The door to Eldrin's chamber creaks as I push it open, releasing the scent of aged parchment and melted wax into the corridor. Inside, candles flicker like dying stars, casting long shadows across walls etched with symbols whose meanings are lost to all but the most ancient of sages. The Grand Sage himself hunches over his desk, his silver-threaded robes catching the light as if they've captured fragments of moonlight. My heart quickens—I've come seeking answers about Lyra, but now that I'm here, I'm not certain I want to hear them.

  "Enter, Aelia Windwhisper." Eldrin doesn't look up from the scroll he's examining, his voice a dry whisper like autumn leaves skittering across stone. "Your footsteps have been restless since yesterday's festival."

  I step fully into the room, letting the door swing shut behind me. The chamber feels smaller than it looks, as if the walls of knowledge press inward with their weight. Shelves bow under stacks of leather-bound tomes, and strings of peculiar objects—dried flowers, polished stones, tiny bones—hang from the rafters. The air itself feels thick with secrets.

  "How did you know I was coming?" I ask, though I'm not surprised. Eldrin seems to know everything that happens in Harmonious before it happens.

  He finally looks up, his eyes reflecting the candlelight in a way that makes them seem to hold flames within. "The wind whispers many things to those who listen." A smile creases his weathered face. "And you've been pacing outside my door for nearly ten minutes."

  My cheeks warm. I'm a guard, trained to be decisive, yet here I am, hesitating like a child. I move toward his table, my fingers trailing across the rough-hewn wood edge.

  "Something troubles you," he says. It's not a question.

  I nod, placing my palm flat on an aged parchment covered in musical notations. The ink feels cool beneath my hand, as if the notes might still be singing softly through the centuries.

  "It's about Lyra," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I saw her perform last night, and the way her magic bloomed with every note was unlike anything I've ever witnessed." I pause, remembering the way her fingers had danced across the strings, how the air around her had crystallized into delicate patterns of frost that caught the moonlight. "Her music... it wasn't just beautiful. It changed things. The temperature dropped. Ice formed in patterns that seemed to tell stories."

  Eldrin sets aside his quill and adjusts the draped silver shawl around his shoulders. The fabric catches the light, revealing threads woven into the shapes of stars and moons.

  "And this concerns you?" he asks, though his tone suggests he already knows my answer.

  "It was wondrous," I admit, "but also... frightening. Not because I feared her, but because of how others looked at her. Like she was something to be used. Or hunted." My fingers curl against the parchment. "There was a man watching from the shadows. Dark eyes. A scar near his mouth that twisted when he smiled."

  Eldrin's expression darkens. He rises from his seat with a soft grunt, his joints protesting the movement. "Did he speak to her?"

  "No. He left before the performance ended. But his interest felt... wrong." I swallow hard. "Eldrin, she's not just a traveling musician, is she?"

  The old sage moves slowly to a shelf near his workbench and retrieves a small wooden box. When he opens it, a sweet, herbal scent fills the air. He takes a pinch of dried leaves and drops them into a stone cup, then pours steaming water from a kettle I hadn't noticed by the hearth.

  "Sit," he says, gesturing to a three-legged stool. "Some conversations require tea."

  I perch on the stool, which wobbles precariously beneath me. Eldrin hands me the cup, and the warmth seeps into my palms, a stark contrast to the chill memory of Lyra's performance.

  "There is a legacy in the Holy Capital," he begins, his voice low and measured. "A royal lineage famed for its ice magic now merged with musical enchantments." He returns to his chair, which creaks under his weight. "It began centuries ago, when the capital still floated among the clouds, sustained by Song Magic."

  The tea tastes of mint and something else—something that makes my tongue tingle and my thoughts sharpen.

  "You're saying Lyra comes from this lineage?" I ask, though I already know the answer. It makes sense now—her regal bearing, the way she speaks as if choosing each word with careful deliberation, how she sometimes looks at our village with both wonder and sadness, as if seeing something lost to her.

  "The princess you mention carries that rarity," Eldrin confirms, watching me over steepled fingers. His nails are stained with ink, and tiny scars crisscross his fingertips—the marks of a lifetime spent handling ancient texts. "She fled the Holy Capital three months ago."

  My breath catches. "Fled? Why would a princess leave her home?"

  Eldrin rises again, this time moving to a chest tucked beneath a window. The glass is stained with patterns that echo the symbols on the walls, and when the moonlight passes through, it casts colored shadows across the floor. From the chest, he withdraws a rolled parchment, yellowed with age.

  "The royal family of Aurora's Crest has always been... complicated," he says, unfurling what I now recognize as a map across his table. He weighs down the corners with small crystals that glow with a faint inner light. "The current king is not known for his kindness, nor his queen for her warmth. But they are powerful—magically and politically."

  I lean forward, studying the map. It shows Aurora's Crest in intricate detail—the Holy Capital at its center, with spidery lines representing roads that connect it to smaller villages like Harmonious. Eldrin's gnarled finger traces a path from the capital's heart to our village, lingering on the forests and rivers that separate them.

  "The princess possessed magic beyond what was expected," he continues. "Her mother, the queen, can conjure ice storms that have been known to freeze entire lakes in midsummer. But the princess's gift manifested differently. Her magic responds to music, creating beauty rather than destruction." His finger taps a small illustration of the Royal Palace. "Such a gift was seen as... unsuitable for a future ruler."

  My hands tighten around the warm cup. "They wanted her to be a weapon."

  Eldrin nods, his expression grave. "And she refused."

  I try to imagine Lyra—with her flowing blue hair and those golden eyes that seem to see right through me—standing defiant before a throne. The image comes easily, and with it, a surge of admiration.

  "But why come here? Why Harmonious?" I ask.

  "This village has always been a haven for those with musical gifts," Eldrin explains. "The boundaries between magic and melody are thinner here. And..." he hesitates, "there are other reasons. Prophecies that speak of a convergence of powers."

  A chill runs down my spine, and it has nothing to do with the lingering memory of Lyra's ice magic. "What prophecies?"

  Eldrin's finger moves to a different part of the map, tracing what appears to be a mountain range I don't recognize. "There are darker forces stirring, as foretold by the prophecy of the 'Nightwind.'" His voice drops even lower, as if the words themselves might summon something unwelcome. "It speaks of a time when the magic of music will either save our land or doom it to eternal silence."

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  My throat feels dry despite the tea. "And Lyra—the princess—she's part of this prophecy?"

  "As are you, Aelia Windwhisper." Eldrin's eyes meet mine, and I see a depth of knowing that makes me want to look away. But I don't. "Your name is no coincidence. The wind whispers to you too, though perhaps you've not yet learned to listen."

  My thoughts spin like autumn leaves caught in a gale. Me? Part of a prophecy? I'm just a village guard with a fondness for adventure tales and an unremarkable skill with a spear.

  "I don't understand," I manage to say.

  "Few do, when destiny first calls," Eldrin replies with unexpected gentleness. "But the man you saw watching Lyra—he understands all too well. His name is Thane Darkthorn, and he serves those who would use the princess's powers for their own ends."

  "The royal family?" I ask, setting down my cup with a hand that's not quite steady.

  Eldrin shakes his head. "No. Something older. Something that has waited centuries for the right alignment of powers." He begins rolling up the map with careful movements. "The princess came to Harmonious seeking refuge, but also seeking you, though she may not realize it yet."

  "Me?" I can't keep the disbelief from my voice. "What could I possibly offer a princess?"

  "Protection, for one," Eldrin says simply. "But more importantly, completion. The Nightwind prophecy speaks of two forces—ice and fire, order and chaos, royal blood and common heart—joining to create a harmony powerful enough to awaken the ancient magics."

  I stand abruptly, the stool toppling behind me. "This is madness. I'm not—I can't be what you're suggesting."

  Eldrin remains calm, tucking the map back into its chest. "Have you never wondered why music moves you so deeply? Why your heart seems to beat in time with certain melodies? Why your dreams are filled with songs you've never heard in waking life?"

  I want to deny it, but the words stick in my throat. Because he's right. Music has always been more than sound to me—it's been a presence, a force that flows through my body like a second bloodstream. When Lyra played last night, I felt something awaken inside me, something that hummed in resonance with her magic.

  "What am I supposed to do with this information?" I ask finally.

  "For now, watch over her," Eldrin answers. "Thane Darkthorn will not be easily discouraged. And when the time comes—when the music calls to both of you—follow it." He moves to a small cabinet and extracts a bundle wrapped in faded silk. "Take this."

  I accept the package, feeling something solid and cool beneath the fabric. "What is it?"

  "A flute carved from the heartwood of a tree that grew in the floating city before The Fall. It belonged to another who walked your path, long ago." His expression softens into something like hope. "It may help you find your voice, when words alone will not suffice."

  I tuck the bundle into my belt pouch, feeling its weight against my hip like a promise—or a burden. My mind reels with everything I've learned: Lyra is a runaway princess with rare magic. I'm somehow connected to an ancient prophecy. And there are forces that would use us both for purposes I can barely comprehend.

  "Thank you, Elder," I say, because I don't know what else to say.

  Eldrin nods, turning back to his scrolls. "Remember, Aelia—prophecies are not chains that bind us to predetermined fates. They are maps that show possible paths. The choice of which to follow remains yours."

  As I move toward the door, my thoughts are a tangle of blue hair and golden eyes, of ice magic and musical notes, of prophecies and destinies I never asked for. My hand rests on the wooden door handle, cool against my suddenly warm skin.

  "One more thing," Eldrin calls, without looking up from his work. "When the music and the magic merge, trust what you feel, not what you fear."

  I nod, though he isn't watching, and slip out into the corridor, the flute a constant reminder against my side that nothing about my life in Harmonious will ever be the same again.

  The weight of Eldrin's revelations sits heavy on my shoulders as I rise from the wooden stool. My fingers find the hilt of my spear, a habit born from years of vigilance rather than immediate threat. The conversation replays in my mind—Lyra, a princess in hiding; me, somehow tied to her by an ancient prophecy; dark forces gathering like storm clouds on the horizon. I move toward the narrow door, my steps measured and quiet, when something shifts in the air—a presence, unwelcome and watching, just beyond the threshold.

  My hand tightens instinctively around my weapon. The candlelight in Eldrin's chamber flickers as if responding to my sudden tension, casting long, dancing shadows across the symbol-etched walls. Behind me, parchment rustles as the sage continues his work, seemingly oblivious to the change in atmosphere. But I know better—Eldrin misses nothing.

  I pull the door open slowly, letting my eyes adjust to the dimmer light of the corridor. The stone passageway stretches before me, its walls damp with the perpetual moisture that seeps into all the lower levels of Harmonious. Sconces burn at uneven intervals, their flames guttering in an unseen draft.

  And there, in the shadows between two pools of trembling light, stands a figure.

  He leans against an archway, one shoulder pressed to the ancient stone as if he belongs there, as if he has every right to lurk outside the chamber of our village's most respected elder. His posture is deceptively casual, but I recognize the coiled readiness of a predator—the same stance I adopt when patrolling our borders at dusk, when threats are most likely to emerge from the forest's edge.

  This is no random visitor. The lean silhouette, the measured tilt of his head, the calculating stillness—this is the man from the festival. Thane Darkthorn. The one Eldrin warned me about.

  I step fully into the corridor, letting the door remain open behind me. Better to face a threat than turn my back on it. The bundle Eldrin gave me presses against my hip, a reminder of responsibilities I didn't ask for but cannot escape.

  The dim light reveals more of him now. His clothing is too fine for a common traveler—a deep indigo coat with silver fastenings that catch the light when he breathes, boots polished to a sheen despite the dusty roads of Harmonious. His features are sharp, almost beautiful in their precision, like a blade crafted for both display and deadly purpose. The scar near his mouth is more pronounced than I remembered, a pale line that cuts across his otherwise flawless skin and pulls his lips into a perpetual half-smile.

  But it's his eyes that hold me in place. Dark as pitch, they absorb the meager light rather than reflect it, giving nothing away while seeming to devour everything they observe. They remind me of the bottomless lakes in the mountains beyond our village—waters said to hide ancient, hungry things beneath their placid surfaces.

  Those eyes are fixed on me now, measuring, assessing. His head remains tilted, an ear still angled toward Eldrin's chamber. Listening. He's been listening.

  Behind me, I hear the continued sounds of Eldrin moving about his space—the scratch of quill on parchment, the soft thud of books being returned to shelves, the clink of glass vials being arranged. The Grand Sage's apparent disregard for our unwelcome observer might be genuine ignorance, but I suspect it's a calculation. Whatever Thane might have overheard, Eldrin wants him to believe the conversation was of little consequence.

  But I know better. Lyra's secret, the prophecy, my unexpected connection to both—these are not trivial matters. If Thane works for those who would use the princess's powers, as Eldrin suggested, then every word he overheard is a weapon he can use against her. Against us.

  My fingers slide along the smooth wood of my spear, finding the worn grooves where countless hours of training have left their mark. I could confront him directly, demand to know his business, chase him from our sacred halls with the threat of village justice. But something tells me such an approach would only amuse him, would reveal too much about what I know and how much it matters to me.

  Instead, I straighten my posture, feet shifting automatically into a more balanced stance. Not a fighting position—not yet—but one that would allow me to move quickly if needed. It's the kind of subtle adjustment another warrior would recognize immediately. A message without words.

  I see it register in the minute narrowing of his eyes, the slight tensing of his jaw. He knows I've marked him as a threat. Knows I understand what he is.

  From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of silver—Eldrin's robes as he moves past the doorway, still focused on his scrolls and tomes, or at least appearing to be. The soft sounds of rustling paper continue, unnaturally steady, like a performance for unseen audiences.

  Thane's gaze flicks briefly to the open door, then back to me. The scar near his mouth deepens as his lips curve into something that isn't quite a smile. There's a hunger in that expression, a cold amusement that makes my skin prickle with warning. He knows something—or thinks he does—that gives him an advantage.

  The silence between us stretches, taut as a bowstring. Neither of us speaks. Neither of us moves. We are engaged in a different kind of conversation—one conducted through the set of shoulders, the placement of hands, the unwavering focus of eyes that refuse to blink first.

  I feel a bead of sweat trace its way down my spine, but I hold my ground. Behind me, Eldrin begins to hum softly—an old tune, one my mother used to sing when I was small. The melody feels oddly weighted in the tense air, each note a counterpoint to the silent confrontation unfolding in the corridor.

  Something shifts in Thane's expression—surprise, perhaps, or recognition. The humming seems to disturb him in a way my defensive stance did not. His eyes narrow further, and for a brief moment, I glimpse something behind the predatory calculation—uncertainty.

  I use that moment to move, taking three deliberate steps forward. Not toward him, but parallel to his position, as if I intend to continue down the corridor. It's a tactical choice—moving without retreating, changing the angle of our standoff without breaking it.

  He pushes away from the archway with fluid grace, his movements so controlled they seem almost choreographed. For a heartbeat, I think he might step into my path, force a more direct confrontation. Instead, he inclines his head in a gesture that might be mistaken for respect if not for the cold assessment that remains in his eyes.

  We are now positioned on opposite sides of the corridor, me closer to the main hall, him deeper in the shadows that lead to the lesser-used chambers. Still, neither of us speaks. The only sounds are Eldrin's continued humming and the soft crackle of torches fighting against the damp.

  I tighten my grip on my spear and turn deliberately toward the main hall, presenting my profile rather than my back to him—another message any warrior would understand. I will leave, but I am not retreating. I remain aware. I remain vigilant.

  As I move toward the broader, better-lit passage that will lead me back to the village proper, I feel his eyes following me. The weight of his gaze is tangible, a pressure between my shoulder blades that makes every instinct scream to turn and face him again. But that would give him what he wants—acknowledgment that he affects me, that his presence alone is enough to alter my course.

  So I walk steadily, my footfalls measured and even on the stone floor. The flute in my pouch seems to grow warmer against my hip with each step, as if responding to my unspoken determination. I think of Lyra—of her graceful hands drawing music from strings, of ice crystals dancing in the air around her, of golden eyes that hold secrets I'm only beginning to understand.

  I make a silent vow as I reach the main corridor and feel the pressure of Thane's gaze finally lift. I will protect her. From the royal family that would cage her, from the prophecy that would claim her, from men like Thane Darkthorn who would use her for powers beyond my comprehension. I don't yet understand my own role in this unfolding tale of music and magic, but I know hers is precious. Worth defending.

  The door to Eldrin's chamber creaks softly as it swings closed behind me, the sound like a final note in our wordless exchange. I don't need to look back to know Thane has already slipped away, carrying whatever information he gleaned from our unspoken confrontation and from the conversation he overheard.

  Let him go. Let him report to whoever sent him. Let them think they know what awaits them in our quiet village.

  They don't know me. They don't know what I'm willing to do for those I've sworn to protect. And if the prophecy Eldrin spoke of is true—if I truly am bound to Lyra by forces older than the Holy Capital itself—then they have far more to fear than a simple village guard with a spear.

  As I emerge into the evening air, the first stars appearing in the darkening sky above Harmonious, I feel something new stirring within me. Not just resolve or determination, but something deeper, something that pulses in rhythm with the flute against my hip and the memory of Lyra's enchanting melodies.

  They don't know what's coming. Neither do I, not fully. But I intend to find out, and when I do, I'll be ready.