Prayer was never meant to be spoken aloud, but they spoke it anyway—softly, reverently, as though the act alone might shatter the sky.
A faint hum rose from ten figures gathered in a crumbling stone chapel on the edge of the Vowenrealm. Dust motes swirled in the amber light of half-melted candles. They sat cross-legged, clad in coarse, tattered robes the color of wet earth, their shoulders hunched in collective guilt or fear. They whispered a language nearly lost to time—a prayer to gods whose names could no longer be spoken without punishment.
Only one among them remained silent.
Kael sat still as stone, his hood drawn low. He did not chant. He hadn't spoken a word in days, not even to Seren. The others called it reverence or restraint, but Kael knew better. Silence, for him, was not a choice. It was a weapon sheathed in the back of his throat, humming like a blade eager to draw blood.
He watched the others with distant eyes. These were his people—friends, kin, companions in rebellion—but even here, he felt separate. Not just because of what he was… but because of what he might become.
Here, on the outermost fringes of the kingdom, money held little value. Trade was done through gesture and silence, a barter of expressions and trust. The cities had long since fallen to fear, and even the smallest words could be twisted into a death sentence.
Speaking was forbidden.
Even a whisper could be lethal.
Long ago, the world had been different. Before the silence. Before the executions.
Before the Whisperers.
History told of the first one—a man given divine power to bend others with speech alone. A single word could command obedience. A phrase could burn down kingdoms. But every use of this power came at a price.
Each word cost the Whisperer a memory.
At first, it was simple: a forgotten name, a faded face. But the more he spoke, the more he lost. With each command, a part of him vanished. Joy, family, first love—torn from his mind like pages from a burning book.
Eventually, the kind-hearted man was hollowed out. All that remained was a voice wrapped in ruin.
He said "Die" once. Then again. Then hundreds of times. And each time, the void inside him grew.
In the end, he was no longer a man at all. He forgot who he was, what he'd once loved, why he'd ever cared. His mind crumbled under the weight of his own voice. He was executed publicly—a mercy to him and a warning to others.
But peace did not follow.
In his wake, more Whisperers were born. Twenty. Thirty. Maybe more. Each with power bound to their words, and each feared by the world that remembered the first.
The Council of Nine rose from the ashes. Nine men and women who took a vow of eternal silence. They governed with absolute control, backed by divine-sanctioned priests who could erect sound-barriers and spell-wards strong enough to deflect the voice-magic of the Whisperers.
They called it peace.
But it was conquest in slow motion.
At first, only dangerous words were outlawed. Then subversive ones. Then every word that wasn't authorized. The Council's paranoia became policy. The English language itself was eventually banned. Speaking was treason.
Enforcers patrolled towns with blank expressions and swords. Suspected speakers were dragged into public squares, bound by the wrists, starved, and beaten until silence claimed them for good. Their agony was left on display—a monument to obedience.
Kael knew this not from stories. He'd seen it.
The Vowenrealm became a land of still mouths and guarded eyes. Only the Voiced—those appointed by the Nine—were allowed to speak without fear.
But tonight, here in the chapel, ten rebels whispered what the world had tried to erase.
A name. A hymn. A prayer. A promise.
Kael could feel the tremor in the air—a ripple of something ancient, like a bone-deep memory scratching to be let out.
Then—footsteps.
Heavy, deliberate, sharp against stone.
The prayers faltered.
The group stilled as the door creaked open. Wind snuffed half the candles, plunging the room into uneven light. A shadow moved into the threshold—a tall silhouette, lean and angular. A sword hung at his hip like a second limb.
Kael's breath caught.
They weren't supposed to come out this far. The outskirts were quiet, forgotten, safe. Patrols almost never passed through. But someone must have whispered in the wrong company. Or perhaps a neighbor had betrayed them.
The figure stepped fully into view.
A man in an immaculate black uniform, with the emblem of the Nine stitched above his heart in silver thread. His expression was pale and impassive, his eyes sunken with something more than weariness.
Authority radiated from him like heat from a forge.
"Does it irritate you," he asked, "that I can speak?"
His voice was slick with venom, smooth and slow.
"Does it grate on your nerves, knowing I was chosen to serve the Nine? That I am allowed to say whatever I want, while you can barely breathe without permission?"
He began to pace, hands behind his back. No one answered. No one dared. Even a stifled breath might be twisted into a death sentence.
"Are you sure," he asked, drawing out each word, "that I didn't hear something before I walked in?"
He turned, locking eyes with a young man seated near the center of the circle. Dirty, ragged, maybe twenty years old. Rage simmered beneath the grime on his face.
Kael's hand twitched beside him.
Seren, seated next to him, placed her fingers gently on his arm. A silent warning.
Don't.
The officer walked to the youth, leaned close, mock concern etched into his features.
"What's the matter? Tongue tied? Forgot how to speak?" he whispered, grinning.
No response.
"No? Nothing at all? Are you that afraid of a single voice?"
The man in rags stood suddenly, fists clenched.
"Piss off," he said.
The officer laughed. Not just a chuckle—an all-consuming laugh, shoulders shaking, breathless.
"That's it?" he said. "All that risk... and that's what you say?"
His face changed. Laughter vanished.
In a flash, his sword was out and sheathed again before anyone saw the movement.
A moment later, the man's head hit the floor.
Blood splashed across the stone.
No one screamed. No one moved.
Kael's jaw clenched, heart thundered. His hands trembled in the folds of his robe.
The officer turned to the others, drawing his sword again slowly this time—methodically.
He carved through the crowd like a reaper through grain. One by one. No hesitation. No mercy.
Kael counted four before he rose to his feet.
Seren tugged his sleeve hard, her face stricken with silent fear. She mouthed his name, shaking her head.
Kael stepped forward anyway.
"No more," he said quietly.
The officer paused mid-stride, turning to him with a raised brow.
"Another voice?" he said. "And what exactly do you plan to do, boy? Everyone here is already dead."
Kael walked forward until they were face to face.
The officer smirked.
"Do something—"
"Stab yourself," Kael said.
The words carried a weight the air could not bear. Power rippled through the room like a thunderclap.
The officer flinched, eyes wide. His body moved against his will. The blade he'd used moments before turned on him.
Steel plunged into his gut.
"A Whisperer," the officer gasped, blood pooling at his lips. "But how...?"
Kael stepped closer, voice cold as stone.
"You won't harm anyone else for using the voice they were born with. You won't live another day on this earth, worshipping liars. I'll be the last thing you see, and the first thing they remember."
"Slit your throat."
The officer obeyed.
Steel whispered. Blood followed.
Kael collapsed to his knees. A sharp ringing erupted in his skull like a blade scraping bone. He clutched his temples, gritting his teeth as something precious slipped from his mind—erased forever.
He couldn't name what he'd lost.
That made it worse.
Seren caught him as he staggered back.
"We have to leave," she said softly, urgency in her trembling hands.
"I'm sorry," Kael whispered.
"You had no choice," she said, but her voice was hollow.
She turned to the others.
"No more speaking. Go. Home. Now. I'll take care of the rest."
One by one, the survivors fled into the night, swallowed by darkness and dread.
Kael remained, breathing hard, staring at the officer's body.
He knew this was just the beginning.
And he knew, next time, silence wouldn't be enough.