The weight of tradition hangs heavy on my shoulders as I patrol the winding streets of Harmonious. My spear taps a steady rhythm against the cobblestones, counting heartbeats in the quietude of evening. The village sleeps—or should be sleeping—but there's an undercurrent tonight, a vibration beneath the stillness that prickles at my senses like the first whisper of a storm.

  I adjust the leather strap of my guard's insignia, brushing a strand of my fiery hair away from my face. The red waves cascade down my back, catching the soft azure glow of mushroom caps that line the pathway. My reflection in a puddle shows a girl playing at authority—green eyes too wide, too curious for the stoic guard I'm meant to be.

  "Just another night," I mutter to myself, voice lost in the cool air.

  The bioluminescent flora of Harmonious paints the night in blues and greens, transforming the humble village into something from a forgotten fairy tale. Glowferns unfurl their radiant fronds along garden walls, while moonsage plants cup their luminous blossoms toward the stars. Their light bathes the stone cottages in gentle waves, revealing the intricate music note patterns carved into doorways—a reminder of our heritage, of what we once were.

  I run my fingers along one such carving, feeling the grooves of a treble clef worn smooth by generations of touch. The village elders say that in ancient times, these symbols held power beyond mere decoration. That true Song Magic could transform reality itself, that Harmonious once floated among clouds before The Fall brought it earthbound.

  Childhood stories, most likely. Yet something in me has always yearned to believe.

  My patrol route takes me past the silent shopfronts, the moonlit gardens, the empty marketplace where tomorrow merchants will sell enchanted trinkets powered by simple humming—pale echoes of what magic once was. My post is an honorable one; my family beamed with pride when I took the guard's oath three summers past. But in quiet moments like this, a hollowness expands in my chest, a sense that I was meant for something... more.

  I round the corner toward the village square when the first notes reach me.

  The melody drifts through the night air like perfume, subtle at first—so subtle I almost believe I've imagined it. I pause, spear half-raised, listening. The sound comes again, more distinct now: a flute's voice, high and clear, weaving a pattern I've never heard before. Not the familiar folk tunes played at village festivals, nor the simplified Mana Magic chants the local hedgewitch uses for minor spells.

  This is something else entirely.

  My skin prickles with gooseflesh. The notes seem to hang in the air long after they should have faded, resonating with something deep inside me. I've always had a connection to music—a secret, private thing I rarely share. My lute sits hidden beneath my bed, a guilty pleasure for lonely evenings when duty is done.

  "This isn't right," I whisper, even as I find myself drawn forward.

  The melody grows stronger as I follow it, turning down an unfamiliar path. The notes drop and soar with impossible precision, creating patterns that seem to shimmer in the air before me. Not just music—magic. Real magic, the kind spoken of in legends about the Rhythm Knights of old.

  I grip my spear tighter, training taking over. Unknown magic means unknown danger. I should report this to the captain immediately.

  Instead, I quicken my pace.

  Ahead, shadows move against the night. Villagers, awake at this late hour, drifting toward the music like moths to flame. I recognize the baker's slouched shoulders, the apothecary's distinctive limp, the seamstress clutching her shawl. Ordinary people who should be abed, yet here they are, pulled from sleep by this haunting call.

  "What's happening?" I ask a young boy who darts past me.

  "Music," he says, eyes wide with wonder. "Real music. Like in the stories."

  He disappears around the corner before I can question him further.

  The village of Harmonious has always revered music. Our name itself speaks to our heritage, built on the legends of the Melodic Deities who shaped reality through song. Even now, when true Song Magic has faded to myth, we maintain the traditions—the singing circles at dawn, the ritual humming that powers our simple technologies, the reverence for melody in all its forms.

  But this music feels different. Ancient. Powerful. It tugs at something inside me, a recognition I can't explain.

  More villagers appear from shadow-draped doorways, their faces wearing identical expressions of bewilderment and awe. Some move as if in a trance, while others whisper excitedly to companions. A few elders cross their fingers in the traditional ward against wild magic—a gesture I haven't seen since the traveling minstrel accidentally froze a fountain with an overeager performance last spring.

  "Make way," I call, assuming my official voice. "Village guard."

  They part reluctantly, eyes never leaving the direction of the music. I push forward, noting with growing concern how the crowd thickens as I approach the village square. A gathering of this size, at this hour, would normally indicate trouble. Yet there's no panic, no signs of danger—only this strange, collective enchantment.

  My training urges caution, but something else—something deeper—urges me forward.

  The square opens before me, moonlight spilling across the central fountain where water dances in gentle arcs. The statue at its center—our nameless hero, the Rhythm Knight who legend says chose Harmonious as his final resting place—seems to listen to the music with his stone ears, his marble instrument frozen in eternal performance.

  Beyond the fountain, a narrow alley spills amber light onto the cobblestones. The crowd clusters thickest there, forming a loose semicircle around something I cannot yet see. Their bodies sway slightly, unconsciously keeping time with the melody that has grown more complex, more compelling with each passing moment.

  I move along the perimeter, using my guard's authority to create a path. "Step aside," I murmur, gentler now, reluctant to break the spell that seems to hold the night in perfect suspension.

  The melody shifts into something that makes my heart ache with unnameable longing. The notes form patterns in my mind—frost-like structures of sound that build and interweave with mathematical precision. Within them, I sense a story being told, though I cannot decipher its meaning.

  An older woman beside me gasps suddenly, pointing upward. I follow her gaze to see tiny motes of light drifting through the night air, sparkling like earthbound stars. They pulse in rhythm with the music, expanding and contracting, creating ephemeral constellations above our heads.

  "Song Magic," she whispers, voice trembling. "Gods preserve us. Real Song Magic."

  A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the night air. Song Magic is the stuff of legends, of history books and bedtime stories. The art was lost generations ago, during The Fall, when the floating cities descended and the Rhythm Knights vanished from the world. What remains now is merely Mana Magic—simplified chants and basic rhythms that poorly mimic what once was.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Yet the evidence hovers before us, undeniable in its beauty.

  My hand finds the hilt of my spear as I press forward, duty and curiosity now fully entwined. The crowd thins slightly as I near the edge of the gathering. Some villagers kneel in reverence; others stand with arms outstretched as if to catch the drifting lights. A child laughs in delight as one of the motes circles her finger before dancing away.

  I position myself at the edge of the crowd, blood rushing in my ears almost loud enough to drown out the music. Almost, but not quite. Nothing, I suspect, could truly silence this melody now that it has taken hold of the night.

  Through the gaps between shoulders and heads, I catch glimpses of the alley's center—a figure standing alone, the source of this impossible magic. Something about the silhouette strikes me as foreign, unfamiliar in a village where I know every face, every stance, every shadow.

  A murmur passes through the crowd as the music reaches a crescendo. The glowing motes swirl faster, creating intricate patterns that remind me of the ancient musical notations carved above the village archives—symbols no modern scholar can fully interpret. The temperature drops suddenly, my breath fogging in the air as frost patterns form on the cobblestones at my feet.

  I edge closer, duty compelling me to identify the source of this disturbance, however beautiful it might be.

  And then I see her.

  The crowd parts for a moment, giving me an unobstructed view of what—of who—stands at the center of this enchantment. My lips part in surprise, a soft exhale of wonder escaping before I can contain it.

  "This is unlike any performer I've ever seen," I whisper, spear momentarily forgotten in my hand.

  She stands in a pool of moonlight as if the night itself has parted to make space for her presence. Her hair flows down her back in waves of deepest blue, catching the light of my village's glowferns and transforming it into something colder, more ethereal—like water frozen in mid-cascade. I cannot look away; no one can. Her golden eyes survey us with serene detachment as her fingers caress her flute with the intimacy of old lovers. The royal crest gleams against her cloak—a silver moon cradling a frosted star—and my breath catches in my throat. What business does a noble have in our humble Harmonious?

  Her posture speaks of years spent under the watchful eyes of etiquette masters—spine straight as a sword, shoulders draped with quiet dignity, chin lifted at precisely the angle that manages to be both approachable and untouchable. The quality of her clothing alone would mark her as an outsider; the fine silver thread embroidering her midnight-blue cloak catches the light of the bioluminescent flora, creating the illusion of stars woven into fabric.

  But it's her eyes that truly set her apart—molten gold in color, holding the intensity of ancient knowledge and the restraint of someone accustomed to keeping secrets. Those eyes meet mine for the briefest moment across the crowd, and something inside me resonates like a plucked string.

  She raises the flute to her lips once more, and the village collectively holds its breath.

  The melody begins softly, a single crystalline note hanging in the air before expanding into a pattern more complex than anything our village musicians could create. Her fingers dance across the instrument—not the utilitarian movements of someone playing music, but the precise gestures of someone weaving a spell. Each note births a visible ripple in the air, like stones dropped into still water, expanding outward in concentric circles of light.

  Frost patterns form on the cobblestones near her feet, spreading outward in delicate geometries that mirror the mathematical precision of her melody. The air around her grows colder, my breath clouding before me even as I stand several paces away. Small motes of blue-white light—too substantial to be mere reflections, too ethereal to be fireflies—begin to drift from the end of her flute, swirling upward in spirals that follow the contours of her song.

  This is no ordinary performance, no simple village entertainment. This is magic in its purest form—Song Magic, the lost art of our ancestors, performed with a mastery that makes our modern Mana Magic chants seem like a child's babbling compared to poetry.

  My hand tightens around my spear, but the gesture feels hollow, meaningless. What protection could steel offer against such power? A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the dropping temperature. Instead of fear, I feel something dangerously close to envy—a desperate yearning to understand, to participate in the wonder unfolding before us.

  The music shifts, and the floating lights transform, coalescing into crystalline shapes—snowflakes the size of my palm, each unique, each perfect in its geometric complexity. They hover in the air, rotating slowly, catching and refracting the bioluminescent glow of our village plants. One drifts near me, and without thinking, I reach for it. The snowflake settles on my fingertips—cold but not painfully so, solid yet seeming to pulse with its own inner rhythm.

  "Gods," I whisper, watching as it slowly melts against my skin, leaving nothing but a cool dampness and an inexplicable sense of loss.

  Around me, the villagers react with varying degrees of wonder and apprehension. An elderly man falls to his knees, hands trembling as he makes the ancient gesture of warding against wild magic. Two children reach eagerly for the floating snowflakes, their laughter cutting bright and clear through the night. The baker, flour still dusting his nightshirt, stares with open-mouthed awe, while the village herbalist narrows her eyes in professional assessment.

  "It's her," I hear someone whisper. "The Ice Witch."

  "Nonsense," another voice counters. "The Ice Witches are just stories to frighten children."

  "Then explain what we're seeing!"

  Their debate fades into the background as I focus again on the mysterious performer. The light catches the edge of her cloak, illuminating more clearly the royal crest I glimpsed earlier. The silver moon cradling a frosted star—I've seen it before, in the dusty books of our village archive, in the stories told by traveling merchants. It's the symbol of the Holy Capital, worn only by those of noble birth.

  What is a royal doing here, in our remote village? And not just any royal—one with power beyond anything I've witnessed in my twenty years of life.

  I recall the whispered rumors that occasionally reach even our distant corner of Aurora's Crest—tales of a missing princess, a royal heir who vanished from the Holy Capital months ago. The king and queen keep the matter quiet, but servants talk, and merchants carry gossip like precious cargo. Could this be her? The runaway princess with hair like midnight and eyes like dawn?

  My duties as a guard suddenly feel laughably inadequate. We're trained to handle drunken revelers and occasional bandits, not errant royalty wielding ancient magic. I should report this immediately to my captain, should establish a perimeter, should do something other than stand here gaping like a lovestruck fool.

  Yet I remain rooted to the spot, transfixed by the impossible beauty of her magic.

  The melody intensifies, gaining complexity with each passing moment. The snowflakes multiply, filling the air around us, but they aren't ordinary snowflakes—each one seems to contain tiny scenes, miniature moving pictures visible if you look at just the right angle. I catch glimpses of towering spires, of cities floating among clouds, of battles fought with light and music instead of steel.

  Visions of the world before The Fall, perhaps? Or something else entirely?

  The temperature continues to drop as her song progresses. Frost creeps up the sides of buildings, transforming the humble stone facades of Harmonious into glittering palaces. The water in the fountain freezes in mid-arc, creating a sculpture more beautiful than any artist could carve. Time itself seems to slow, each moment stretching like honey dripping from a spoon.

  I notice now what I missed before—the subtle blue glow emanating from her fingertips as she plays, the way tiny ice crystals form and vanish with each note. This isn't just Song Magic; this is something more specific, more specialized.

  Ice magic. The magic of the legendary Ice Witches of the northern mountains, who were said to be able to freeze time itself with their melodies. Magic thought lost centuries ago, when the last known practitioner disappeared during The Fall.

  Yet here it stands before me, wrapped in royal finery and mystery.

  As her music builds toward some unseen crescendo, I feel something stir within me—a response, an echo, as if some dormant part of my soul recognizes the call. My fingers tingle with unfamiliar energy. The melody seems to flow through me rather than around me, awakening sensations I've never experienced—a pressure building in my chest, a humming beneath my skin.

  This shouldn't be happening. I'm just a village guard, the daughter of a baker and a carpenter. I play the lute in private moments, yes, but that's ordinary talent, not magic. Yet the evidence of my body cannot be denied—I am responding to her spell in ways the other villagers are not.

  One of the crystalline snowflakes drifts directly toward me, as if guided by unseen hands. As it approaches, it transforms, its patterns shifting to form what looks unmistakably like a knight's sword—the symbol of the Rhythm Knights of legend. My breath catches as it hovers before my face, rotating slowly, impossibly specific in its shape.

  Our eyes meet across the crowd, the blue-haired stranger and I. Her gaze sharpens with something like recognition, then surprise. Her fingers falter for the barest moment, a single note hanging discordant in the perfect pattern of her song.

  She's noticed me noticing her. Not just as another awed villager, but as something... different.

  Duty and fascination war within me. As a guard, I should be establishing order, questioning this stranger's presence and purpose. As Aelia—just Aelia, the girl who has always felt the pull of something greater—I want nothing more than to step closer, to understand the magic that calls to something buried deep within me.

  The melody reaches its apex, a soaring sequence of notes that seem to bend reality around them. The floating snowflakes burst into thousands of smaller pieces, filling the air with diamond dust that catches the light and transforms our village square into a glittering dreamscape. For a heartbeat, I see Harmonious as it might have been centuries ago—a place of wonder and power, where music and magic were one and the same.

  The vision fades as her song begins to wind down, the notes becoming softer, more contemplative. The temperature slowly rises, though the frost remains, transforming our humble village into something from a winter fairy tale. As her final note hangs in the air—sustained impossibly long—the crowd remains frozen in collective enchantment.

  Silence follows, absolute and reverent. No one moves. No one speaks. The moment stretches, fragile as a soap bubble, as if we all understand that whatever normal life was before this night, it cannot continue unchanged after witnessing such wonder.

  I find myself holding my breath, unwilling to be the first to break the spell. The strange musician lowers her flute slowly, her movements as graceful and precise as her playing. A small smile touches her lips—not warm exactly, but satisfied, as if she's confirmed something important.

  The royal crest gleams once more as she adjusts her cloak. It's half-hidden, as if she's made some attempt to conceal it, but my eyes now know exactly where to look. The silver moon with its frosted star seems to wink at me, a secret between us.

  One by one, the magical snowflakes begin to dissolve, melting into the night air and leaving behind nothing but a lingering coolness and the scent of winter pine. The frost remains, however, etching patterns across our village that will likely prompt much discussion come morning.

  The stillness breaks gradually. A child coughs. An elder murmurs a prayer. Someone in the back of the crowd begins to applaud, tentatively at first, then with growing enthusiasm. Others join in, the sound swelling until it fills the square—not just applause but exclamations of wonder, tears of joy, expressions of disbelief.

  Through it all, the blue-haired stranger stands unmoving, neither acknowledging the adoration nor shrinking from it. Her golden eyes remain fixed on me, a challenge and a question in their depths.

  My hand still rests on my spear, my duty and curiosity at war. The royal crest, the magic, the strange connection I felt—all of it demands investigation. This is precisely the sort of unusual activity I'm sworn to report.

  Yet as our eyes hold across the crowded square, one thought eclipses all others: this is what I've been waiting for my entire life, though I never knew it until this moment.

  This is the adventure that has been calling to me in dreams.

  This is the beginning of something that will change everything.