The cobblestones beneath my boots tell stories with every crack—tales of what we once were, what we've lost. They used to shimmer with the faintest touch of aurora light, pulsing in time with the village's heartbeat. Now they're just broken teeth in a dead mouth, catching the crimson light of a sun that seems ashamed to shine on what remains of Harmonious.

  I stride through these desolate streets, each footfall echoing obscenely in the quiet. The sound feels like sacrilege, like laughter at a funeral. The luminescent patterns etched into the stone still glow, but faintly now—dying fireflies trapped in fractured amber. With each step, my shadow stretches long and thin across the ruins, a dark needle stitching together fragments of what once was.

  The blood-red dusk paints everything in shades of rust and wine, as if the sky itself is bleeding out above me. Buildings that once stood proud now kneel in various states of surrender—some merely wounded with scorched walls and shattered windows, others collapsed entirely into piles of stone and splintered wood. The wind whispers through empty doorways, playing hollow notes on the broken edges of what used to be homes.

  There, amid the rubble of the central plaza—where musicians once played nightly and children danced in rings around the grand statue of the nameless Rhythm Knight—I spot it. The Songblade.

  My breath catches. My steps slow, then stop altogether.

  The weapon lies broken across a fallen chunk of the Knight's statue, its metal gleaming dully in the fading light. Once a magnificent instrument of both music and battle, now just jagged shards of silver-blue metal. I stoop beside it, my knees pressing into grit and dust, and I can't help but wonder how many times I've knelt like this before—at bedsides, at gravesites, at the feet of those I've failed.

  I don't want to touch it. But I must.

  My fingers hover above the largest fragment. The blade is split diagonally, leaving a wicked point that still looks sharp enough to draw blood. The hilt, once adorned with intricate carvings that would glow with each note played, now bears scorch marks that have eaten away at its craftsmanship.

  "You weren't supposed to break," I whisper to it. "None of this was supposed to break."

  A memory rises unbidden—the Midsummer Festival three years ago, when the village square overflowed with laughter and song. Garlands of luminescent flowers draped every doorway, their soft blue-green light mingling with golden lanterns that swayed in the evening breeze. I remember standing guard at the edge of the celebration, watching villagers whirl in complicated dance patterns that mimicked the ebb and flow of song magic.

  I remember Lyra there, her blue hair catching starlight, her golden eyes finding mine across the crowd. I remember how my heart seemed to beat in time with the drums, how the night air tasted like possibility.

  Now the air tastes like ash and endings.

  I step over what remains of a ceremonial lantern, its glass panels crushed and its metal frame twisted beyond recognition. My boot dislodges a piece of broken mural—a painted fragment showing a hand holding what might have been a flute. I pick it up, run my thumb over its smooth surface, then let it fall back among its countless brethren.

  More memories flash before me: dawn light filtering through the great willow trees by the village fountain, where apprentice Songstresses practiced their first melodies; the smell of fresh bread from the baker who claimed his secret ingredient was humming the right tune while kneading dough; children racing wooden boats enchanted with simple wind-whistles down the streams that once flowed clear and musical through our streets.

  Small moments of ordinary magic that seemed eternal until they weren't.

  The weight of it all—these memories, this devastation—presses down on my shoulders, heavier than any armor I've ever worn. As village guard, I was supposed to protect them. As a Rhythm Knight—even one who discovered her powers too late—I was meant to stand between Harmonious and harm.

  Instead, I stand amid its remains, alive when so many aren't.

  "This is not how it was meant to be," I murmur, my voice fraying at the edges like an old piece of sheet music. The words drift through the ruins, finding no purchase, no response. Just silence where once there was song.

  I finally allow my fingers to touch the cold, splintered metal of the Songblade. A sharp sting shoots through my fingertip—the edge still hungry for blood, even in defeat. I don't flinch away. The pain feels right somehow, a small penance for my failures.

  The blade feels heavier than it should, weighted with promises unkept and potential unfulfilled. When I first discovered it hidden in that ancient chest beneath the village elder's home, it sang to me—literally sang, with a voice like distant bells and summer thunder. It recognized something in me that I hadn't yet recognized in myself.

  Now it's just metal. Cold. Silent. Broken.

  Like Harmonious itself.

  As I cradle the fragment in my hands, I can almost hear the echo of its former voice, can almost feel the tingle of magic that once pulsed through it with each note I played on my lute alongside it. But these are just phantom sensations, like a severed limb that still itches.

  What haunts me most aren't the grand battles we lost, but the small moments that preceded them—the warnings ignored, the signs misinterpreted. The day the birds stopped singing in the forest beyond the village. The week when the streams began to run discordant, their usual melodic bubbling replaced by arrhythmic splashes. The night when Lyra came to me, golden eyes wide with fear, speaking of discordant notes she'd heard on the wind—and how I'd kissed her fears away rather than heeding them.

  I remember assuming we had time. We always think we have more time.

  The red light of dusk deepens to purple as night approaches. Soon the ruins will be cloaked in darkness, lit only by whatever moonlight manages to pierce the perpetual haze that has hung over Aurora's Crest since the attack. I should find shelter. I should make a fire. I should do something practical, something survivable.

  Instead, I remain kneeling, the broken Songblade cradled in my hands like a dead child, my regret a tangible thing that sits on my chest and makes it hard to breathe.

  "I'm sorry," I whisper, though I'm not sure who I'm apologizing to—the blade, the village, Lyra, myself. All of them, perhaps. None of them can hear me anyway.

  The silence that follows my words is absolute, as if the world itself has forgotten how to respond to human voice. This void of sound is what breaks me, finally. In a village built on music and harmony, this absence is the true measure of our loss.

  I press my forehead against the cool metal of the blade and close my eyes. Behind my eyelids, I see Harmonious as it was—vibrant, alive, singing. I see Lyra smiling at me beneath the great willow tree, frost gathering in delicate patterns at her feet as she played her flute. I see myself, younger and foolishly confident, standing at the village gates in my guard uniform, believing that courage alone could protect what we loved.

  Such pretty illusions, all of them. Shattered now, like everything else.

  And yet, something in me refuses to accept this end. Something stubborn and fierce that pulses beneath my grief like a second heartbeat. Maybe it's the Rhythm Knight power still latent in my blood. Maybe it's just the desperation of someone with nothing left to lose.

  Either way, I find myself gripping the broken Songblade tighter, my blood mingling with the dust on its surface. If there's even the slightest chance of undoing this devastation, of saving Harmonious—of saving her—I have to try.

  "This is not how our song ends," I say, my voice stronger now, echoing off the broken stones around me. "I won't let it."

  No response comes from the darkening ruins. No magical transformation, no sudden revelation. Just the first stars appearing in the bruised sky above, watching my solitary figure amid the wreckage of everything I once held dear.

  But as I rise to my feet, the shattered Songblade clutched in my hand, I feel something shift within me—a resolve hardening like molten metal cooling into its final form. Whatever comes next, I'll face it. For Harmonious. For Lyra. For the music that once made this place magical.

  For the chance to hear that music again.

  The silence swallows my words like a hungry beast, leaving nothing behind but the hollow echo of my own breathing. This quiet is wrong—a village built on song should never be this still, even in death. I press my thumb against the sharp edge of the Songblade shard, welcoming the sting as warm blood wells up against cold metal. Pain anchors me to this moment, this reality, when grief threatens to pull me under completely.

  Night settles over the ruins like a mourner's veil, stars piercing through in silent witness to what remains. The emptiness presses against my ears until I can hear my own heartbeat, an irregular rhythm that seems obscene in its persistence. I survived. I'm still here, still making noise inside my chest while Harmonious lies quiet around me.

  Then—so faint I think I've imagined it—a single note threads through the darkness.

  I freeze mid-step, my body recognizing the sound before my mind can process it. A flute note, pure and clear as mountain water. It hangs in the air for three heartbeats, then fades.

  Not any flute. Her flute.

  My heart slams against my ribs. "Lyra?" The name escapes my lips before I can stop it, a betrayal of hope I can't afford.

  Another note follows, slightly longer, with that distinctive quaver at the end that Lyra always adds to her phrases—a musical signature as unique as a fingerprint. No other Songstress plays quite like her, with that blend of classical training and intuitive flourishes that made her performances so captivating.

  I stand motionless, afraid that any movement might scare away this phantom melody. The shattered Songblade fragment trembles in my hand, my grip unsteady with sudden, treacherous hope.

  The third note comes, then a fourth, fifth—forming the beginning of a tune I know well. The melody Lyra composed for me on the day I first demonstrated my Rhythm Knight abilities, when I managed to deflect a falling tree branch from crushing a child with nothing but a shouted chord and an outstretched hand. She called it "The Guardian's Awakening."

  The sound grows steadily clearer, though I can't pinpoint its direction. It seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, echoing off the abandoned stone walls, filtering through cracks in fallen buildings, seeping up from the broken ground itself.

  "Lyra?" I call again, louder this time. My voice sounds ragged against the purity of her notes. "Where are you?"

  No verbal response comes, but the melody continues, wrapping around my question like vines around stone. The tune shifts into a minor key, carrying a somber quality that matches our devastated surroundings.

  I turn in a slow circle, searching the deepening shadows for any sign of movement, any flash of blue hair or golden eyes. The music is a tangible presence now, stirring the stagnant air around me.

  Dust motes rise from the rubble, catching what little light remains and transforming into tiny, drifting constellations. They swirl in patterns that seem deliberate rather than random, coalescing into shapes that almost resemble musical notes before dispersing again. The shimmer surrounds my fingertips as I reach out, an instinctive gesture toward something beautiful in the midst of so much ugliness.

  One mote lands on my skin, cool as a snowflake, then dissolves into a brief glow that travels up my arm like a visible shiver. My breath catches. This is song magic—subtle but unmistakable.

  "Lyra, if you're alive—" My voice breaks. I swallow hard and try again. "If you can hear me, please. Show yourself."

  The melody pauses, as if considering my plea. Then it resumes with greater intensity, intricate runs and trills that shouldn't be possible on a simple flute. But Lyra's instrument was never ordinary, crafted as it was by her ancestors to channel the ice magic in her blood.

  Hope and fear war within me. Hope that Lyra somehow survived the destruction that claimed so many others. Fear that this is some cruel trick, a trap set by the Silent Circle to lure out any survivors. Or worse—that grief has finally broken my mind, conjuring phantoms of what I most long to recover.

  Yet the dust continues to dance, the air continues to vibrate with notes too complex to be mere hallucination. And the broken Songblade in my hand has begun to warm slightly, its jagged edges softening under my touch.

  I look down and nearly drop the metal fragment in shock. Where my blood met the blade, a faint blue luminescence has begun to spread, tracing the pattern of runes that once covered its entire surface. Not bright, not complete, but undeniably alive.

  "How..." I whisper, watching the glow pulse in time with Lyra's melody. The Songblade was silent and cold just moments ago, nothing more than a remnant of failed protection. Now it responds to music as it once did, if only feebly.

  The melody shifts again, repeating a specific phrase that sounds like a question. I recognize the musical pattern—it's one Lyra and I developed during our practices together, a call-and-response sequence. She's waiting for my answer.

  My throat tightens. I haven't sung since the attack. Haven't played a note or hummed a tune. Music felt like an obscenity in the face of so much loss, a luxury I no longer deserved after failing to protect those who trusted me.

  But now, with Lyra's flute weaving its spell through the ruins, something long dormant stirs within me.

  "I don't know if I can," I say aloud, though there's no one visibly present to hear my doubt. The shard trembles in my hand, its glow pulsing like a heartbeat. Encouraging me. Waiting.

  I close my eyes, trying to recall how it felt before everything shattered—the way music would rise naturally from my chest, how melodies would form in my mind unbidden, how the Songblade would amplify my voice and transform it into tangible force.

  Lyra plays the phrase again, slower this time. Patient. The notes hang in the air like an outstretched hand.

  I inhale deeply, tasting dust and decay, but also something else—a freshness beneath the ruin, like spring water running under winter ice. My exhale turns into a tentative hum, so soft it barely disturbs the air around me.

  The note wavers, unstable as a newborn fawn. I haven't used these muscles, this part of myself, in too long. But the Songblade fragment grows warmer in response, its glow intensifying with my cautious sound.

  I try again, matching the first note of Lyra's phrase. My hum is stronger this time, carrying just a hint of the power that once made me a Rhythm Knight. The sound vibrates through my chest, into my fingertips, connecting me to the metal fragment in a circuit of shared energy.

  The dust motes swirl faster around me, their dance becoming more complex as my hum meets Lyra's melody. They gather most densely around the glowing Songblade shard, drawn to its awakening power like moths to flame.

  I open my eyes to find the darkness around me no longer absolute. The luminescent patterns in the cobblestones pulse slightly brighter beneath my feet. The air itself seems to hold a subtle glow, as if my humming has reminded it of its former radiance.

  Emboldened, I continue the response phrase, adding the next few notes in sequence. My voice grows more confident with each sound. The familiar melody acts as a key, unlocking something I thought lost forever—not just music, but purpose.

  The Songblade's glow spreads further along its broken length, illuminating cracks and fractures but also revealing patterns I hadn't noticed before. Were these always part of its design, or are they new formations born from its destruction and rebirth?

  As my hum aligns perfectly with Lyra's flute for the final notes of the response, something extraordinary happens. The shimmering motes between us briefly form a visible path—a ribbon of light connecting my position to a distant point among the ruins, where the music seems strongest.

  The path flickers, unstable but unmistakable. A way forward. A thread of hope in the darkness.

  "Lyra," I whisper between notes, "I'm coming."

  I step toward the shimmering path, the Songblade fragment held before me like a lantern. My humming grows stronger, more purposeful. With each step, the cobblestones beneath my feet seem to remember their former magic, tiny flickers of luminescence marking my passage.

  The ruins around me remain broken, but they no longer feel quite so dead. The music—Lyra's melody and my responding hum—breathes something new into the devastation. Not restoration, not yet, but possibility.

  My free hand reaches out to touch the ribbon of light formed by the dancing motes. It isn't solid, merely a visual suggestion of direction, but I feel a subtle warmth against my fingers, a gentle current like stirred water.

  I follow it, my humming now unconscious and natural. The Songblade fragment grows lighter in my grip, as if shedding the weight of defeat with each passing moment. Its glow casts bizarre shadows among the ruins—twisted shapes that occasionally seem to move when viewed from the corner of my eye.

  Lyra's flute continues its complex dance, sometimes seeming to draw nearer, other times fading slightly as if moving away or around obstacles. The melody itself changes subtly, incorporating elements that feel like directions—ascending runs when I should climb over debris, descending phrases when I should duck beneath a fallen beam.

  I realize we're communicating through pure music, in the way Rhythm Knights and Songstresses were always meant to—the way the ancient duos did, before The Fall diminished our connection to song magic.

  The path leads me deeper into the ruined village, past the remnants of the marketplace where vendors once sold instruments crafted with magical resonances, past the collapsed school where children learned the fundamental harmonies that underpinned our society.

  Each landmark brings fresh pain, fresh memories of what we've lost. But the music doesn't allow me to linger in grief. It pulls me forward, insistent, urgent.

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  As I climb over a particularly large pile of rubble—once the grand archway that marked the entrance to the village square—the flute melody suddenly intensifies. The notes come faster, more complex, with an almost desperate quality.

  I pause atop the rubble, scanning the square below. In the center, where a fountain once played tunes with its falling water, I see a faint blue glow that doesn't come from the Songblade in my hand.

  My breath catches. My humming falters momentarily before I force it to continue.

  The blue light pulses in perfect time with Lyra's melody, growing brighter with each phrase. It's the color of her hair in moonlight, the color of her ice magic when she weaves frost patterns in the air.

  I scramble down the pile, no longer careful, no longer fearful. My voice rises involuntarily from a hum to actual singing, the words of Lyra's composition flowing from my lips as if I'd been singing them daily instead of maintaining stubborn silence.

  "Through shadow and light, the Guardian stands,

  Power awakened at need's command.

  Not sword nor shield but music's might,

  Protects the worthy through darkest night."

  The simple lyrics transform in my mouth, becoming something more than words—each syllable charged with a power I'd forgotten I possessed. The air around me vibrates visibly now, reality itself responding to the merge of my voice with Lyra's distant flute.

  As I approach the blue glow in the center of the square, my song and her melody intertwine completely, neither leading nor following but moving together in perfect synchronicity.

  The boundaries between regret and hope blur and dissolve. In this moment, there is only music and the promise it contains—a promise of connection, of possibility, of magic not entirely lost.

  I step into the circle of blue light, the Songblade fragment held before me like an offering, and feel the world shift around me.

  My humming grows deeper, filling the hollow spaces between broken buildings with vibrations that feel almost solid. Each note pulls something from the air itself—a resonance that hasn't existed in Harmonious since before the attack. The very molecules around me seem to awaken, stretching like sleepers disturbed from a long, unnatural slumber. I feel it first in my fingertips, then spreading up my arms—a tingling awareness that makes the fine hairs on my skin rise in response.

  The desolate landscape pulses with subtle, iridescent energy. Waves of it ripple outward from where I stand, like stones dropped in still water. The broken cobblestones beneath my feet tremble slightly, their dormant luminescence flickering erratically as my voice mingles with Lyra's distant flute.

  "Is this real?" I whisper between notes, not expecting an answer. The question itself becomes part of the melody, transforming into musical energy that feeds the growing phenomenon.

  The air thickens around me, heavy with potential. Dust particles suspended in the night air begin to glow with an inner light—not the warm orange of fireflies but something cooler, bluer, like the heart of a star seen through layers of ice. They swirl in deliberate patterns now, no longer random but orchestrated by the music we create.

  And then I see it—or rather, through it. A patch of air before me becomes suddenly transparent, like a window opening onto another time. Through this shimmering portal, I glimpse the cobblestone plaza as it once was: alive with dancing figures, their movements fluid and joyous beneath strung lanterns. The vision is translucent, ghostly, superimposed over the ruins that remain, yet undeniably present.

  I recognize the celebration—the Solstice Festival from two summers ago. There I am, younger and more carefree, laughing as an elderly villager pulls me into the dance despite my guard uniform. And there, on the edges of the circle, stands Lyra, her blue hair gathered in elaborate braids woven with tiny crystals that caught the light as she played her flute to guide the dancers.

  My breath catches. My humming falters for an instant before I force it to continue, stronger now, desperate to hold onto this vision.

  The shattered metal in my hand responds to my determination. Its edges soften visibly, the sharp points rounding as if the fragment is melting—yet it remains solid in my grasp. The blue glow intensifies, spreading to encompass my entire hand. Warmth flows up my arm, not burning but invigorating, like slipping into a hot spring after a long winter's journey.

  Another patch of memory materializes to my left—the market square on a busy morning, stalls overflowing with produce and crafts. I see weavers displaying fabrics dyed in colors so vibrant they seem to hum with their own inner music. Instrument makers carefully tuning their creations, each testing producing visible ripples of color in the air around them. Children racing between the stalls, their laughter creating tiny puffs of golden light that linger briefly before dissolving.

  The vision is so vivid I can almost smell the fresh bread from the bakery, almost feel the press of bodies as villagers haggle good-naturedly over prices.

  "I remember," I breathe, the words becoming notes, the notes becoming power. "I remember all of it."

  As if in response to this declaration, musical notes begin to materialize around me—not mere light patterns but actual glyphs that hang in the air, shimmering with inner fire. Each is unique, a physical manifestation of the specific tones created by the blend of my voice and Lyra's flute. They spin around me like restless spirits, occasionally brushing against broken stones or shattered wood, leaving momentary traces of their passage in renewed luminescence.

  The notes multiply with each measure I sing, with each answering phrase from the distant flute. They begin to organize themselves, forming familiar patterns—harmony structures and rhythm sequences I recognize from my training as a Rhythm Knight. Knowledge I thought lost returns in a flood, musical theory and magical application fusing together in my mind with renewed clarity.

  An echo of laughter rises from somewhere nearby—not a current sound but a memory given momentary substance by the growing magic. It's followed by snippets of conversation, fragments of songs, the general murmur of a village going about its daily life. These auditory ghosts fade in and out, sometimes clear enough to distinguish individual voices, other times merging into a generalized hum of human activity.

  I hear my own voice among them, calling out a greeting to the baker as I passed on morning patrol. I hear Lyra's gentle laugh following a joke I'd told her beneath the willow tree by the stream. I hear the village children singing the traditional welcoming song as travelers arrived at our gates.

  Each sound strengthens the magic, feeds the transformation occurring around me. The Songblade fragment is now fully aglow, its broken edge realigning itself, not mending completely but achieving a more harmonious form—jagged but purposeful rather than shattered.

  "This is what we were," I sing, the words flowing naturally into the melody. "This is what we can be again."

  The musical glyphs respond to this declaration, their movements becoming more deliberate. They begin to swarm toward areas of greatest destruction, congregating around collapsed buildings and scorched earth. Where they touch, reality seems to waver, like heat rising from summer stones. The ruins don't rebuild themselves, but they... soften somehow, their brokenness less absolute, more malleable.

  My song grows stronger, more confident. I'm no longer following Lyra's lead but truly joining her, our musical lines interweaving in the complex patterns that once defined the relationship between Rhythm Knight and Songstress. The ancient duet form returns to me instinctively, my body remembering what my mind had forgotten in grief.

  With this shift, the magic intensifies dramatically. The spectral images multiply, overlapping like pages in a book riffled by an impatient reader. I see Harmonious in spring, in winter, in times of celebration and quiet routine. I see it whole and vibrant, a place where music and life were inseparable.

  The ground beneath my feet begins to respond more dramatically. The broken cobblestones vibrate with increasing energy, their embedded luminescent patterns brightening until they nearly match their former glory. Cracks in their surfaces visibly narrow, not healing completely but suggesting the possibility of restoration.

  A particularly powerful note from Lyra's flute—high and pure and held impossibly long—sends a visible wave of blue-white energy sweeping across the ruins. Where it passes, plants that had withered in the aftermath of destruction stir feebly, dead leaves regaining a hint of their former color, dried stems straightening slightly toward the night sky.

  My own voice rises to meet this challenge, adding a counterpoint that weaves around her sustained note, supporting and enhancing it. The combined sound creates a momentary dome of light above the village square, a protective hemisphere that pulses in time with our music.

  Inside this dome, the air feels different—cleaner, charged with potential. The magical glyphs move faster, more purposefully, their light bleeding into the physical world and temporarily altering it. A fallen column briefly rights itself before settling back at a less precarious angle. Shattered glass in nearby windows reforms into intricate fractal patterns rather than jagged shards.

  The ruins bend and ripple as if reality itself has become fluid, responsive to the ancient magic we're channeling. Not a complete restoration—the damage is too extensive, the magic still too new and unstable—but a suggestion of what might be possible. A glimpse of hope amid devastation.

  I spin slowly in place, watching the transformations ripple outward from where I stand. Each turn brings new visions, new memories, new possibilities. The Songblade fragment in my hand now feels like a living thing, its weight shifting and adjusting as if seeking its optimal form.

  A particular strong confluence of our melodies sends a spiral of notes shooting upward, where they burst like fireworks against the night sky. The resulting shower of musical light falls gently over the ruins, each glowing mote that touches my skin imparting a brief, vivid memory:

  Lyra showing me how to properly hold a lute for the first time, her fingers cool against mine as she positioned them on the strings.

  The moment I first manifested Rhythm Knight abilities, the shock and wonder on the faces of villagers as a simple chord from my lips created a visible shield of energy.

  The elder explaining the ancient partnership between Songstress and Knight, how our magics were meant to complement each other, his withered hands sketching patterns in the air that matched the harmony structures we now create.

  The night Lyra and I practiced by the lake, discovering that her ice magic and my protective enchantments could combine to create sculptures of frozen music that would sing with the morning sun.

  These memories aren't just images but full sensory experiences—I feel the texture of the lute strings, smell the pine scent of the forest surrounding the lake, taste the sweet berry wine we drank during festival nights. Each recollection makes me more substantial, more present, as if I've been partly ghost myself until this moment.

  The magic reaches a crescendo as Lyra's flute begins a familiar closing sequence—the traditional cadence that signifies completion in Song Magic practice. I match it instinctively, my voice finding the perfect complementary phrases without conscious thought.

  As our final notes merge and hold, the spectral visions around me freeze in place, no longer flowing between past and present but suspended in a perfect moment of potential. The musical glyphs cease their movement, hanging in the air like stars brought close enough to touch.

  For several heartbeats, everything remains in this state of suspended animation—the ruins neither fully broken nor restored, the memories neither past nor present, the magic neither fading nor advancing.

  Then, with a sound like crystal chimes struck by a sudden wind, everything shatters.

  The visions dissolve into cascades of musical notes that rain down around me, each striking the ground with a tiny ping that sends ripples of light spreading outward. The glyphs unravel into threads of luminescence that shoot upward to join the stars. The temporary dome of protective energy contracts rapidly, condensing into a sphere of pure white light that hovers before me at eye level.

  The sphere pulses once, twice—each time growing smaller but more intensely bright—until it's no bigger than a plum but shining like a miniature sun. It drifts toward me with deliberate slowness, stopping just inches from my face.

  Within its radiance, I glimpse something impossible—a reflection not of who I am but of who I might become. A version of myself clad in the full regalia of a Rhythm Knight, the complete and restored Songblade held confidently in hand, standing not amid ruins but in Harmonious at the height of its glory.

  The sphere makes a sound—not music but words, spoken in a voice that blends Lyra's gentle tones with something older, something that resonates with the fundamental frequencies of the world itself:

  "The past is not immutable. The present is not inevitable. Change the beginning to transform the end."

  Before I can respond, the sphere shoots toward me with sudden speed, striking my chest directly over my heart. There's no impact, no pain—just a sensation of warmth that spreads outward from the point of contact until my entire body feels suffused with light.

  A searing brightness engulfs my vision, obliterating the ruins, the night, my own body. I'm falling through layers of sound and memory, tumbling through a whirlwind of fragmenting reality.

  The last thing I hear before consciousness fractures completely is Lyra's flute, playing a melody I've never heard before—a song of beginning rather than ending.

  The world reassembles itself around me like shattered glass reversing its break—fragments rushing together with dizzying speed, colors bleeding back into shapes, sounds solidifying from abstract noise into recognizable patterns. I gasp for air, my lungs burning as if I've been underwater too long, and collapse to my knees on cobblestones that aren't broken. Aren't dusty. Aren't dead. The stones beneath my palms pulse with steady, healthy light—aurora patterns flowing through the entire network of pathways like blood through veins.

  The sensory assault is overwhelming. After the muted grays and browns of the ruins, the colors around me scream with intensity—the deep blues of night-blooming flowers climbing nearby walls, the warm amber glow of lanterns hanging from wrought-iron posts, the soft green luminescence of moss growing between the cobblestones. Everything vibrates with life, with presence.

  Scents flood my nose—fresh bread from the night baker's shop around the corner, the delicate perfume of moonflowers opening their petals to the evening air, woodsmoke from hearth fires, the underlying mineral tang of the aurora stones themselves. Smells I had forgotten existed, now so sharp they make my eyes water.

  And the sounds—gods, the sounds. Where silence had reigned in the ruins, here the night pulses with a symphony of life. Distant laughter from the tavern at the village edge. Someone practicing scales on a stringed instrument behind a partially open window. The gentle splash of the central fountain, its waters playing their eternal melody as they fall from tier to tier. Crickets in the community gardens. Wind chimes hanging from doorways, each tuned to harmonize with its neighbors when the breeze stirs them.

  Harmonious. Alive. Whole.

  My vision swims. I squeeze my eyes shut, certain I'm hallucinating—that grief has finally broken my mind completely. But the cobblestones remain solid beneath my knees, the sounds continue their complex orchestration around me, and when I open my eyes again, nothing has changed.

  No, that's not quite right. Everything has changed. Everything has...unbroken.

  "What—" My voice emerges as a croak. I clear my throat and try again. "What happened?"

  No one answers, of course. I'm alone in the small courtyard near the village center—one of the quieter spots where residents sometimes come to practice their instruments without disturbing others. A place that, in the future I remember, was nothing but a crater filled with rubble.

  I rise slowly to my feet, noting with confusion that my body feels different—lighter, less burdened by the weight of survival and grief. My hands, when I look down at them, are smoother, the scars from fighting among the ruins noticeably absent. The calluses from sword work remain, but they're the clean calluses of practice, not the ragged ones of desperate combat.

  "This can't be real," I whisper, but even as I say it, I know it is. The magic Lyra and I created with our music didn't just show me visions of the past—it somehow thrust me back into it.

  A reflection in the small ornamental pond nearby catches my eye. I approach it cautiously, already suspecting what I'll see but needing confirmation.

  The face that looks back at me is younger—not dramatically so, but noticeably. The tension lines around my eyes have softened. The small scar along my jawline from a falling beam during the attack is gone. My red hair falls in waves around my shoulders, cleaner and more vibrant than it's been in months.

  I look exactly as I did before the Silent Circle attacked Harmonious. Before everything fell apart.

  "How far back?" I murmur to my reflection, which offers no answers beyond its perplexing existence.

  A nearby bell tower chimes the hour—nine bells, marking early evening. That, combined with the specific flowers blooming along the pathway, places this firmly in late spring. If I'm right about the year, then the attack is still months away. Months to prepare, to change things, to save everyone.

  To save Lyra.

  The thought of her sends a jolt through me. Is she here now, in this time? Does she remember what I remember, or is she simply living her life as she did before, unaware of the future we witnessed together?

  I need to find out, but first, I need to understand what's happened to me beyond the obvious. I raise my hands before me, studying them more carefully. There's something different that goes beyond the absence of future scars. My skin seems to shimmer faintly in the lantern light, as if infused with some subtle luminescence of its own.

  On an impulse, I hum a few notes—a simple sequence used to test acoustic properties in enclosed spaces. The sound emerges from my throat with unexpected richness, each note perfectly pitched and carrying a weight of resonance I never possessed before... at least, not at this point in my development as a Rhythm Knight.

  The air around my fingertips responds instantly, shimmering with visible energy that forms tiny, glowing musical glyphs. They hover like attentive insects, awaiting further direction.

  My breath catches. This isn't right. At this point in time, my abilities were rudimentary at best—I could barely generate a protective shield with concentrated effort, let alone manifest visible glyphs with casual humming.

  Yet here they are, responding to me as effortlessly as breathing.

  With growing excitement, I extend my hand toward a small stone sitting by the pond's edge. I sing a lifting note, one that carries the command for levitation in its harmonic structure.

  The stone rises immediately, hovering six inches above the ground and turning slowly in place. In my previous life—my first attempt at this timeline—such a feat would have been impossible for me until months of intensive training. Now it feels natural, almost trivial.

  "I've brought it all back with me," I whisper, wonderment replacing confusion. "Everything I learned, everything I became."

  To test this theory, I sing a more complex sequence—one I didn't learn until after the attack, when desperate circumstances demanded rapid mastery. It's a battle melody, designed to enhance reflexes and perception.

  The effect is immediate and dramatic. The world around me seems to slow slightly, details sharpening to painful clarity. I can see individual dust motes floating in the lantern light, can hear the distinct notes in what before was merely the ambient sound of distant conversation.

  I end the melody quickly, not wanting to draw attention. As the effect fades, laughter bubbles up from my chest—not hysteria but genuine joy. Whatever force sent me back has given me an incalculable advantage. I have the knowledge of what's coming combined with abilities that far exceed what anyone would expect from me at this stage.

  Drawn again to my reflection, I kneel by the pond for a closer look. Yes, there's definitely something different about my appearance beyond just looking younger. I roll up my sleeves and gasp softly.

  Faint runes trace patterns along my forearms—glowing characters that follow the paths of my veins. They weren't there in my first life, not until much later, after I'd undergone the formal Awakening Ceremony that fully activated my Rhythm Knight powers. Yet here they are, inscribed on my skin like luminous tattoos, pulsing gently with my heartbeat.

  I touch one with a fingertip and feel a warm resonance, as if the rune recognizes my attention and responds to it. These marks are the physical manifestation of advanced Song Magic integration—proof that I've brought back not just memories but actual power.

  Rising to my feet, I decide to explore further, to confirm exactly when I've landed and what state the village is in. I need information before I can form a plan.

  The central plaza opens before me as I leave the courtyard, its circular expanse alive with evening activity. Villagers stroll along its perimeter, some chatting in small groups, others hurrying on late errands. The great statue of the nameless Rhythm Knight stands proud in the center, untouched by the destruction that will—or would—leave it in fragments.

  I freeze at the sight of familiar faces. There's Torvald the baker, kneading dough in the open front of his shop, flour dusting his beard as he hums his signature baking tune. In my timeline, he died trying to protect a group of children when the Silent Circle broke through our western defenses.

  And there's Mina, the elderly weaver whose intricate patterns were said to capture melodies in fabric. She sits on a bench near the fountain, her gnarled fingers still nimble as they work a small loom. She had refused to leave her workshop when the evacuation order came, saying she was too old to run and would rather die among her creations. Her wish had been granted.

  Tears sting my eyes. I blink them back fiercely. These people aren't ghosts—they're alive, and if I succeed, they'll stay that way.

  I continue around the plaza, nodding greetings to those who recognize me but avoiding lengthy conversations. I'm not yet ready to test how well I can play the role of my younger self. First, I need to establish exactly where—or rather when—I am.

  The community noticeboard near the village hall provides the answer. Posted announcements show dates, and one in particular catches my eye: an invitation to the Summer Solstice Festival, scheduled for three weeks from now. If my recollection is correct, that places me approximately two months before the Silent Circle's attack.

  Two months to prepare for a catastrophe only I know is coming.

  The realization sends a shiver down my spine. The weight of this responsibility should feel crushing, yet somehow it doesn't. Instead, I feel a strange calm, a certainty that this is exactly where I'm meant to be. The universe, or magic, or some combination of both has given me this chance, and I won't waste it.

  The weight of knowledge sits heavy in my mind as I make my way through the living, breathing village—a delicate treasure I must somehow protect. Each face I pass is both beloved and haunting. Each building stands as both shelter and future ruin.

  My steps lead me unconsciously toward the elder's dwelling at the village edge. If anyone might understand what's happened to me, it would be Eldrin Moonshadow with his centuries of accumulated wisdom.

  As I approach his cottage, nestled beneath the sweeping branches of an ancient willow tree, a sharp pain lances through my temple. I stumble, catching myself against the rough bark of the willow. The pain intensifies, spreading like lightning through my skull.

  "Too much," a voice whispers—not outside but within my mind. It sounds like Lyra, like the elder, like the voice of the Songblade itself, all blended into one impossible harmony. "Too much carried back."

  Another wave of pain drops me to my knees. The runes on my arms flare with brilliant light, so intense I can see their glow through my closed eyelids.

  "What's happening?" I gasp, but I already know. The human mind wasn't meant to contain two timelines, wasn't designed to hold the weight of a future that hasn't happened. My present self is rejecting the memories, the knowledge—treating them like an infection to be purged.

  I crawl toward the elder's door, desperate for help, but each movement becomes more difficult.

  "The memories," I choke out, clawing at the ground as another wave of pain crashes through me. "They're too much."

  I reach for the elder's door, my fingertips barely brushing the weathered wood before my vision fractures into kaleidoscopic shards. Each fragment shows a different moment—Harmonious in flames, Lyra playing her flute among ruins, the Songblade breaking, all jumbled together in a chaotic mosaic that my mind can no longer organize.

  "Please," I whisper, though I'm not sure who I'm begging. "I need to remember. I need to save them."

  The runes on my arms pulse frantically now, their glow so bright that villagers across the plaza turn to look. I curl into myself, trying to hide the light, trying to hold onto the precious knowledge slipping through my mental fingers like water.

  "Aelia Windwhisper," comes a gentle voice above me. Elder Eldrin stands in his doorway, his ancient eyes reflecting the light of my runes. "What have you carried back with you, child?"

  I reach for him desperately. "Help me hold onto it. The future—I've seen it. Harmonious falls. Everyone—" My words dissolve into a cry of agony as another surge of pain blinds me.

  The elder kneels beside me with surprising agility for one so old. His gnarled hands grasp my forearms, fingers tracing the frantic runes. His eyes widen with understanding.

  "Your mind cannot contain two timelines, child. The vessel breaks when overfilled." His voice flows like water over stones, melodic and soothing despite the urgency in his eyes. "What you've brought back is killing you."

  "But I need to remember," I gasp, clutching at his robes. "Harmonious falls. The Silent Circle—they come at harvest. Everyone dies. Lyra—"

  "Shhh," Elder Eldrin places his palm against my forehead. "The knowledge must be preserved, but not as memory. Your mind rejects what cannot exist in this time."

  His fingers begin to glow with pale silver light as he traces symbols in the air above me. "I can transform the burden you carry. Not erase, but transmute. The memories become instinct, the knowledge becomes purpose."

  "No," I protest weakly, even as another wave of pain threatens to split my skull. "If I forget, how will I save them?"

  "You won't forget what matters most." His voice echoes strangely now, as if coming from a great distance. "The details fade, but the essence remains. Your body will remember what your mind cannot hold."

  I feel his magic seep into my temples, cool and soothing against the burning agony. The chaotic memories begin to shift, transforming from vivid images into something more primal—feelings, instincts, muscle memory. The specifics blur, but the importance remains.

  "What you've experienced will become part of you in a different way," Elder Eldrin murmurs, his voice fading in and out as my consciousness wavers. "Your body will remember the skills, your heart will remember the purpose, but your mind must release the burden of knowledge that hasn't yet come to pass."

  "But Lyra—the village—" I struggle against the encroaching fog. "How will I know what to prevent if I can't remember it?"

  "You'll know," he assures me, his fingers tracing complex patterns against my brow. "Not as thought, but as certainty. Not as memory, but as destiny defied."

  The runes on my arms pulse once more, then begin to fade, sinking beneath my skin like settling embers. I can feel the knowledge transforming, shifting from concrete memories into something more abstract—a driving force rather than a detailed map.

  "I'm losing it all," I whisper, tears streaming down my face as faces and names begin to dissolve, replaced by a burning sense of purpose without context.

  "Not losing," Elder Eldrin corrects gently. "Transforming. The burden becomes the foundation."

  His magic wraps around my mind like a cool cloth, soothing the fire that threatened to consume me. I feel the memories of destruction slipping away—not vanishing completely but changing form, becoming something my present mind can bear. The knowledge of what's to come transforms into intuition, into a deep-seated certainty without the traumatic images that accompanied it.

  "Breathe, child," Elder Eldrin murmurs, his voice anchoring me as the transformation continues. "Let the river change course."

  I close my eyes and surrender to the process, feeling the sharp edges of future knowledge soften into something more sustainable. The exact dates blur, the specific faces fade, but the essential truth remains: danger comes, and I must prevent it.

  When I open my eyes again, the pain has subsided to a dull throb. The world around me seems both familiar and strange, as if I'm seeing it through two sets of eyes simultaneously. The runes on my arms have faded to faint silver tracings, visible only when caught by direct light.

  "What happened to me?" I ask, my voice steadier now. I can feel the gap in my mind where detailed memories once resided, but rather than emptiness, there's a peculiar fullness—like a space filled with invisible presence.

  Elder Eldrin helps me to my feet with surprising strength. "You've walked a path few ever tread, Aelia Windwhisper. You've carried the future back into the past."

  "But I can't remember it clearly anymore," I say, frustration edging deeper. "The memories aren't gone," Elder Eldrin says, guiding me through his doorway with gentle pressure. "They've become part of you in a different way. Like music you've played so many times your fingers remember the notes even when your mind cannot recall the sheet music."

  His cottage envelops me in familiar scents—dried herbs hanging from ceiling beams, beeswax candles, ancient parchment. The single room feels larger inside than its exterior suggests, a phenomenon I've never questioned until now. Something about dimensional harmonics tickles at the edge of my transformed awareness, then slips away before I can grasp it.

  "Sit," he commands, gesturing to a cushioned stool near the hearth. "Drink this."

  I hadn't noticed him preparing tea, yet a steaming cup appears in my hands—the liquid inside an impossible blue that shifts and swirls like twilight clouds. I sip cautiously, tasting notes of starflower and something deeper, older, that has no name in any language I know.

  "Your mind was tearing itself apart," Eldrin continues, settling into his own chair with a grace that belies his apparent age. "Attempting to contain two distinct timelines—one lived, one yet to come. Like trying to perform two melodies simultaneously without harmonizing them."

  "But I needed those memories," I protest, though the urgency feels different now—a steady determination rather than frantic desperation. "How can I prevent what's coming if I can't remember?”

  Elder Eldrin sets down his own cup, its contents a deeper shade of midnight than mine. His eyes, ancient as the hills that cradle our village, fix on me with startling clarity.

  "Your power alone will change the timeline, Aelia. The memories themselves are more harm than good." He leans forward, his weathered hand covering mine. "Trust what you've become, not what you remember. All that matters now is your intent."

  "But without the details—" I begin, my voice catching.

  "Details are the enemies of purpose," Eldrin interrupts, his tone gentle but firm. "They distract, they confuse, they paralyze with their multitude. What serves you better: remembering exactly how each building fell, or knowing with absolute certainty that you must strengthen the western wall?"

  I consider this, rolling the warm cup between my palms. The tea inside shifts like living starlight.

  "The burden you carried back was killing you," he continues. "Your mind was fracturing under the weight of a future that hasn't happened yet. But your power—the essence of what you became in that other time—that has transferred completely."

  As if to demonstrate, he gestures to a small river stone on his table. Without conscious thought, my hand extends, and I hum three precise notes. The stone rises, hovers, then begins to orbit my wrist like a moon around a planet.

  "You see?" Eldrin smiles. "Your body remembers…