Whispers of the Marked

Shattered Silence

The mornings at Crescent Moon Academy were always crisp, but today, Lyra couldn’t shake the chill in her bones. She stood at the edge of the training grounds, the wind biting at her exposed skin, her breath forming a mist before her. It wasn’t the cold that made her shiver, though.

It was the memories.

They always crept in like this, when the world went still. The quiet. The silence.

It had started when she was a child, sitting on the balcony of her family’s estate, watching the world pass by. Her parents had always been quiet—whispering more than speaking, their voices low and urgent in private. They had secrets. Lyra had known that much even before she’d learned how to speak.

But it wasn’t the quiet that scared her. It was the weight of it. The kind of silence that wasn’t a choice but a restriction.

Her mother’s face appeared in her mind—soft, warm, and haunted by something Lyra could never understand. Her father’s broad shoulders, always tense, always watching, waiting. They had known the world didn’t accept them. That their power—her power—was too dangerous. And yet, they still fought, still clung to the threads of their family’s legacy.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to push the memories away.

You must be quiet, her mother had said, for the world will listen only to silence.

The first time Lyra’s voice had been taken was a day like any other.

She had been five years old, a child too young to fully understand the weight of her family’s past, but not too young to feel the crackle of magic in the air. They had been in the garden, her mother tending to the roses while her father stood nearby, his hand always resting near the hilt of his sword. The air was heavy with the scent of blooming flowers and the promise of a coming storm.

But it wasn’t the storm in the air that had made her father’s hand twitch. It was the voices.

Voices that were not their own.

The enemy had come in the night.

Her mother had been the first to sense it—the subtle shift in the air. Her father had drawn his sword without hesitation, a sharp glint of steel flashing in the dim light. Lyra had watched, wide-eyed, as they moved quickly, silently. They had always been prepared for this. They were always prepared for what came in the dark.

But they hadn’t been ready for the spell.

The first time Lyra had felt the chains of magic wrap around her, she hadn’t understood what it meant. One moment, she had been running through the garden, laughing as her father chased her, pretending to catch her in the shadows. The next, she had found herself in her mother’s arms, her tiny hands pressed against her throat.

Please, her mother had whispered, clutching her tightly. Do not speak. Do not let them hear you.

The moment the magic had clamped down, her voice had gone silent, a thick, suffocating silence filling her chest. She had tried to scream, tried to call for her parents, but nothing came. The air had become thick with the pressure of it. Her voice had been sealed, bound by an invisible force that held her in place.

Her mother had whispered something in her ear, but Lyra hadn’t been able to hear it. The world had blurred into a haze, her parents’ faces etched with desperation. And then, in the blink of an eye, it had been over.

The spell had taken her voice.

And with it, it had taken a piece of her.

Now, years later, Lyra sat by the window of her dorm room, looking out at the training grounds where the other students honed their skills. She could hear the sounds of clashing swords, the grunts and shouts of students pushing their limits.

But none of it reached her.

She had come to terms with the silence, or so she had thought. But being here, at Crescent Moon Academy, among the very people who had the power to fight with magic, to bend reality with a flick of their hands—it was a constant reminder of what she had lost.

And what she had never been able to regain.

Her mother had never spoken of it in detail. She had only said that it was for protection. That the silence was necessary to hide from those who would use Lyra’s power for evil. But Lyra had never understood. She had never understood why her own parents had chosen to lock her voice away. Why they had allowed her to be different, to stand apart from everyone else, silent and voiceless.

Her father had told her that the world was dangerous for people like them—that there were forces who would seek to use her abilities. He had trained her, had shown her how to hide her magic, to suppress it. But it was never enough. It wasn’t enough to keep the whispers at bay.

The day her parents had been taken from her was the day everything fell apart.

She had been eight years old. The world had crashed around her as her parents were ripped from their home by the very people they had once trusted. They had been betrayed. And Lyra had been left alone.

She had run. She had run as fast as her legs could carry her, to the edge of the estate, where the cliffs met the sea. She had stood at the edge, staring into the waves, her chest tight with fear and uncertainty.

Her voice was gone. Her parents were gone.

And she was left with nothing.

Nothing but the silence.

Lyra was jolted from her thoughts by a knock at the door. She blinked, her mind still heavy with the weight of her memories, before standing to answer it.

Rina stood there, a hesitant look on her face. Her moss-green eyes, flecked with gold, softened as they met Lyra’s. She had just finished braiding her rich chestnut-brown hair.

“Lyra,” Rina said softly, glancing around the room nervously. “Are you alright? You’ve been distant.”

Lyra paused for a moment, unsure how to respond. She wasn’t used to people noticing. She wasn’t used to people caring.

Rina bit her lip, glancing down at her hands. Her nose wrinkled slightly, making her freckles dance.

“You know, I’ve been thinking... maybe you should talk to someone. You don’t have to carry all of this by yourself.”

This was different. Rina was usually poised and self-assured. Her nervousness now struck a different chord.

Lyra blinked, startled by the suggestion. She had never considered speaking about her past. Her voice had been taken from her for a reason—because it was dangerous. Because the world wasn’t ready for the truth.

But Rina didn’t know that. Rina didn’t understand.

I can’t tell you, Rina.

Lyra’s hand shook slightly as she reached for her notebook, writing the words quickly.

I don’t know how to explain.

Rina studied the words for a moment before nodding slowly. “I understand,” she said softly. “But you don’t have to be alone in this. You don’t have to carry it by yourself.”

Lyra wasn’t sure why, but her chest tightened at Rina’s words. She wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe that someone could truly understand.

But that would mean opening up. It would mean letting the silence break.

And after all these years, she wasn’t sure if she was ready to let go.

Lyra looked back out the window, her gaze drawn once more to the distant training fields. She could hear the sounds of combat rising in the distance—the clash of swords, the grunts, the calls. It was a reminder of what she had lost, but also what she could still become.

She opened her notebook slowly, flipping past the diagrams, the copied rune sigils, the pressed leaf she kept tucked into the corner pocket—a memory of somewhere warmer.

Her pen hovered.

Then, for the first time in days, she wrote something that wasn't instruction or observation.

I don’t know what I’m doing here.

She paused.

Beneath it, she added, smaller:

I want to be seen. But I’m scared of what that means.

She stared at the words until the ink dried.

Then turned the page.

Left it blank.

And returned to silence.

Perhaps, one day, her voice would return. Perhaps, one day, she would be able to speak again.

But for now, the silence was all she had.

And it was enough.