The Gembound: The Price of Keeping Chapter 117: Volume 5: Chapter 107 — Small Voices and the Mountain Plan

Read chapter 117 of The Gembound: The Price of Keeping by Taliorn on NovelPedia.

Volume 5: Chapter 107 — Small Voices and the Mountain Plan CHAPTER 107 — Small Voices and the Mountain Plan Morning arrived with a cold stillness over Eldania. The city had been conquered, but it had not yet decided how it felt about it. Soldiers patrolled the inner walls, and new banners hung from the parapets. The stone beneath Yara’s boots felt heavy, as if holding its breath. She stood beside a long wooden table in the courtyard. The table was covered with relics from the dead: a cracked helm, two snapped arrows, A worn leather strap bearing a family crest, A child’s brass whistle, A dwarven steel knife taken from a corpse, an officer’s ring, and a broken mountain goat horn polished smooth by years of climbing. Twenty-four animals waited around her. Ravens perched on chair backs. Foxes circled slowly. Rats gathered near a bucket of grain that Rosa had set out. A single massive mountain goat stood still and silent, watching everything with yellow eyes. Harry stood several paces behind her. His breathing was uneven again. The shard inside his chest glowed softly beneath his skin. The rhythm was wrong. Renn observed him from the side with a grim set to his jaw. He said quietly, only loud enough for Yara to hear, “He has maybe 3 weeks. No more than 4.” Yara nodded once. She had known. Every day, the shards argued with his body. Every night, he fought the pull of sleep because sleep meant another stolen piece of strength. With a sigh, she looked to the small animals once more. The Gem stirred beneath her ribs. Little eyes. Clever small eyes. Feed them. They bring cities. Yara pushed the voice down. She picked up the brass whistle first. Sapphire sight flickered. For a moment, she saw a boy running through tall wheat, blowing the whistle with joyful force while goats scattered in every direction. The memory settled into her palm, and the Gem stirred in appreciation. She set the whistle down and placed one hand beside it. The transformation rose through her like heated glass drawn through a mold. Light crawled up her arms and poured into the raven that waited patiently at her side. The bird stiffened for a heartbeat, then relaxed as intelligence settled behind its eyes. “Ready,” it said, the voice a blend of whistle and birdcall. Before it stepped back, Yara reached into the basket of supplies and lifted a single strand of yarn. Part of Weaver’s original transformation, this would link the small voice to the network. The strand was soft, warm, and humming faintly with potential. Yara pressed the yarn to the raven’s breast. The thread liquefied at her touch. It sank through feathers and skin as if pulled by the creature’s heartbeat. A faint ripple moved beneath the surface, then stilled. The raven blinked slowly as a new awareness reached it. Weaver’s voice brushed the courtyard like a stirring breeze. I hear this one. Gayle stepped forward with a bowl of oil. He anointed the bird’s head. His voice carried the ritual cadence. “Memory into purpose. Purpose into sight.” More animals moved toward Yara. Foxes with patient eyes. Rats whose whiskers quivered in anticipation. Another raven that carried a white streak on one wing. Each time, Yara chose an anchor of meaning: a ring worn smooth by duty, a ribbon kept for love, a helm cracked in battle. The Gem ate each one with eager hunger. Loss tastes rich. Duty tastes stronger. As each animal transformed, Yara pressed a piece of Weaver’s yarn to them. The thread always responded the same way. It softened into warmth. It melted beneath her fingertips. It slipped under the skin and vanished into the body. It became a new sense, an internal tether to Weaver’s distant mind. A fox received the officer’s ring and gained a soldier’s steadiness. The yarn merged with its foreleg and pulsed once. A rat took the lover’s ribbon and learned coordination. The yarn sank into its spine and trembled faintly. A raven with a cracked helm became a perfect mimic. The yarn merged into its throat like a second