The Promise Of No Words

EVIN'S POINT OF VIEW “Mouse, are you planning to drink that tea or stare it into submission?” Thomir’s voice barrelled through the doorframe before his boots did. The hinges groaned like something dying, and the morning air slithered in; damp, cold, smelling of pine and rain. I didn’t answer. Just held the chipped teabowl tighter and watched the steam dance. The prosthetic clicked as I shifted, the metal groaning in a rhythm that had become too familiar. Cold always made it worse. The joint bit into the scar like it was trying to remind me that I was still broken. “I know you’re awake.” Thomir’s boots thumped across the warped boards. “Wards are twitchy again. The wind changed. You feel it?” I didn’t nod, but he knew I did. I always felt it. Windmere taught you to. It was the only way to stay alive. He sat down heavily across from me and grabbed the second mug without asking. His beard was still damp from the creek. His coat smelt like herbs, pine, and whatever smoke memories clung to him from last season’s fires. “The tea’s awful,” he grunted. “You say that every morning.” “Because it’s always true.” I took a slow sip. Bitter. Burnt. But warm. My leg twitched again, a cold shiver curling from the joint and up into my spine. “They’re saying the borderlands are stirring,” he said. “Three villages emptied. No signs of raiding. No blood. Just… gone.” I watched the steam swirl between us. “Maybe they left.” “They didn’t. Not with supper still on the fire.” Silence stretched. Only the crackle of the hearth answered. Finally, I stood, tightening the straps on my leg brace until the leather bit into skin. “You’re going out?” Thomir asked. “Feathers don’t catch themselves.” “Don’t go near the creek. I saw redroot blooming. That’s never a good sign.” I didn’t respond. He didn’t push. We both knew something was coming. And neither of us had the courage to say what. *** Windmere isn’t a place you find on a map. Not unless the map wants to hurt you. It’s a knot of houses folded into the western woods, curled beside a creek that never runs dry and trees that whisper louder than people do. The sky was already streaked with pink when I reached the ridge. Birds scattered before I got close—early warning. They always knew before we did. I found the first feather stuck in a patch of thistle. Blue and black. Jay. I added it to the pouch on my belt and kept walking. The prosthetic clunked softly with every step, but I’d learnt how to walk through pain. That was the first lesson the fire taught me. The second feather caught in a bramble near the water. The third… never made it into my pouch. “Evin!” I jumped, nearly falling into the creek. The feather floated downstream like it was laughing at me. Kesh appeared over the slope, cheeks flushed, boots covered in mud, and a grin too wide for anyone sane. “Been looking for you,” she said, hands on hips. “Papa says you skipped chores. Again.” I shrugged. “Didn’t feel like feeding goats that bite.” “He said you were staring at the creek like it owed you something.” “Maybe it does.” She studied me, that grin softening. “You okay?” I didn’t answer. “They’re saying travellers came in last night. From the border. Real far out.” “Thomir told me.” “They’re at the longhouse. Might be stories worth hearing.” “I don’t want stories.” “Too bad.” She tossed a small pouch at me. Dried berries. “Eat something. You look like shit.” Then she was gone, boots clomping louder than necessary. The sound faded down the ridge, but her presence stuck around like a warm shadow. I didn’t eat the berries. Not yet. Just stood there, listening to the creek. It was too quiet. *** The longhouse was packed by nightfall. Hearthfire burnt hot and low, casting light like breath against the stone walls. I slipped in through the side, stuck to the shadows, and sat near the back. Three travellers sat near the fire, all cloaked in border dust and caution. The eldest, a man with bandaged fingers and haunted eyes, cleared his throat. “They didn’t shout. Didn’t raid. Didn’t steal. Just walked in… and everything stopped moving.” Someone laughed nervously. “Bandits?” He shook his head. “Not bandits. Puppets. Oath-bound.” The second traveller spoke. A woman with soot-streaked skin and a voice like gravel. “They don’t speak loudly. They whisper. That’s what hurts the most. You hear it… and you obey.” Obey. The word rang like a blade in my chest. I looked away. My hand drifted to the pendant under my shirt—bone smooth, warmth faint. My mother’s. The only thing that didn’t burn. “Oath-flame”, the last traveller murmured. “They call it that now. Power tied to command. You speak, they kneel. You lie, they die.” Thomir caught my eye across the fire. His look said, Don’t. My look said, I already know. *** We didn’t talk that night. Not even when the wards on our door flickered again. Not even when I found feathers outside the threshold—three of them, arranged in a pattern I didn’t recognise. Thomir just ground his herbs harder. The paste ran dark purple. “They’ve changed the way they bind,” he said eventually. “No blood. No circles. Just words.” I touched the edge of the prosthetic where it bit into my thigh. “And still nothing binds me.” He nodded slowly. “That makes you rare.” “No,” I said. “That makes me a target.” *** I sat by the well that night. The stars were too bright. The wind is too soft. I hated silence now. It felt like someone was listening too hard. Something rustled behind me. I turned. Nothing. But the words flared once, sharp and bright. I stood fast, heart slamming against my ribs. A whisper tickled my ear, too low to be real. And yet— “You’re not what they think you are.” I froze. Another whisper, softer now. “You’re worse.” I gripped the edge of the well, knuckles white. The whisper faded into the night. But not before it left one last question clinging to the air like ash: “What will you do when they kneel… and you don't want them to?”