Oath of the Broken Sword Chapter 22

The white expanse shattered like glass. One moment I was drowning in the ghostly temptation of a god’s power;

the next, I was back on the cold, seamless stone of the Dragon-Slumber Sanctuary. The pressure of the Elder Dragons' gazes returned, a physical weight on my shoulders. My knees felt weak, but the memory of my own declaration—*I will fight for the world that exists*—kept me upright.

Silvershine’s massive head nudged my back gently, a steadying presence. *You stood firm, Little Spark. You faced the Echo and chose a different path.*

The Golden Elder’s ancient eyes regarded me, the brilliant light within them seeming to shift from scrutiny to something akin… to approval. *The Trial of Echoes is concluded. The vessel has proven stronger than the bloodline’s memory. You have passed, Elia of the Borderlands. But understanding your path and walking it are two different challenges. A storm gathers that will test that resolve beyond any vision.*

“What storm?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

It was the obsidian-black dragon, the one Silvershine had called ‘Destruction-Wing,’ who answered, his telepathic voice a low growl of impending thunder. *The ephemeral empires of man tear themselves apart. While you faced ghosts, the Silver Federation fractures. The pointy-eared queen lies dying by her own kind’s hand. The dwarf king retreats to his mountain hole, clutching a Titan’s toy. Their alliance, a fragile shield against the Empire’s hunger, is broken.*

My blood ran cold. The Federation… broken?

Kaela had spoken often of the delicate balance there, of Queen Estheraeya’s wisdom and King Thorin’s stubborn strength. If they fell, nothing would stand between Emperor Augustus’s ambitions and the wild lands of the west. Marcus’s plans, whatever they truly were, would advance unchecked.

*The song of the world is discordant,* the Golden Elder intoned. *Your part in the melody is now to be played. You sought the the Broken Throne. Know this: it is both a weapon and a cage. The one who sits upon it may command realities, but becomes bound to its cycle of creation and ruin. Your ancestor learned this too late. The Throne’s shards are sought by many: the Emperor’s scheming minister, the fanatics of the Twilight Sect, and… others.*

“Marcus,” I whispered, the pieces clicking into a horrifying picture. “He doesn’t just want to rebuild the Empire. He wants to become a god using the Throne.”

*Perception sharpens,* Silvershine’s thought held a grim note. *His dealings with the cultists are a means to an end. He believes he can control the power they worship.*

Destruction-Wing snorted, smoke curling. *Arrogance. The same arrogance that doomed your bloodline, little hybrid. The Parliament has watched. We do not intervene in the squabbles of short-lived mortals. But the re-forging of the Broken Throne is not a squabble. It is an existential threat. A threat you are uniquely positioned to address.*

“You want me to stop him?” The sheer scale of the task was dizzying.

*We cannot command you,* the Golden Elder said. *But we can grant you the tools to choose your own fate. Silvershine has shared her strength with you through your bond. Now, the Parliament will grant you knowledge. The location of one shard of the Throne, hidden where the Veins of the World bleed magic into a graveyard of gods.*

A pulse of light shot from the Elder’s forehead, not at me, but at Silvershine. She shuddered, her scales flashing as a stream of cosmic cartography—star charts superimposed on mountain ranges, ley lines converging on a jagged archipelago—flooded our shared mental space.

*The Southern Mysterious Domain,* Silvershine relayed to me, her voice strained with the influx of information. *The Shrouded Isles. The place of your origin, Little Spark. The first shard is there, guarded by the sickness that follows the death of a god.*

The Runes under my skin prickled, a sympathetic ache. The God-Plague. The very thing that had claimed my parents, the reason Old Man Oliver had hidden me away.

“I have to go there,” I said, the decision solidifying as I spoke. It wasn’t just about a shard anymore. It was about my past, about the strange immunity Old Man Oliver said I possessed. It was about closing a circle.

*Then go,* Destruction-Wing rumbled, a dismissal and a challenge in one. *Prove that your choice in the Trial was not mere words. Your dragon will guide you.*

Silvershine lowered her neck. I climbed aboard, my mind reeling. As her powerful wings beat, lifting us from the crystalline spire back into the cloud sea, I looked down at the floating sanctuary. The dragons were already turning away, ancient beings returning to their eternal watch. My fate was my own again, but the burden was heavier than ever.

We flew for hours, descending through the clouds as the sky turned from the eternal day of the sanctuary to the deep purple of twilight. Silvershine was quiet, processing the Elder’s map.

*The journey south is long,* she finally communicated. *We cannot trust the Empire’s skies. Marcus will have eyes everywhere. We need supplies, and… information. The event with the Federation changes everything. We must seek an ally.*

“Who?” I asked, clinging to her scales as we dipped below the cloud layer. The familiar, scarred landscape of the Fractured Lands sprawled beneath us.

*There is a place,* she said, angling our flight toward a cluster of flickering lights nestled against a dark, jagged coastline. *A town on the edge of the Mysterious Domain. A refuge for those who do not belong to Empire or Federation. It is called Last Hope. And it is watched over by one of the few who understands the price of godly power.*

The name sent a jolt through me. Last Hope. It was the settlement Old Man Oliver had whispered about, a legend among border folk. A exiles and independents.

As we drew closer, I could make out the town’s details. It was built into the side of a cliff, wooden piers extending into a treacherous-looking sea. Ships of strange design, neither Imperial nor Federate, were docked there. The air smelled of salt, smoke, and ozone—the peculiar scent of wild, untamed magic.

Silvershine landed on a secluded rocky outcrop just outside the town’s perimeter. “It’s best I remain hidden for now,” she said aloud, her voice a low rumble. “A silver dragon would draw… unhelpful attention. You must go alone. Seek out the guardian. His name is Rex. He is a Warden of the ruins.”

Rex. The name was like a key turning in a lock deep inside me. I didn’t know why.

I slid from her back. “How will I find him?”

*He will find you,* she assured me. *Your blood calls to the ruins;

the Wardens are attuned to such things. Be cautious, Elia. Trust must be earned here.*

Nodding, I turned toward the flickering lights of Last Hope, pulling my travel-worn cloak tighter. The path down from the outcrop was steep and slippery. The town was louder than I expected, a cacophony of raucous laughter, banging metal, and the discordant notes of a string instrument.

The main street was a muddy thoroughfare crammed with a bewildering array of people: hulking beast-folk from the tribal lands, slender elves who were not of the Federate kind, their eyes sharp and mercenary, humans with the hardened look of mercenaries and outcasts. I felt a dozen pairs of eyes on me, assessing the new arrival.

I made for what looked like a tavern, a sprawling building named “The Guttering Candle.” Pushing the door open, I was hit by a wave of warmth, thick with the smell of stale ale, roasted meat, and unwashed bodies. Conversations dipped for as I entered, then resumed, though I sensed the continued scrutiny.

Finding an empty stool at the end of the rough-hewn bar, I gestured to the barkeep, a burly man with a scar across his throat that suggested a failed hanging. “Ale,” I said, keeping my voice low.

He slid a chipped clay mug toward me. “New to the Hope,” he stated, not asked. His eyes swept over me, lingering on the faint, almost invisible glow of the Genesis Runes on the back of my hand, which I’d failed to cover completely.

“Just passing through,” I replied, pulling my sleeve down.

“Ain’t we all,” he grunted, moving away to serve another customer.

I took a sip of the bitter ale, scanning the room. My senses were on high alert, the training from the Knight Order kicking in. I noted exits, potential threats. And then I saw him.

He was sitting alone in a shadowed booth, a half-empty tankard in front of him. He wasn’t large, but there was a solidity to him, a stillness that stood out amidst the tavern’s chaos. He wore practical, rugged leather armor, scarred from use. His hair was dark, tied back, and his face was all sharp angles and quiet intensity. But it was his eyes that held me. They were a startling shade of amber, and they were already fixed on me, as if he’d been waiting.

He didn’t smile. He simply gave a slow, deliberate nod toward the empty seat opposite him.

My heart hammered against my ribs. This was him. The Warden. Rex.

I stood, my legs feeling unsteady, and walked over to his booth. I slid into the seat, the worn wood groaning under my weight.

We sat in silence for a long moment, just looking at each other. The noise of the tavern seemed to fade into a dull roar.

“You have the scent of the Isles on you,” he said finally. His voice was deeper than I expected, calm and measured, like the rumble of distant stones. “And something else. Something older.”

“I’m looking for answers,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Aren’t we all,” he echoed the barkeep’s sentiment, but his tone was different. It held a weight of shared understanding. His amber eyes scanned my face, reading the fatigue, the fear, the determination. “Answers in the Shrouded Isles usually come with a price. A lethal one.”

“I know about the God-Plague.”

His gaze sharpened. “Knowing about it and surviving it are different things. Why risk it?”

I took a breath, meeting his intense stare. “Because I think… I think I was born there. And I need to go back.”

A flicker of surprise, then something else—recognition?

—crossed his features. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping even lower. “The Warden’s Pact forbids me from leading fools to their deaths. But it also compels me to aid those who have a true claim to the ruins.” He paused, his eyes drifting to my hand, as if he could see the runes through the leather of my sleeve. “What is your name?”

“Elia,” I said.

He nodded slowly, as if confirming something to himself. “Well, Elia,” he said, a grim, resolute look settling on his face. “It seems our paths were destined to cross. My name is Rex. And if you’re determined to walk into the heart of the madness, it seems I’ll be walking with you.”