runes. Rex met him, their blades crashing together in a shower of sparks. They were evenly matched in skill, but Valerius’s runes gave him an edge, each strike landing with amplified force.

I tried to assist, but Valerius’s men fanned out, surrounding me, their blades bristling. I was separated from Rex, forced to fight my own desperate battle.

I saw an opening. A soldier overextended. I poured power into a single rune—*Impact*. The air cracked, and he flew backward into two of. For a brief second, the circle broke.

It was all Rex needed. With a roar, he battered past Valerius’s guard, his sword slicing deep into the gap between breastplate and pauldron. Valerius stumbled, his concentration broken.

“Elia, now!” Rex shouted.

I didn’t hesitate. We ran, leaving the wounded captain cursing behind us. The *Sea Serpent* was there, its Oathbreaker crew already casting off lines. We leaped aboard just as the gangplank was hauled up.

As the ship pulled away from the chaotic lights of Surgingtide, I stood at the railing, clutching the pack containing the shard. Rex came to stand beside me, his arm around my waist, his breathing still heavy.

“We have it,” he said.

“Yes,” I whispered, the visions of fire and a cold crown still burning behind my eyes. “But what price did we just agree to pay?”

The future was a fractured path, and we had just taken a step into the darkest part of the wood.