The village square buzzes with anticipation, a symphony of shuffling feet and murmured conversations that fade when I enter. My guard uniform feels too stiff today, too formal for what I know is coming. I ease through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces but never stopping. My eyes are already fixed on the worn wooden platform where she will appear. Where Lyra Starweaver will transform our ordinary afternoon into something magical with nothing more than a flute and the melodies that dance from her fingertips.

  I wasn't supposed to be here. Captain Merrin had assigned me to the eastern gate, but I'd traded shifts with Tomas, claiming I needed to run errands in the market. The lie had slipped from my mouth with surprising ease. But how could I miss this? For weeks, whispers of the mysterious woman with the ice-touched flute had circulated through Harmonious, and I'd been too busy maintaining order at some noble's feast to witness her first performance.

  The crowd parts reluctantly as I move forward, my red hair drawing sideways glances. The weight of my sword against my hip reminds me of my duty, but today I'm not here as Aelia the guard. I'm here as Lia, the woman who still believes in the old stories, the legends of Rhythm Knights and songs that could reshape reality itself.

  A hush falls over the square, rippling outward like a stone dropped in still water. She appears at the edge of the platform, and my breath catches in my throat.

  Lyra Starweaver's blue hair cascades like frozen waterfalls down her back, catching the afternoon light in ways that seem deliberate, magical. Her golden eyes scan the crowd with a detached curiosity that somehow feels both regal and wild. She wears simple clothes—a white blouse with flowing sleeves and a skirt the color of midnight—but she carries herself with the unmistakable poise of someone far removed from our humble village customs.

  Her flute gleams silver in her graceful hands, intricate patterns etched along its surface catching the light as she raises it to inspect it with practiced eyes. The instrument itself looks ancient, a relic from before The Fall when music and magic were one and the same.

  Around me, the villagers press forward, eyes wide and curious. Children perch on their parents' shoulders, and even the most cynical of the elders have emerged from their homes for this spectacle. I recognize the baker with flour still dusting his apron, the blacksmith with soot-stained hands, the town scribe clutching a leather-bound journal—all of us drawn together by the promise of something extraordinary.

  A woman beside me—the herbalist with hands perpetually stained green—leans in. "They say she studied with the recluses in the northern mountains," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "Where the snow never melts and the air itself can freeze your words if you speak too loudly."

  I nod but say nothing. Rumors have swirled around Lyra since her arrival three weeks ago. Some claim she's a disgraced noble, others that she's a wandering scholar collecting forgotten melodies. The truth, I suspect, is far more interesting than any of these tales.

  Lyra steps to the center of the platform. She stands motionless for a moment, her posture straight as a sword blade, her eyes closed in concentration. The square falls so silent I can hear the distant flutter of laundry hanging from the lines behind the cottages.

  When she raises the flute to her lips, the air itself seems to hold its breath.

  The first note emerges, delicate as frost on a window pane, crystalline and perfect. It hangs in the air, visible—actually visible—as a shimmering mote of blue light that drifts out over our heads. Then comes another note, and another, each one manifesting as a glittering particle that dances and swirls above us.

  My heart begins to pound. This isn't just music. This is magic—true Song Magic, not the simplified chants of the Mana Magic practitioners who pass through our village selling minor enchantments and temporary charms.

  As Lyra plays, her melody gains momentum, her fingers dancing across the flute with impossible speed. The notes multiply, weaving together in the air above us, first dozens, then hundreds of softly glowing points that begin to take shape. They form delicate ice crystals that spiral outward, growing more complex with each measure of her song.

  "Sweet heavens," someone gasps nearby.

  I understand their awe. The history books speak of such displays, of music made manifest, but to witness it—to see sound transformed into matter—is something else entirely. The notes ripple visibly along the cobblestones beneath our feet, sending patterns of frost racing across the surface in perfect synchronization with Lyra's melody.

  A child reaches up, trying to catch one of the floating crystals, but his mother gently pulls his hand back. Not from fear, I note, but from reverence.

  Lyra's eyes remain closed, but a slight smile plays at the corners of her mouth as she continues her performance. With a subtle shift in the melody, the ice crystals begin to merge, forming larger structures—delicate birds with wings outstretched, spiraling flowers that bloom and unfurl in midair, a miniature castle with spires that reach toward the sky.

  The magic rolls over the stone walls surrounding the square, leaving trails of frost in intricate patterns that resemble musical notation—actual notes and measures, I realize, the very song Lyra plays captured in ice.

  I feel a warmth spreading through my chest that contrasts sharply with the cool air around us. It's a familiar sensation, one I've experienced in quiet moments when I practice simple melodies on my lute, but magnified a hundredfold. My fingertips tingle with an energy I don't fully understand, as if my body is responding to Lyra's magic on some fundamental level.

  The herbalist beside me has her hands clasped around her chest, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "It's just like the old stories," she whispers. "My grandmother used to tell me about songs that could make the very air dance."

  "Listen to that melody," I say quietly, more to myself than to her. My voice sounds strange to my own ears, almost reverent. "It's not just beautiful. It's... purposeful."

  And it is. There's intention behind every note, every flourish. Lyra isn't simply performing; she's speaking a language most of us have forgotten how to understand. The melody rises and falls in patterns that feel ancient and familiar all at once, as if they're embedded in my very bones.

  The ice illusions grow more elaborate as the performance continues. They swirl around Lyra, forming a shifting halo of crystalline shapes that reflect the sunlight in prismatic bursts of color. Some drift out over the crowd, close enough that I can feel their cold radiance against my upturned face.

  One passes directly above me—a perfect replica of a snowflake the size of a dinner plate, each intricate branch and crystal facet rendered in flawless detail. For just a moment, I swear Lyra's eyes open and fix directly on mine. Something passes between us, a recognition that sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold.

  The melody shifts again, growing more complex. The ice structures respond, merging and separating in a choreographed dance that defies both gravity and logic. They form a spinning wheel of frost above the square, turning faster and faster until they collapse inward with a sound like distant chimes.

  In their place appears a single, massive structure—a perfect representation of Harmonious itself, our village rendered in ice and light, floating above our heads. I can make out the square where we stand, the winding streets, the Temple of Light at the village center, even the small guardhouse where I spend my nights on watch.

  Gasps of wonder ripple through the crowd. Children point excitedly, identifying their homes in the frozen miniature.

  The melody reaches its climax, notes tumbling over one another in a cascade of sound that makes the very air vibrate. The ice village glows from within, pulsing in time with the music, growing brighter and brighter until I have to narrow my eyes against its brilliance.

  Then, with a final, piercing note that seems to reach into my very soul, Lyra lowers her flute. The ice village shatters into thousands of tiny crystals that drift downward like snow, each one catching the light before dissolving into nothing before they reach our upturned faces.

  For a heartbeat, silence reigns. Then the square erupts in thunderous applause.

  Lyra bows, a graceful movement that seems almost out of place in our rustic surroundings. Her face remains composed, but I catch the slight widening of her eyes at the enthusiastic response. As if she hadn't expected such appreciation from simple villagers.

  As the applause begins to fade and the crowd starts to disperse, I remain rooted to my spot, staring at the empty space where the ice village had floated moments before. My mind races with questions, with possibilities I've never dared consider until now.

  The herbalist touches my arm gently. "Are you well, Aelia? You look as though you've seen a spirit."

  I blink, returning to myself. "I'm fine. It's just—" I pause, searching for words that could possibly explain what I'm feeling. "It reminded me of the old stories. The ones about the Rhythm Knights."

  She nods sagely. "Indeed. Though none have been seen in generations. Such magic is mostly lost to us now."

  But is it? I want to ask. Because standing here, with the echo of Lyra's melody still humming in my veins and the phantom chill of her ice magic on my skin, I feel something awakening inside me. Something that has been dormant all my life, waiting for the right notes to call it forth.

  As the crowd thins, I see Lyra carefully packing away her flute in a worn leather case. Her movements are precise, practiced. She doesn't acknowledge the few villagers who approach with compliments, merely nodding politely before turning away.

  Our eyes meet across the square, and for a second, neither of us moves. A question forms in my mind, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm asking. Then she turns and walks away, her blue hair swaying like a pennant in the afternoon breeze.

  I know, with a certainty that surprises me, that I will seek her out again. Because in that melody, in those shimmering illusions of ice and light, I glimpsed something I've been searching for my entire life without knowing it.

  A path to something greater than my duties as a village guard. A connection to the ancient magics that once shaped our world. A purpose.

  The forest path narrows as I follow the directions scratched onto the scrap of parchment I'd found tucked beneath my door this morning. Moonlight filters through the canopy in broken shafts, illuminating patches of moss and fern that seem to pulse with a rhythm all their own. My heart beats an anxious tattoo against my ribs, partly from the swift pace I've maintained since slipping away from my guard post, partly from the knowledge of who awaits me. Three days have passed since Lyra's performance in the square, three days of watching from a distance, of gathering courage, of wondering if the connection I felt was real or imagined.

  I'd caught her eye yesterday as she browsed the market stalls, her blue hair hidden beneath a plain hood but her golden eyes unmistakable. I'd approached under the pretense of maintaining order, my guard uniform giving me the authority to speak to anyone without raising suspicions. "Your performance was remarkable," I'd said, my voice lower than intended.

  She'd studied me with those piercing eyes before responding. "You felt it, didn't you? The resonance."

  Not a question. A statement of fact that had left me speechless. She'd pressed the parchment into my palm before disappearing into the crowd.

  Now I've left behind the well-worn paths that circle Harmonious, venturing into a part of the forest few villagers ever explore. Stories of strange lights and haunting melodies have kept most away, but tonight those tales draw me forward like a beacon.

  The path ends abruptly at a curtain of hanging vines, their surfaces faintly luminescent in the darkness. I hesitate, then part them with trembling fingers.

  Beyond lies a glade unlike anything I've ever seen.

  Lyra stands at its entrance, her figure outlined by the soft, pulsing light emanating from hundreds of flowers that line a narrow dirt path. Each blossom glows with an internal light—blues, purples, and soft whites—creating patterns that seem to follow some complex, invisible rhythm. Their petals open and close in sequence, rippling outward like waves on a pond.

  "You came," she says, her voice neither surprised nor particularly pleased. Just stating another fact.

  "I did." My hand instinctively moves to where my sword would normally hang, but I've left it behind tonight. This meeting required trust, vulnerability.

  Lyra's hair falls loose around her shoulders, catching the bioluminescent light in ways that make it appear almost liquid. Her golden eyes reflect the glow of the flowers, turning them into miniature suns.

  "Few can find this place," she says, turning to walk down the path. "It hides itself from those without the potential."

  I follow, careful to match her precise steps. "Potential for what?"

  She doesn't answer immediately. The path winds deeper into the glade, the glowing flowers growing more abundant with each step. They line the ground in intricate spirals, climb the trunks of ancient trees, hang from branches like frozen raindrops. Each pulses in perfect harmony with the others, creating a visual symphony that makes my skin tingle with recognition.

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  "Song Magic," she finally says, glancing back at me. "True Song Magic, not the diluted chants they teach in the Holy Capital."

  My breath catches. "I thought—" I start, then hesitate.

  "That it was lost?" Lyra's laugh is soft but without humor. "Not lost. Hidden. Suppressed. Forgotten by choice rather than by accident."

  We reach a clearing where the path widens into a perfect circle. The ground here is covered in a carpet of moss that seems to absorb our footsteps, making us move in silence. Moonlight streams down through a gap in the canopy, mingling with the glow of the flowers to create a soft, ethereal light.

  Lyra slips off her cloak and places it carefully on a nearby stone. The movement is graceful, deliberate, as if even this simple action follows some unheard rhythm.

  "Eldrin told me about Rhythm Magic," I say, the words tumbling out in my excitement. "He says it bends the very fabric of our world."

  Her eyebrow arches slightly at the name. "The old scholar with the silver beard? He knows more than he should."

  "He collects stories," I explain. "Tales from before The Fall. He says the Rhythm Knights could heal mortal wounds with a single verse, could call lightning from a clear sky, could make stone flow like water."

  "Exaggerations," Lyra says, but there's a flicker of something in her eyes—respect, perhaps, or caution. "But not entirely untrue."

  She gestures toward a circle of delicate flowers at the center of the clearing. Unlike the others, these remain closed, their buds tight and unilluminated.

  "Song Magic begins with understanding," she says. "Not just hearing, but feeling the rhythms that already exist in the world around us."

  She kneels beside the flower circle, motioning for me to join her. The moss feels springy beneath my knees, alive in a way that ordinary ground isn't. I can feel a subtle vibration through it, like the heartbeat of the forest itself.

  "Close your eyes," Lyra instructs. "Listen."

  I obey, shutting out the visual distractions of the glade. At first, I hear only the usual forest sounds—the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a night bird, the soft buzz of insects. But as I concentrate, something else emerges beneath these familiar noises—a faint, rhythmic pulsing that seems to emanate from the earth itself.

  "I hear it," I whisper, afraid that speaking too loudly might disrupt the delicate sound.

  "Good," Lyra says, her voice closer now. "That's the first step. Now, match it."

  I furrow my brow in concentration. "Match it how?"

  "With your breath, your heartbeat. Become part of the rhythm rather than just observing it."

  I focus on the subtle pulse, trying to synchronize my breathing with its cadence. Inhale for three beats, hold for one, exhale for three, hold for one. It feels unnatural at first, but gradually my body adjusts.

  "Better," Lyra murmurs. "Now open your eyes, but maintain the rhythm."

  I lift my eyelids to find the glade transformed. The bioluminescent flowers pulse more vibrantly now, their light synchronized with my breathing. The closed buds in the circle before us have begun to stir, their tips glowing faintly.

  Lyra lifts her hands, holding them palm-down over the flower circle. Her movements are fluid, graceful, following the same rhythm I've been matching with my breath. As her hands sway, the buds begin to unfurl, their petals stretching outward to reveal centers that glow with a cold, blue light.

  "This is controlled magic," she explains, her voice maintaining the same measured cadence. "The flowers respond to the rhythm because it's their natural language. All things in our world have a rhythm—stones, trees, water, air. Learning to speak in those rhythms is the foundation of Song Magic."

  I watch, mesmerized, as the flowers continue to open under her guidance. The light they emit grows stronger, casting Lyra's face in an ethereal glow that accentuates the sharp angles of her features and turns her eyes to molten gold.

  "Try," she says, shifting slightly to make room for me beside her.

  My stomach tightens with nervousness. "I don't know how."

  "Yes, you do." Her confidence in me is startling. "You've been doing it your whole life without realizing. When you hum while working. When you tap your foot in time with your heartbeat. When you match your breath to the waves of heat from a forge fire."

  She's right, I realize with a jolt. I've always had a habit of creating rhythms—tapping my fingers against my sword hilt during long watches, humming old ballads while patrolling the village perimeter, even breathing in time with the cadence of my footsteps.

  I position my hands as Lyra has done, holding them over the half-opened flowers. I close my eyes again, seeking that underlying pulse. When I find it, I begin to hum softly, a simple melody that matches the rhythm perfectly.

  The effect is immediate and startling. A warmth spreads from my chest to my fingertips, and when I open my eyes, I see small sparks of light—amber rather than Lyra's blue—drifting from my hands to the flowers below. The buds that my magic touches change, their petals shifting from blue to a warm gold.

  "I'm doing it," I breathe, astonished.

  "You are," Lyra confirms, and for the first time, I hear genuine emotion in her voice—a blend of satisfaction and something deeper, more personal. "Your resonance is strong. Untrained, but strong."

  Our hands move in tandem now, guiding the flowers through their transformation. Where our magics meet, the blossoms take on new hues—purples and greens that pulse with a life of their own. The rhythm of the glade shifts, accommodating our additions to its natural symphony.

  "Eldrin was right," I say, watching in wonder as the sparks from my fingers coalesce into miniature stars that orbit the flower circle. "It does bend reality."

  "In small ways, for now," Lyra cautions. "True mastery takes years of practice."

  "Is that how you learned? Years of practice?"

  A shadow passes over her face, quick but unmistakable. "Something like that."

  I want to press further, to ask about the northern mountains, about the rumors of her origins, but something in her expression warns me against it. Instead, I focus on the magic flowing through me, on the incredible sensation of being connected to the rhythm of the world around us.

  "Can anyone learn this?" I ask instead.

  Lyra shakes her head. "No. Some have the potential, but most lack the innate sense of rhythm necessary to truly master it. They can learn basic chants, simple spells, but true Song Magic requires a deeper connection."

  "And I have this connection?"

  Her golden eyes meet mine. "You do. I felt it in the square. Your resonance called to mine."

  Our fingers brush as we both reach for the same flower, and I feel a spark—not static from the dry air, but something electric and alive that jolts through me like lightning. Lyra feels it too; I can tell by the slight widening of her eyes, the catch in her breath.

  For a moment, neither of us moves. The rhythm continues around us, in us, through us, binding us in a silent understanding that transcends words.

  Then Lyra withdraws her hand, composing herself. "We should continue your training," she says, her voice carefully controlled once more. "Basic harmonics first. Focus on maintaining a single note while I create variations around it."

  I nod, trying to hide my disappointment at the broken moment. "Like this?" I hum a single, sustained tone, feeling it resonate in my chest.

  "Exactly." Lyra begins to weave a complex melody around my note, her voice rising and falling in patterns that make the air shimmer with visible waves of sound. The bioluminescent flowers respond, their light pulsing in harmony with our combined voices.

  As we practice, our magics intertwine more fully. My amber sparks dance with her blue frost, creating intricate patterns above the flower circle. When our voices align perfectly on certain notes, the resulting harmonies produce physical manifestations—small whirlwinds of light, fleeting images that form and dissolve in seconds, ripples in the very fabric of the air around us.

  Time loses meaning as we work. The moon traverses its arc across the gap in the canopy, its light shifting and changing as we continue our practice. Sometimes Lyra corrects my technique with a gesture or a single word; other times she simply nods in approval when I manage a particularly difficult sequence.

  Eventually, she rises to her feet in one fluid motion. "Enough for tonight," she says. "Too much too soon can be dangerous."

  I stand as well, surprised to find my legs stiff from kneeling so long. "When can we meet again?" The question comes out more eager than I intended.

  Lyra surveys the glade, her expression thoughtful. "Tomorrow night. Same time. There's much to learn, and—" she hesitates, "—I believe time may be shorter than I initially thought."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Nothing you need concern yourself with yet." She retrieves her cloak, swinging it around her shoulders with that same measured grace. "For now, focus on what you've learned. Practice maintaining rhythm in everyday tasks. Listen for the pulses hidden in ordinary sounds."

  I nod, storing away her cryptic warning for later consideration. "I will."

  As we prepare to leave, Lyra pauses, her hand on my arm. "Aelia," she says, using my name for the first time tonight, "what we're doing—what I'm teaching you—it isn't something to speak of openly. There are those who would... misunderstand."

  Her fingers are cool against my skin, but that same electric current runs between us at the contact. "I understand," I assure her. "I won't tell anyone."

  She studies me for a moment longer, as if gauging my sincerity, then nods once. "Until tomorrow, then."

  We exchange measured smiles that contain more meaning than either of us is ready to voice. In that moment, I feel as though I've taken the first step on a path I've been seeking my entire life, one that leads away from the confines of Harmonious toward something vast and unknowable.

  As we walk back toward the entrance of the glade, the bioluminescent flowers continue to pulse behind us, their rhythm now subtly altered by our presence, their colors forever changed by the magic we've shared.

  The glade pulses with our combined magic, the rhythm stronger than last night, more cohesive. We've been practicing for hours, and my fingertips tingle with amber light that now comes more easily, responding to the melodies I hum under my breath. Lyra moves with fluid grace, her blue magic intertwining with mine in patterns that grow more complex with each passing minute. The flowers around us have transformed completely—no longer simply glowing, but lifting from the ground to float in graceful spirals that follow our movements like loyal companions. I've never felt so alive, so connected to something greater than myself. Which is why I don't immediately notice the shift in the glade's natural rhythm, the subtle dissonance that spreads from the eastern edge where the trees grow thickest.

  Lyra feels it first. Her hands freeze mid-gesture, the blue frost crystallizing around her fingers before dissolving into the night air. Her golden eyes narrow, focused on something beyond my shoulder.

  "Someone's coming," she whispers, her voice barely audible above the hum of magic that still surrounds us.

  I turn, instinctively reaching for the sword that isn't there. Three nights of training in this sacred place, and we've never been disturbed. The glade has felt like our own private sanctuary, hidden from the world beyond.

  The floating flowers drift back to the earth, their light dimming as if sensing the intrusion. The natural rhythm of the glade stutters, loses its cohesion, like musicians suddenly playing out of time with one another.

  A tall figure steps from behind a cluster of ancient oaks, his approach so silent that even the forest seems unaware of his presence. In the fading bioluminescent light, I can make out sharp, angular features that seem to absorb the shadows rather than be defined by them. Dark eyes survey the scene with calculated interest, lingering on the flowers still pulsing with the remnants of our magic.

  Thane Darkthorn. The traveler who arrived in Harmonious a fortnight ago, asking too many questions about the village's history, about the legends of Rhythm Knights, about the artifacts rumored to be hidden within the elders' private collections.

  I've spoken to him only once, when he attempted to gain access to the village archives where I was stationed as guard. I'd refused him entry, citing regulations, though the truth was simpler—something about him had raised the hairs on the back of my neck, a discordant note in an otherwise harmonious melody.

  "Well," he says, his measured voice cutting into the silence like a blade. "What an unexpected discovery."

  He steps fully into the clearing, moonlight illuminating his lean frame. He wears dark clothes of fine cut, too elegant for a simple traveler but not ostentatious enough to draw undue attention. A thin scar traces the corner of his mouth, giving him the perpetual appearance of smirking even when his face is otherwise composed.

  "This area is private," I say, stepping forward to place myself between him and Lyra. My voice comes out steadier than I expect, given the way my heart hammers against my ribs.

  Thane's eyes flick to me, then back to Lyra. "Private, yes. But whose property, I wonder? Not yours, I think, village guard."

  The way he says my profession makes it sound like an insult. I feel heat rising to my cheeks but force myself to remain calm, to maintain the rhythm of my breathing as Lyra has taught me. Even without active magic, the discipline helps clear my thoughts.

  "What do you want?" Lyra asks, her voice carrying that same icy composure I'd noted when we first met, though I detect an undercurrent of tension now that I've grown more attuned to her.

  Thane takes another step closer, his movements precise and deliberate. "Knowledge, primarily. I'm a collector of rare things." His gaze travels over Lyra with unsettling intensity. "What court did you study with, and how come your manner speaks of nobility?"

  The question strikes like a physical blow. I feel Lyra stiffen behind me, though she betrays nothing in her expression.

  "I don't know what you mean," she says, her tone flat.

  "Come now." Thane smiles, the expression never reaching his eyes. "Your posture, your diction, the way you hold your hands—" he gestures vaguely toward her, "—these aren't the mannerisms of someone raised in a backwater village. Even your magic bears the refined quality of formal training. The northern courts, perhaps? Or somewhere more...exotic?"

  I see panic flash across Lyra's face, so brief that I might have imagined it if I hadn't been watching for it. My mind races. The rumors about her have always hinted at mystery, at a past deliberately concealed. Could Thane be right? Is she nobility in hiding?

  "She learned from a traveling bard of a far-off, refined city," I interject quickly, the lie flowing from my lips with surprising ease. "Many years ago. Before coming to Harmonious."

  Thane's dark eyes shift to me, his expression unreadable. "Is that so? How convenient that she had such an accomplished teacher. And what exactly did this 'traveling bard' teach her? The ice magic she displays is...unusual. One might even say royal in its lineage."

  The word "royal" lands with deliberate weight, and I see Lyra's hands curl into fists at her sides. Something is very wrong here. This isn't mere curiosity; Thane knows something specific about Lyra, something she desperately wants to keep hidden.

  I need to distract him, to derail this dangerous line of questioning. Acting on instinct more than plan, I begin to tap my foot against the mossy ground in a complex pattern.

  Tap-tap-pause-tap-tap-tap-pause-tap.

  At first, nothing happens. Then, as I find the rhythm that resonates with the glade itself, small sparks of amber light begin to pulse outward from each point of contact. The moss glows in response, the light racing along invisible lines across the ground, illuminating root patterns beneath the surface.

  Thane takes a half-step back, his attention momentarily diverted.

  I increase the complexity of my pattern, adding a counterpoint with my right hand against my thigh.

  Tap-tap-tap-pause-tap. Tap-pause-tap-tap.

  The response is immediate and more dramatic than I expected. The sparks intensify, coalescing into ribbons of light that race along the ground toward the flowers. Each blossom they touch flares with renewed vigor, their petals stretching outward, growing visibly before our eyes.

  "What are you doing?" Thane asks, his composure slipping for the first time.

  I don't answer. I can't, not without breaking the rhythm. Instead, I continue my performance, adding humming to the percussion, a simple melody that weaves through the complex beat of my tapping.

  The effect transforms the glade. The flowers begin to lift from the ground again, but this time they dance with greater purpose, forming concentric rings around us that spin in opposite directions. Their colors shift with each revolution—blue to gold to green to purple—creating a dizzying display that illuminates the entire clearing in pulsating, hypnotic light.

  Even the trees respond, their leaves rustling in perfect time with my rhythm despite the absence of wind. Roots visibly shift beneath the moss, creating undulating patterns that spread outward like ripples in a pond.

  I've never produced magic this strong before. The sensation is intoxicating, terrifying. Power flows through me, guided by the rhythm I maintain, but it feels wilder than in our previous sessions, harder to control. This isn't the careful practice Lyra has been teaching me; this is raw, instinctive magic driven by my desperate need to protect her.

  Thane tilts his head, his eyes narrowed as he watches the display. His focus has shifted entirely to me now, his expression calculating. He stands perfectly still as the light show continues around him, seemingly unaffected by the display that has transformed the glade into a whirlwind of color and motion.

  "Interesting," he says finally, his voice barely audible above the soft hum of magic-infused air. "I hadn't expected to find two of you."

  Two of what? I want to ask, but I dare not break the rhythm now that I've started. The magic pulses through me, connecting me to every living thing in the glade. I can feel the beating hearts of small animals hiding in the underbrush, the slow, ancient pulse of the trees, the quick, frightened flutter of Lyra's heart behind me.

  And something else—a dark, discordant presence that emanates from Thane himself. Not magic, exactly, but something that pushes against the natural harmony of the glade, attempting to warp it.

  For several long moments, we remain locked in this tableau—me tapping out my rhythm, the flowers dancing in their mesmerizing patterns, Lyra tense and watchful behind me, and Thane observing it all with clinical detachment.

  Then, without warning, he turns and walks away, his movements as silent as when he arrived. He pauses at the edge of the clearing, half-hidden by shadows.

  "We'll speak again," he says, not a question but a promise. "There's nowhere in Harmonious to hide what you are."

  And then he's gone, melting into the darkness between the trees as if he were never there at all.

  I maintain the rhythm for another minute, ensuring he's truly departed, before gradually slowing my tapping. The flowers settle back to the ground, their glow fading to their natural state. The pulsing light recedes, leaving us in the softer illumination of moonlight and the gentle bioluminescence that is the glade's natural state.

  My hands tremble with exhaustion as I finally stop. I hadn't realized how much energy the display had consumed until this moment. My knees feel weak, my throat dry from humming.

  "Are you all right?" Lyra asks, moving to my side.

  I nod, not entirely certain if it's true. "Who is he? What does he want with you?"

  Lyra's golden eyes dart to where Thane disappeared, her expression guarded. "Someone dangerous. Someone who recognizes things he shouldn't."

  She takes my hands in hers, examining the fingertips that still emit faint sparks of amber light. Her touch is cool, steadying.

  "That was remarkable magic," she says softly. "Untrained, but powerful. You're progressing faster than I expected."

  "I didn't know I could do that," I admit. "It just... happened."

  "Instinctive protection," Lyra says with a nod. "The strongest form of Song Magic is often born from the need to shield others."

  We stand close, her hands still holding mine, the residual magic creating a gentle current between us. I'm acutely aware of her proximity, of the subtle scent of winter pine that seems to cling to her regardless of the season.

  "He'll come back," I say, glancing toward the trees. "He knows something about you."

  Lyra's fingers tighten around mine. "Yes. Which means we need to be more careful. Find somewhere else to train, somewhere he won't think to look."

  "The old temple ruins," I suggest. "On the far side of the lake. No one goes there anymore—the paths are overgrown, and most villagers think the place is haunted."

  "Is it?" There's a hint of amusement in her voice.

  "Only by forgotten songs," I reply, remembering Eldrin's stories of the temple's ancient purpose as a place where music and magic were once taught together.

  Lyra nods, finally releasing my hands. "It will do. But we should leave separately, take different paths back to the village."

  I understand the caution, but the thought of walking alone through the darkened forest with Thane potentially lurking makes my skin crawl. "I should escort you back. It's not safe."

  "I can protect myself," she says, a hint of frost magic crystallizing at her fingertips to emphasize the point. "And after what I just witnessed, so can you."

  We hold each other's gaze for a long moment before I nod, accepting her decision. "Tomorrow night, then? At the ruins?"

  "Yes. Bring your lute this time. It's time you learned to channel your magic through an instrument—it provides more control than percussion alone."

  I nod, surprised she knows about my lute playing. I've never mentioned it to her. "I will."

  As we prepare to part ways, Lyra hesitates, then reaches out to clasp my hand once more. The gesture is quick but firm, a physical affirmation of the bond that's forming between us.

  "Thank you," she says simply. "For your quick thinking tonight."

  The words carry weight beyond their simplicity, an acknowledgment of trust given and received. My chest warms with pride and something deeper, more personal.

  "Always," I respond, the word a promise I hadn't planned to make but find I mean completely.

  We separate, heading in opposite directions through the gently glowing flora. As I glance back one last time, I see Lyra's slender figure disappearing among the trees, her blue hair catching the moonlight like a beacon. Whatever secret she's keeping, whatever danger Thane represents, I know with absolute certainty that our paths are now irrevocably entwined.

  The sparks at my fingertips flare briefly in response to the thought, as if my newly awakened magic agrees with the sentiment. Something extraordinary has begun in this glade, something that feels both ancient and new, like a forgotten melody finally remembered.

  And despite the danger, despite the unanswered questions, I've never felt more certain of my path forward.