Songs of Broken Bells

Songs of Broken Bells

Lilly Lockwood

Copyright © 2025 by Lilly Lockwood

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. The author does not give consent to allow the content or cover art to be used in any LLM or artificial intelligence database for the purpose of training or imitation.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No part of this work was generated using a LLM.

Cover Art by Yune (heavenlystarr)

Internal art by Yune and Alderdoodle

Edited by Charlie Knight

lillylockwood.carrd.co

Contents

Map of Eilira

Foreword

Foreword

Content warnings

Prologue

1.Silence Falls on the Amstelvoort

2.Promises Kept, Pacts Broken

Excerpt from

Natural Philosophy of Oerents: Origin and Physiology

3.Rumors of Redemption

4.Earworms

5.Warm Bread and Old Thread

6.Brick by Brick

7.The Hagiographer

Excerpt from

On the Nature of the Saint-Oerent Relationship

8.The Gem of Newhen

9.Ale for Your Ails

10.Chaos Speaks

11.The Prince of Pain

Excerpt from

He Who Suffers for Me

12.One Path Left

13.New Beginnings

14.Broken Bells

15.The Vermilion Sunbeam

16.Salt in the Wound

17.More Than a Little Luck

18.Sanctuary of the Snake Priest

Excerpt from

Decree from the Healer of All

19.Magic Turnips

20.Like An Old Cat

21.Time Heals Most Wounds

22.Enough Faith

23.The Tether

24.Wolves Within

25.Give and Take

26.Bound by Fate

27.Growing Pains

28.Small Solutions

29.Where Loyalty Lies

Excerpt from

Mautur of the Second Flame's personal journal

30.Spirit of The Amstelvoort

31.Without a Shadow of a Doubt

32.Unexpected Allies in Unlikely Places

33.A Light in the Dark

Excerpt from

Absolution of a Liar

34.An Eye for a Lie

35.A Father's Regret

36.Untethered

37.Convergence of the Elders

38.Heart and Soul of Wood

39.The One Called Mother

40.Calm Before the Storm

41.The Storm

42.All Things End

Epilogue

Glossary and Pronunciation Guide

Name Pronunciations

Common Phrases

General Terminology

Locations

Pantheon

Sapient Species

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Endnotes

For those who have never felt like they were enough.

You are enough, I promise.

To view the world map of Val’hoon, visit valhoon-map.carrd.co

Foreword

Hail and well met, travelers of the far realms. I am Saint Bertwyn, patron saint of the written word, knowledge, history, and librarians. I am one of the many saints who reside over the world of Val’hoon.

Val’hoon is much different from your own world, one steeped in magic from the Maelstrom. What is the Maelstrom, you ask? It is a gargantuan storm at the center of Val’hoon that bleeds threads of magic into every living thing roaming the world. If you are reading this, that can only mean my domain, The Endspyre, has crossed over into your realm. Do not worry! The Endspyre brings only knowledge with it. It is the greatest library in Val’hoon, containing every book that ever has been and ever will be written.

This story has been transcribed by one of my loyal Hagiographers into your native language. You may wonder why I have dictated this story rather than my brother, Saint Anvar, the patron saint of storytellers. This is no story made up in the mind of an author. No, the events of this story are told in their truest form (at least, true to those the tale is about) in order to document their effects on the world of Val’hoon. Within these pages and those of other tales dictating the many voices of Val’hoon, you will find heroes of all shapes and sizes. Some will have grand adventures while others will have smaller journeys, but all of them have shaped the Maelstrom in their own way.

I will occasionally chime in with what my scribe tells me your world calls ‘footnotes’ to clarify terminology or provide further context where it may be needed. You are by no means obligated to reference these footnotes, but it is my duty to make that knowledge available to you. You may also find excerpts from other books of Val’hoon tucked within the pages of this one as the archivists see fit to include them and a glossary at the back of the book.

I thank you for taking the time to immerse yourself in the world of Val’hoon and listen to the stories of the kith I watch over.

May the Maelstrom guide you.

Saint Bertwyn

A note from the Hagiographer: Please read with care and protect your peace if these topics may negatively impact your reading experience. Songs of Broken Bells contains depictions of self-harm, suicidal ideation, body horror, on-page panic attacks, brief descriptions of torture, implied torture of a child, physical harm to an animal (in self-defense), burn wounds, loss of an eye, and character death.

Prologue

Soft light from the morning sun trickled through warped windows, leaving scattered rainbows dancing across the dusty cobblestones of the tavern. A young girl with skin the color of rust danced between the fractals of light, causing dust to kick up around her; the small particles caught fire against her black fingertips. An older woman with a sandy face and patches of bark scattered across her skin scooped the girl up and spun her around. She giggled with glee as the woman set her down and gave an exaggerated bow.

Run and wash up, sundrop. Patrons should be arriving soon. I have a new herbalism book waiting on your bed. Síofra tucked a strand of silver hair behind one of the curved black horns that protruded from Líadan’s forehead.

Líadan scampered off and disappeared behind a door with a faded sun matching the one around her grandmother’s neck. Síofra sighed as silence fell over the room; the building seemed to sigh back. The tables sat empty, the cups and plates behind the bar collected dust, and the kegs remained untapped. She looked down to see scorch marks marring the old floors where Líadan had been playing and set to work scrubbing away what she could. When a string of bells at the top of the door rang out an arrival, she looked up hopefully, but her face fell as she recognized the imposing figure of Aengus, the village Elder.

Síofra, it’s time we talked about Líadan, he said gruffly.

A teacup clattered against a polished stone table as Síofra slid it across the surface to the elder. He dabbed at the spilled tea around the floral plate with an embroidered handkerchief.

While I appreciate your patronage, Elder Aengus, I am not quite sure what we would have to discuss. Líadan’s studies are coming along well, and I suspect she will be ready for an apprenticeship in no more than six years, Síofra said.

Aengus nodded at that and took a long sip of the steaming tea. An uncharacteristic softness settled on his face when he saw her strained smile.

I have no doubt she has a bright mind, but you know what she is and what she could be capable of. He paused for a moment before gesturing around to the empty tavern. Have you not wondered why your patronage has declined so heavily in the last year?

Síofra shrugged and busied herself with drying out a glass mug that was already bone dry. Times are hard for everyone now. Few have extra resources to trade for ale or time to spend in a tavern.

Aengus pushed out from the table and strode over to the area where Líadan had been playing earlier. He ran a finger along the ground and held it up to Síofra, showing the thick coating of ash stuck to his skin.

She is well past her tenth year now, and she remains unclaimed by her saint. It is not something you can deny. The villagers are scared, Síofra. They watch her playing in your garden, and all they see is Sahara.

She grimaced at the memory of the last oerent that had called Leefside their home.

She is nothing like Sahara, Síofra said defensively.

How can you be so sure? We don’t know which saint created her or what their intentions were.

But she did know who created Líadan. It was a truth she could not dare to tell anyone, especially not Líadan, and especially not Aengus.

Last week, I was informed she set a tree on fire, Aengus said.

That was an accident and an easy enough one to remedy. She got frightened by a swarm of bees, but now she knows they mean her no harm if she treats them kindly.

Aengus sighed heavily and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. I know how much you care for her, but I worry history is going to repeat itself. You knew from the moment she arrived on your doorstep that this assessment would need to be made should she go unclaimed. There will be no second chances for her. If anyone is harmed by her flame…I will have to call upon the one who took Sahara. Do you remember what that girl told us? An unclaimed oerent is a dangerous oerent.

Síofra’s heart dropped. Let me speak to my cousin in Elysedell. They have one of the best Ohbego in Eilira. Perhaps he can develop a potion to help Líadan mold her magic.

Do what you will—I merely wanted to prepare you for the inevitable. Aengus drained his cup and handed it to Síofra. Thank you for the tea.

The bells above the door rang out once again as Aengus left before plunging the tavern back into silence. Síofra stood in the middle of the room, her unsteady hand causing the delicate cup to rattle against its matching plate.

1

Silence Falls on the Amstelvoort

Fifteen years later

Líadan rocked back on her heels as she waited outside the home Vasil shared with his mother. It was built around a towering lacebark willow—the tree from which Vasil’s father descended—and the cottage blended seamlessly with the brown and beige of the speckled bark. She quirked her head at the mural of birds adorning the door, leaning in closer for a better look. There appeared to be a newcomer amongst the small flock of utaru feasting on plump red berries. Nestled between the three white and pink songbirds was a slightly larger orange bird with a black stripe of feathers like a mask over its eyes. She stumbled backward, narrowly avoiding the opening door smashing into her nose.

Vasil’s head appeared on the other side, piebald bark scrunched between his furrowed brows. What were you doing with your nose pressed up against the door?

Líadan pointed to the new bird. When did Tat’ana add that?

Vasil looked to where she was pointing. Oh! I had not realized she finished it yesterday. Do you recognize it? ¹

She shook her head.

He smiled, crinkling the green moss around his eyes. It is a harlow, a type of tanager from western Eilira. Some kith call them the apothecary bird because they can ferment herbs and fruit in their crop. He gave her a slight nudge.

I-is it supposed to be me?

She said things were feeling empty ever since you moved out and thought adding a new bird would invite your spirit back inside.

Wow. I think your sib’vah has gone soft, she said.

Vasil laughed as he shouldered his bag and adjusted the vine-lined sheath at his hip. Perhaps.

Líadan watched him as he walked a few steps in front of her, his curly brown hair and the tendrils of moss clinging to his long ears bouncing gently with each step. She would never admit it, but being added to the family mural—the ket’enna—meant more to Líadan than any gesture she could have imagined.

Líadan and Vasil traipsed through the twisting mass of moss and tree roots that made up the forest floor. They listened closely for the lively song of rivets, the fish-headed frogs whose viscous slime was essential for the dampening potions Líadan took every morning. Every so often, they would pause at the yip of a distant predator or the alarm call of a bird. New paths would open up between the dense trees as the Amstelvoort led them away from danger. They whispered a thanks to Her each time.

The Amstelvoort was dark, as always, but they had made the journey over a hundred times and knew the path well. They maneuvered effortlessly around the towering odecia trees, letting their hands graze against the bark—tracing the multitude of colors swirling up the length of the trunk—and ducked beneath the low branches of the oaks, willows, and birches that intermingled with the trees of Wodecia. ² Out of the corner of her eye, Líadan spotted a patch of fluffy white blossoms.

Ah, Yara has been running low on feather-wisps. Will you be alright wrangling the rivets if I stop to gather some? she asked.

Vasil nodded and handed her a small cloth pouch. Here. Sib’vah assumed you had yet to eat and had me bring extra.

Warm honey, clove, and cinnamon greeted Líadan as she peeked inside the bag. Her stomach rumbled, and she plucked one of the rice balls from its nest.

It’s like Tat’ana has a sixth sense for what I’m craving, she said between bites. I really should move back in with you two if she misses me so much.

She chooses to cook your favorites because she knows you lack any aptitude with a skillet and would live on nothing but overcooked porridge if left to your own devices. You know, it still baffles me how skilled you are at brewing tonics but can burn even the simplest meal.

Herbalism is different than cooking. There are rules and recipes to follow. Cooking is… Líadan waved her hands. "Amorphous. A bit of this, a bit of that. It makes no sense. What baffles me is how you grew up cooking with your sib’vah but all your potions taste like dirt."

It does not need to taste good so long as it works.

Líadan went to elbow him, but he deftly skirted to the side and flicked her ear as she fell past him. The plush moss damped her fall and crept around a root that would have otherwise connected with her face. Líadan twisted around to stick her tongue out at Vasil.

Vasil held out a hand. Your reflexes remain far inferior to mine, ayewa.

I was just testing you, old man, making sure you haven’t gotten rusty with your footwork.

He chuckled as he hoisted her to her feet. Compared to you, I am but a spring chicken gazing upon the horizon of the thousands of years before me.

Líadan hunched her back and hobbled towards the feather-wisps. You’re right! I can feel my mortal years crushing down upon my shoulders as we speak.

Vasil stifled another laugh. Well, if you fall and require assistance, give a shout. The pond is not too far from here.

Líadan raised her middle finger to him, and he returned the crude gesture with a wave. Vasil unclasped a flute from his belt and pushed deeper into the thicket. A jaunty melody trailed behind him. As the last of his notes faded into the trees, the darkness of the Amstelvoort pressed in on Líadan. She felt as though hundreds of eyes were burning a hole into her back, but she shook off the feeling, knowing well enough that the Amstelvoort was always watching her. Today was no different.

She had called these wooded walls her home for the last fifteen years, but the Amstelvoort had never truly welcomed Líadan. No matter how closely she followed the customs of the selvestra as if they were her own, she could always feel the many eyes of the Amstelvoort watching her wherever she went. That was particularly clear when she was alone. She and the Amstelvoort had come to a cautious understanding over the years, and yet, Her thorns were always just a little too close for comfort, like a blade held against her back in warning. Líadan could not blame Her for the sentiment. While she would never willingly hurt another creature, she knew—and would never be allowed to forget—she was a simmering threat to all around her.

Nevertheless, she had a job to do.

Any secrets for me today, little blooms?

The feather-wisps swayed under her breath, and muffled voices filled the air.

We should get back soon, Torri. I am sure Yara will be wondering why it took me so long to find the thon berries.

Can we not stay a little longer, Korella? I feel as though I never get to see you since I started working in the hagiography.

Oh, alright. How could I deny you when you look at me like that?

Líadan quirked an eyebrow as the voices faded away to the sound of rustling leaves. She hadn’t realized Yara’s newest apprentice was seeing someone—and the star minor canon at that. She made a mental note to remind the young herbalist to keep away from the feather-wisps if she wanted to keep her relationships a proper secret.

Is it alright if I bring some of you back with me? I only need a basket full.

She took the gentle birdsong rising around her as their consent. Her serrated black nails made excellent knives for harvesting the delicate flowers, and she soon lost herself to the rhythm of the work. Dappled sunlight broke through the dense canopy and danced across the feather-whisps petals. Líadan’s skin warmed under the small pinpoints of light. Humming along to Vasil’s distant song, the tension she had felt earlier faded.

Until silence fell over her shoulders.

The hairs on the back of her neck raised, and a pin prick sensation ran down her spine—like the feeling right before lightning strikes.

Líadan scanned her surroundings cautiously. The Amstelvoort was always dark but never silent.

Something was profoundly wrong.

Then she heard it. The faint snap of a twig. The slightest miscalculation in its steady footsteps. The creature gave up all pretenses of sneaking and growled low and deep.

Líadan whipped toward the noise, scattering the petals from her basket. Three rows of jagged teeth curled up into a caricature of a smile within the dense thicket before her. Her heart raced. Why was her heart racing? She had taken her potion that morning. She shouldn’t be feeling…anything.

The creature stepped forward. Beady yellow eyes with a rim of red encircling its irises pulsed in a hypnotic pattern. Matted black fur bristled with anticipation as thick globs of drool splattered onto the ground. It was roughly the size of a wolf, but its limbs were held in a wide stance, keeping its body low to the ground. A grimsnap. Líadan had seen signs of their movement through the Amstelvoort many times before but hadn’t been unfortunate enough to cross one’s path. She and Vasil had always been so careful to avoid their hunting grounds.

But it would be okay. The Amstelvoort would protect her. She would open up a new path to shepherd Líadan away.

The grimsnap took another step forward, its sinewy back legs rippling as it poised itself to jump.

The Amstelvoort would protect her. Wouldn’t it?

Silence, still. No rustling of leaves as trees gave way. No birdsong to guide her to safety.

I need to run.

Her feet stayed rooted to the ground, the grimsnap’s pulsing gaze freezing the muscles in her legs. Her heart continued to pound, and she opened her mouth to shout for Vasil, but the words were strangled in her throat by a presence she had not felt in years.

Hot acid doused her tongue as she felt the flame reach up from the cavern in her chest where it had been banished to for so long now. Something had called out to it, and it was oh so ready to make itself known. The flame was starving, and now it lapped at the heat racing through her veins. Líadan tried to steady her breathing, to push the flame back down and douse the fire spreading to her fingertips, but she couldn’t grab hold of it. All those hours of training failed. She tried to hum the ancient elfsong her maimeó—and later Vasil—would use to calm her down when she was younger, but the tune was lost to her.

The potion wasn’t working.

Why wasn’t it working?

The grimsnap dug its claws into the soft earth and let out a howl of triumph, blissfully unaware it was now the hunted.

The jagged, black whorls carved deep into her arms and up her neck glowed crimson as heat spread through her body. Flames jumped from her fingertips, stretching out and testing their newfound freedom. The feather-wisps hanging in the air caught aflame and were gone in an instant. Only a single blossom managed to float away on a breeze.

A scream bubbled up in her throat—a warning to the grimsnap, a plea for forgiveness, a cry for help—but the flames wrapped tighter around her throat and filled her lungs with acrid air.

A tendril of flame shot out from her hand like a whip and wrapped around the grimsnap’s hind legs as it sprang towards Líadan. It slammed the beast to the ground. More flames raced towards the grimsnap, the wet moss sizzling and popping under the heat. The grimsnap yelped as it scrambled to its feet in an attempt to run, but it was too late. The flames climbed up its body, flesh and skin boiling as the creature cried out.

Discordant birdsong filled the forest, harmonizing with its brother’s agony.

Líadan stood frozen as she watched the inferno ravage the grimsnap until nothing was left but a smoldering pile of bones. Satisfied with their meal, the flames receded, and as they snapped back into her chest, Líadan’s knees gave out. The world spun around her as the reality of what the flame—what she—had done became clear.

She couldn’t stop it. She had tried to stop it, but she couldn’t. Perhaps…perhaps the Elders would understand. It was an accident. She was allowed to have accidents. Right?

Elder Raenus’ words echoed in her mind: You are never to harm another creature in the Amstelvoort. There is no such thing as self-defense here.

She did not have the luxury of being afforded accidents. She knew that.

The surrounding birdsong grew ever louder, filling her ears with the wracked, confused sobs of the Amstelvoort. Then, all at once, silence fell across her shoulders, broken only by shattering glass and a familiar voice.

Saints, Lí. What have you done?

2

Promises Kept, Pacts Broken

Líadan’s heart pounded against her ribcage, the flame happily dancing along to the rhythm as Vasil loomed over her. Sweat glistened against his piebald bark, and his green eyes pierced through her with a foreign steeliness.

She scrambled to her feet, searching for an explanation that was anything other than the truth.

Vasil’s hand shook just above the pommel of his sword. The silver leaves lacing the hilt glinted in what little sunlight could break through the canopy. At his feet lay the cracked remains of a half-filled jar of rivet slime. He prayed his eyes betrayed him, that it had been a trick of the light, but the smell of burnt flesh invaded his nose. He watched her carefully as she stood. Her eyes were her own, soft yellow surrounding a slit pupil, not the molten amber they became when the flame took hold. The coils around her arm were a quiet black. He exhaled and relaxed his hand, letting it rest atop the pommel. She was his Líadan, for now.

Líadan’s eyes widened as she watched Vasil reach for the sword. The flame clawed its way back up her throat. It was no longer starving, but its appetite was far from sated. She tried to scream. The flame choked it out, wrapping around her throat and squeezing.

The air between them grew hot and stagnant. Vasil backed away from Líadan, stumbling over a root. A branch swooped down, halting his fall.

Lí, Vasil whimpered. Come back to me, please.

His words were muffled by the roar of fire in Líadan’s ears. Her vision blurred. Every inch of her body shook as she tried to resist each step toward her only friend, but her limbs were no longer her own, and the flame propelled her forward.

Líadan, please! Vasil shouted. "I know you are in there. Please, listen to my voice. We can stop this, but I need you to control it."

His plea sounded incredibly distant, muffled by the inferno pulsing through her veins. She tried to grasp hold of it, but the words slipped through her fingers and burned away. Her hands drifted up from her sides, palms held out towards Vasil. Heat pooled in her fingers, and the flames wrapped around her throat surged forward.

Vasil squeezed his hand around the hilt of his blade and whispered an apology he knew she would not hear. The shink of the sword exiting its hilt echoed throughout the glade. In one swift motion, Vasil cut through the flames racing toward him and pressed the tip of the blade to Líadan’s chest.

She doubled over as the flames slammed back into her, retreating like a frightened child. Her breath caught in her throat as she registered the cold tip of chrome biting into her skin. The runes around Vasil’s wrists and upon the blade bathed him in a soft light. Tears ran down the deep furrows on his cheeks.

Líadan did not dare to move as she watched Vasil carefully sheath the sword. He slicked his palms across his green caftan before holding a hand out to her. She took it hesitantly, and he pulled her towards him with surprising force, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug.

I-I’m so sorry, Vas…

She realized he was shaking, and she held him tighter. How could it be that the stoic, towering selvestra, who had always protected her, felt so small?

Vasil pulled away, though he kept a tight hold on her shoulders. He searched her eyes for any sign of the flame and pressed his forehead against hers when he found none.

I am sorry. I never wanted to draw that cursed sword from its sheath, he said shakily.

He wiped the tears from his cheeks and pivoted away before Líadan could respond. He took a moment to salvage what he could of the rivet slime, keenly aware of her eyes on his back.

Líadan’s heart skipped a beat when he turned around, but he looked past her, not at her. She followed his gaze to the charred remains of the grimsnap. The flame in her belly flickered with glee, and she fought the urge to vomit.

Vasil sank to his knees in front of the creature and placed a hand over its skull. He shuddered at the emptiness. The grimsnap would not be able to return to the Amstelvoort’s roots.

Cra’ewea, Amstelvoort, nok krekae, he spoke in the ancient tongue of the trees.

Líadan recognized the cadence but could only infer what his words were. An apology? Or maybe a prayer. Perhaps both.

She knelt beside him and moved her hand over Vasil’s, but he pushed it away gently.

It is best if you do not touch him, he said.

She did not argue.

He began to place leaves, twigs, and mats of moss over the grimsnap, each placement deliberate. With each piece of the Amstelvoort added to the blanket covering Her fallen child, he breathed another phrase in that bygone language.

Líadan’s hands trembled as she watched. She could run. But she knew nothing good would come from fleeing this situation.

You need to take me before the Elders, she whispered, barely able to speak the words into existence.

"We—Vasil squeezed her hands—are going to fix this."

Vas, they’ll find out. You…you broke your pact. They’ll forgive you if you take me to them, but if we try to hide this…

He shook his head. I have failed the council, but I will not fail you. Please, trust me, Lí.

And she did trust him; she always trusted him.

The journey back to Elysedell was solemn.

When they reached the river crossing, they were careful to choose stable stepping stones, both knowing how dangerous the river could be after the late spring rains. Líadan remembered the day Vasil had foolishly stepped on a wet stone and was swept down the river before she could pull him out. She had compared him to a soaked grimshee rat—the mastiff-sized, curly-coated rodents raised for their fur—with the way his thick curls had been weighed down over his eyes. That memory felt so distant to her as she stole a glance at her friend, his usually calm demeanor shrouded in a dark cloud.

Vasil recounted the recipe for the dampening potions, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong: one vial of rivet slime mixed with spring water, dried oak leaves added once the mixture reached a boil, an ounce of cape moss… If his memory served him correctly, he had followed the recipe exactly, but it must have been his fault. It needed to be his fault.

Despite Líadan’s best efforts to forget, the image of the grimsnap wrapped in flames played out over and over each time she blinked. Small sparks escaped from her fingers as she tried to shake away the memory. She knew she had taken her dampening potion that morning. So why hadn’t it worked?

She could feel the flame roiling just below the surface, and a tightness still gripped her chest, making each breath a labor. She focused on the tightness, if only to pull her attention away from the fire throwing a tantrum in her belly.

At the end of their two-hour journey, the trees gave way to the sprawling glade of Elysedell. The city was awake and bustling in the late afternoon sun. Saplings chased each other over and under the arching roots of the ancient trees that created the pathways of the city. Tendrils of smoke crawled their way out of the angular buildings, filling the city with aromas of cooking vegetables, acidic potions, and herbal salves.

Vasil looked around nervously, but his shoulders relaxed when he saw an orderly line of green-cloaked selvestra—the newest Hagi ¹ of Yssgradil—making their way towards the ancient willow at the heart of Elysedell. The Elders would be busy with their initiation rites.

He gripped Líadan’s shoulder. "Go home and wait for me. Do not stop to speak to anyone