Lyria's Arc

Chapter 3 of 9

The judge's warning still rang in Lyria's ears. She had one day left to prove her wolf was not a weapon. But to prove that, she had to break the bond between the animal and her ancient blade. She did not know how. No one had taught her the old rite. Kael found her outside the stone building, sword across her knees, the wolf's head in her lap. "There's a rite," Kael said. "An old one. It splits a bonded beast from a bonded blade." He crouched beside her. The hawk on his shoulder never moved. "I've only heard of it. The words are written somewhere in the forest. An old library. A hermit kept it." They walked into the trees together. The library sat low under a mossy roof, its shelves crowded with cracked spines. Lyria pulled book after book. Dust choked her throat. Near dusk, Kael slid a thin volume from a bottom shelf. Inside, faded ink named the rite and named a place. A hut wrapped around a ring of carved stones. The rite must be sung there, the page said, on a harp, to loosen the thread without cutting it. "A harp," Lyria said. "I don't have a harp." "You do," Kael said. He nodded to her pack. A small pink elven harp was strapped to the side. She had carried it for so long she'd stopped seeing it. They reached the oath hut as the moon rose. The wolf padded into the stone ring and lay down. Lyria knelt, harp against her shoulder, and read the notes off the yellowed page. Her fingers shook. She plucked the first string. Wrong. She started over. The wolf lifted its head. Its runes flared, then the runes on her blade flared to match. Lyria kept playing. She held the melody steady, note after note, the way Kael once told her to share calm instead of forcing it. The wolf's breathing slowed. The blade's light dimmed. She played the last phrase. The runes on the sword went dark and stayed dark. The runes on the wolf's fur still glowed, soft and alone. The thread had split. Her blade was just a blade now. Her wolf was just her wolf. Kael let out a breath. "You did it." Lyria laughed, weak with relief. She could carry her sword into the trials. The wolf was no weapon anymore, and she could prove it. A slow clap sounded from the doorway. Adrian leaned against the timber frame, arms folded. He had followed them. "Clever," he said. "You unbound your blade. But you played the rite backward at the start. I heard it." His smile was thin. "The judge won't take a witch's word that a rite worked. You'll need someone to swear they saw it done clean." He pushed off the frame. "And I'm the only one here who knows the difference."