I step carefully over shattered cobblestones, each crack beneath my boots a memory of wholeness now fractured beyond repair. The village of Harmonious—my home—stretches before me like a broken promise, its collapsed buildings reaching toward the sky with splintered fingers of wood and stone. My hand instinctively brushes against a fallen pillar, tracing the rough edges where smooth craftsmanship once proudly stood. The contact sends a shiver through my fingertips, not from cold, but from the absence of the musical hum that used to resonate through every structure in our village.

  The wind whistles through empty doorframes—a hollow, tuneless sound where once the air itself seemed to carry melody. I pause before what remains of the communal hall, its splintered doorframe barely hanging on rusted hinges. Three days ago, children practiced their songs here, their voices lifting into the rafters now exposed to an indifferent sky.

  I turn slowly, taking in the full scope of destruction. Dark puddles gather in the uneven ground, their surfaces catching fragments of light from the overcast sky. In their rippling surfaces, I see my own reflection—red hair tangled and wild, green eyes hollow with exhaustion. I hardly recognize myself.

  "There has to be something," I whisper, my voice sounding foreign even to my own ears. The words fall flat against the silence, no magical resonance responding to their vibrations.

  I adjust the ragged cloak around my shoulders, pulling it tighter as protection against more than just the cold. My steps are measured, deliberate as I navigate around what was once the statue of our founder—a nameless Rhythm Knight who brought harmony to this valley. Now his stone face stares up at me from the ground, expression eerily serene despite being separated from his body.

  Something crunches beneath my boot. I lift my foot to reveal the splintered remains of a child's training lute. The strings are snapped, curling like dead vines around the neck of the instrument. I kneel and run my fingers over the broken wood, feeling a pulse of faint magic still clinging to its form. My throat tightens.

  "I'm sorry," I murmur to no one. "I should have been here."

  My duty as a village guard meant nothing in the end. What good were my patrols, my vigilance, when true danger came? The training I'd received, the oath I'd sworn to protect Harmonious—worthless against the force that swept through our home, leaving nothing but this graveyard of memories.

  I stand and continue forward, stepping around a scorched patch of pavement where magical fire had burned hot enough to melt stone. The shadows of twisted, bare trees stretch across my path, moving in sync with my steps as if reaching for me with gnarled fingers. These trees once flowered with bell-shaped blossoms that would ring softly in the breeze. Now they're blackened and silent.

  A flutter of movement catches my eye—a tattered piece of sheet music dances on the wind before snagging on a broken fence post. I retrieve it gently, smoothing the crumpled paper with trembling fingers. The notes swim before my eyes, bringing back memories of evenings spent with my lute, practicing the traditional songs of our village while dreaming of adventure beyond our borders.

  How foolish those dreams seem now.

  The music stirs something inside me—a warmth that spreads from my chest to my fingertips. Without thinking, I hum a few notes from the sheet. The sound hangs in the air longer than it should, vibrating with a subtle energy that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. For a moment, I swear the broken cobblestones beneath my feet tremble in response.

  I fold the sheet carefully and tuck it inside my tunic, close to my heart. If any of our knowledge survives, it will be through these small artifacts—and through those of us who remember how to use them.

  I hesitate at a fallen wall, crouching to examine strange markings scored into the stone. They aren't random damage from the attack—these are deliberate. Symbols I recognize from ancient texts about the Rhythm Knights, but altered, corrupted somehow. I trace them with my fingertip, and a discordant note rings in my head, making me wince and pull back.

  "Who would do this?" I whisper, standing and brushing dust from my knees. "And why?"

  The sky darkens as clouds gather overhead, threatening rain. I need to find shelter, and more importantly, I need to find any other survivors. Galaena's forge might still be standing—the blacksmith built it to withstand even magical assaults after the last border skirmish. Or perhaps Sariel managed to protect some of the wounded. The saintess's light magic had always been strongest when used for healing.

  A sound stops me in my tracks—so faint I almost miss it. A distant melody carried on the wind, eerily familiar yet distorted. It reminds me of the songs Lyra would play on her flute, but twisted, discordant. My heart races at the thought of her. Is she alive? Captured? The source seems to be coming from the eastern part of the village, near the market square.

  I change direction, moving with more purpose now. The ground beneath my feet seems to vibrate with a subtle rhythm that matches my heartbeat. It's almost like the earth itself is trying to guide me, pushing me toward something—or someone.

  As I round the corner of what was once our village library, I spot it—a flash of blue light pulsing from within the ruins of the market. Too steady to be natural, too deliberate to be coincidence. Magic.

  I press myself against a broken wall, peering carefully around its edge. The market square lies in ruins, stalls reduced to kindling, goods scattered and trampled. But in the center, pulsing with that strange blue light, sits an object I recognize immediately—a crystalline orb mounted on a silver stand, one of the ancient artifacts kept in our village's small museum.

  The Harmonic Sphere. An artifact said to amplify song magic, allowing even the simplest melody to create powerful effects. It was merely decorative in recent times, its power dormant for generations. Yet now it glows with renewed energy, sending pulses of light into the darkening sky.

  I start toward it, then freeze as a shadow moves on the far side of the square. A figure in a dark cloak bends over the sphere, fingers tracing its surface in patterns that leave streaks of darker blue in their wake. I can't make out a face, but something about their movements sends a chill down my spine.

  I duck back behind the wall, heart pounding. This is what I was searching for—proof that the attack on our village wasn't random destruction but targeted. Someone came for the Harmonic Sphere. But why now, when song magic has been fading for centuries?

  A shout echoes from another part of the village—a woman's voice calling my name. My breath catches. I know that voice.

  Lyra.

  I glance back at the square. The cloaked figure has vanished, but the sphere still pulses with that eerie light. I hesitate, torn between investigating further and finding my friend. Another call decides me—Lyra's voice sounds urgent, frightened.

  With one last look at the glowing artifact, I turn and run toward the sound of her voice, my footsteps creating a rhythm against the broken cobblestones. Each impact sends small vibrations up my legs, and I feel something awaken within me—the dormant power I've only recently discovered, the legacy of the Rhythm Knights flowing through my veins.

  I may have failed to protect my home, but I won't fail those who remain. The melody of determination builds inside me, ready to be released when the moment comes.

  I dash between the skeletal remains of market stalls, my blue hair whipping around my face like frozen waterfalls caught in a storm. "Aelia!" My voice cracks as it echoes off broken stone and splintered wood, returning to me emptier than when it left. The silence that follows is suffocating. My fingers twitch with nervous energy, ice crystals forming unbidden around my nails—a manifestation of the fear I can't control. Small shards glisten momentarily in the weak afternoon light before melting onto the cracked pavement beneath my feet, leaving behind dark spots like tears on the ancient stone.

  A tattered banner flutters overhead, the once-proud emblem of Harmonious now torn and faded. I pause beneath it, scanning the devastation with eyes that burn from too many hours without sleep. This corner of the village used to pulse with life and music—vendors singing the praises of their wares, children playing simple rhythm games between the stalls, elders humming ancient melodies that made fruits ripen faster and bread stay fresh longer.

  Now there's only dust and debris, shifting restlessly in the cold wind that seems to follow me like an accusation.

  "Aelia!" I call again, my breath forming small clouds that dissipate too quickly. Like hope in this wasteland.

  Three days ago, we were in the village square together. I was playing my flute, coaxing delicate ice patterns across the cobblestones to delight the children. Aelia was watching me with that half-smile of hers, the one that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners and sends my heart tumbling into rhythms no music could capture. Then the sky darkened, not with natural clouds but with something that swallowed sound itself—a roaring silence that pressed against our ears like a physical force.

  The attack came without warning. Dark-cloaked figures wielding instruments that produced sounds so discordant they physically hurt. Walls cracked. People fell to their knees, covering their ears. And in the chaos, Aelia pushed me toward the temple, shouting for me to help Sariel with the children.

  "I'll find you," she promised, her green eyes fierce with determination. "Keep them safe."

  Then she was gone, running toward the danger while I ran away from it.

  I reach a small clearing where a communal well once stood. Now there's only a jagged hole in the ground, the well's stones scattered as if something erupted from beneath. I kneel beside it, pressing my palm against the damp earth. Ice spreads from my fingers, crystallizing into delicate patterns that glow with a faint blue light—an old tracking technique my mother taught me, before I fled the palace, before I chose freedom over duty.

  "Show me," I whisper, focusing on Aelia's image in my mind—her fiery red hair, her laughter, the way she moves with such purpose even in simple tasks. The ice patterns shift, stretching toward the eastern part of the village, then abruptly shatter into tiny fragments that melt immediately.

  Something is blocking my magic. Or someone.

  I stand, brushing dirt from my hands, frustration building in my chest. My royal tutors would be appalled at my lack of control. A princess of the Holy Capital, heir to both the throne and the Ice Witch legacy, unable to perform a simple tracking spell. But they never understood what it meant to cast magic from the heart rather than from rigid formulas and ancient texts.

  A soft moan draws my attention. Beneath the collapsed awning of what was once a bakery, a figure stirs. I rush over, pushing aside splintered wood to reveal an elderly man, the baker who used to slip me extra pastries when no one was looking.

  "Lyra," he rasps, recognition flickering in his pain-glazed eyes. "The blue-haired girl... Aelia's friend."

  "I'm here," I say, gently lifting a beam that pins his leg. "What happened? Did you see who did this?"

  He coughs, and I create a small shard of ice for him to suck on, easing his parched throat. "They came for the artifacts," he manages after a moment. "The Silent Circle... they were looking for something specific."

  My blood chills more effectively than any ice spell could manage. The Silent Circle—a name whispered in the palace halls with fear. Enemies of harmony, seekers of chaos and discord.

  "Why here?" I ask, though I suspect the answer. Harmonious wasn't chosen randomly. This village has always housed relics from the age when song magic flourished, when Rhythm Knights and Songstresses worked together to maintain balance.

  When people like Aelia and me were meant to be paired by destiny itself.

  The baker's eyes flutter closed. "The museum... they took something. Something that sang even in silence."

  I recognize the description immediately—the Harmonic Sphere, an ancient artifact said to amplify song magic. My father, the king, has searched for it for years, believing it could restore the waning power of music to the Holy Capital.

  And now the Silent Circle has it. Or thinks they do.

  I place my hand on the baker's forehead, weaving a small spell of comfort and sleep with a few softly hummed notes. Ice forms beneath my palm, not to freeze but to numb pain, to preserve life until proper healing can be administered. It's the limit of my abilities without my flute—an extension of myself I lost in the chaos.

  Rising to my feet, I continue my search with renewed urgency. The attack makes terrible sense now. The Silent Circle, seeking to destroy harmony, would naturally target a village named for it—especially one housing powerful artifacts from the age when song magic ruled.

  I move through the ruins more purposefully now, alert for any sign of survivors—or enemies still lingering. The back of my neck prickles with the sensation of being watched. I spin around, fingers already weaving a defensive pattern that crystallizes the moisture in the air into razor-sharp shards. But there's no one there, just shadows shifting as clouds drift across the sun.

  Still, the feeling persists. I've had it since childhood in the palace, when ministers and dukes would observe me from behind curtains and columns, assessing the future queen, measuring my worth by standards I never chose.

  I abandoned that life three years ago, fleeing to Harmonious where no one knew my face, where I could explore my connection to ice and music without the weight of a kingdom on my shoulders. Where I met a village guard with fiery hair and dreams of adventure that matched my own.

  A flash of movement catches my eye—too deliberate to be debris shifted by wind. I dart behind a crumbling wall, peering carefully around its edge. In what remains of the village square, a figure in a dark cloak bends over something that pulses with blue light. Even from this distance, I recognize the Harmonic Sphere, though its glow seems different now—colder, more like my ice than the warm resonance it once emitted.

  My first instinct is to confront them, to demand answers, to unleash the full force of my magic—royal training be damned. But caution holds me back. Alone, without my flute, against an unknown enemy who may have been responsible for destroying an entire village... The odds aren't favorable.

  Instead, I observe. The figure makes strange gestures over the sphere, and with each pass of their hand, the light dims slightly. They're draining it somehow, or corrupting it. Either way, I need to stop them—but first, I need Aelia. Together, we might stand a chance.

  I back away carefully, planning to circle around and approach from another direction. My foot catches on something that rolls with a musical tinkle. I freeze, heart pounding as I look down. A small silver bell lies at my feet, one of Aelia's—she keeps them braided into leather bands around her wrists, claiming they help her focus her songs.

  I pick it up, hope surging through me. She was here, recently enough that the bell still carries warmth. I clutch it tightly, then on impulse, give it a gentle shake. The clear note that rings out is barely audible, but it feels like the first genuine sound in this landscape of destruction—pure and uncorrupted.

  To my shock, an answering note comes from somewhere to the east—the distinct sound of one of Aelia's bells. Not random, not accidental—a deliberate response to mine.

  "Aelia!" I call, abandoning caution as relief floods through me. "Where are you?"

  I run toward the source of the sound, my feet scattering dust from the cracked pavement. Ice forms in my wake, delicate patterns that spread like frozen footprints marking my path. The sensation of being watched intensifies, but I ignore it. Nothing matters now except finding her.

  As I round the corner of what was once the village library, I see her—a flash of red hair, the familiar outline of her shoulders. She's crouched behind a wall, watching something in the distance. Safe. Alive.

  The sight of her hits me with physical force, nearly buckling my knees. I have to press my hand against a broken column to steady myself, frost spreading beneath my fingers as emotion overwhelms my control.

  "Aelia," I whisper, then louder: "Aelia!"

  She turns, her green eyes widening as they find mine. For a moment, we simply stare at each other across the rubble-strewn space between us—a princess who chose freedom and a village guard who dreams of greater things—both of us transformed by loss yet somehow still standing.

  Then she's running toward me, and I toward her, and nothing else in this broken world matters.

  I move between the rows of makeshift cots, my footsteps deliberately light against the stone floor. Each wounded villager is a hymn of suffering, their pained breaths forming a discordant chorus that fills our sanctuary of broken walls and hastily strung blankets. My hands hover over a child's feverish forehead, light spilling from my palms like liquid sunshine—warm and gentle, seeping into damaged flesh and fractured bone. The raw power of it tingles up my arms, a sensation I've never quite grown accustomed to despite years of service as a saintess. This gift of light magic feels less like my own ability and more like borrowing radiance from some greater source, channeling it through my imperfect human form.

  "Rest now," I whisper to the little girl whose name I've learned is Mira. Her eyes flutter closed as the healing light soothes her burns—injuries sustained when her family's home collapsed in flames. "The pain will ease soon."

  I straighten, pausing to retie my blonde hair that has escaped its loose binding. Thirty-seven wounded souls now lie under my care in this partially intact stone building—once the village records office, now transformed into an infirmary through desperate necessity. The roof remains mostly whole, a blessing when so many structures in Harmonious now open directly to the sky.

  Three days ago, when the attack began, I was leading morning prayers in the small temple at the village edge. The first discordant notes cut through our hymns like knives, and I instinctively cast a barrier of light around the gathered faithful. Not everyone made it inside my protection. Not everyone survived.

  I shake away the memory, focusing instead on the task before me. A man with a crushed leg moans softly from the corner. I move to him next, kneeling beside his cot with a smile that I hope conveys more confidence than I feel.

  "Breathe with me," I instruct, placing one hand on his chest and the other over his mangled limb. "Imagine light flowing through you, mending what was broken."

  He nods, his pain-glazed eyes fixed on mine with desperate trust. I begin to hum—not the complex melodies that Aelia or Lyra might weave into their magic, but simple, pure notes that resonate with the light gathering beneath my palms. The notes themselves aren't the source of my power, merely a focus for the divine energy that flows through all creation.

  Light streams from my hands, more concentrated now, directed by both will and song. It seeps into the shattered bone and torn muscle, illuminating the damage from within. I can see—not with my eyes but with some deeper sense—the fragments of bone realigning, tissue knitting together, blood vessels reconnecting.

  Sweat beads on my forehead. This is delicate work, far more complex than easing pain or treating simple wounds. The man grits his teeth, fighting to remain still as my light forces his body to compress healing that should take months into mere minutes.

  "Almost there," I encourage, though my arms tremble with effort. "You're doing wonderfully."

  When I finally sit back, the leg isn't perfect—there are limits to what even light magic can accomplish—but he'll walk again. The gratitude in his eyes is almost painful to witness. I don't deserve it. I couldn't stop this from happening.

  "Thank you, Saintess Sariel," he whispers.

  I squeeze his hand gently. "Rest now. I'll check on you again soon."

  Moving to the next patient, and the next, I continue my rounds. Some require only fresh bandages and comforting words. Others need deeper healing—light magic coaxing their bodies to fight infection or repair damaged organs. With each healing, I feel my own strength ebbing, the light within me dimming incrementally.

  There's a dark corner near the back wall where our most grievously wounded lie. I approach it reluctantly, steeling myself for what awaits. Three villagers, barely clinging to life, their injuries beyond what conventional medicine could possibly address. I've been saving my strength for them, knowing they'll need everything I can give.

  As I kneel beside the first—an elderly woman whose body bears the strange, twisting burns characteristic of corrupted song magic—a small voice calls out to me.

  "Saintess Ria?"

  I turn to find Mira sitting up on her cot, her small face solemn in the dim light. She uses the nickname that I've always found endearing—a childish simplification of Sariel that somehow feels more authentic than my full name.

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  "You should be resting, little one," I say gently.

  "Will my mom and dad find me here?" she asks, her voice small but surprisingly steady.

  My heart constricts. I haven't had the courage to tell her that her parents were among those we buried yesterday. How does one explain such loss to a child? In the temple, we speak of souls returning to the light, of spiritual harmony that transcends physical existence. But those abstractions offer little comfort to a seven-year-old girl who wants nothing more than her parents' embrace.

  "We're looking for them," I say instead, the half-truth bitter on my tongue. We are indeed still searching for survivors. "For now, you need to focus on getting better."

  She nods, lying back down with the simple trust of childhood. I swallow hard and turn back to my critical patients, guilt gnawing at me. Later, when she's stronger, I'll find the right words. Or perhaps I'll ask Aelia to help—she has a way with difficult truths, delivering them with compassion but without evasion.

  If Aelia is still alive.

  The thought slices through me with unexpected sharpness. I haven't allowed myself to consider the possibility that my friends might not return. Lyra had run off to search for Aelia almost immediately after we established this sanctuary, despite my pleas for her to rest and recover her strength first. Her desperation to find the red-haired guard was palpable—a reminder of the deep bond between them that goes beyond mere friendship, though neither has openly acknowledged it.

  I focus again on the elderly woman before me, summoning light to my palms. It comes more slowly now, the wellspring of my power running dangerously low. Three days of continuous healing with little rest or nourishment has pushed me to my limits. But I cannot stop. Not while there are still those who need me.

  As my light seeps into the woman's twisted burns, I find myself reflecting on the nature of the attack. The discordant notes that shattered stone and wood were more than simple destruction—they were a perversion of song magic itself, twisted into something that violated the very harmony it was meant to preserve.

  In the temple, we're taught that the Melodic Deities created music as a gift to humanity, a way to connect with the divine symphony that underpins creation. To corrupt that gift, to use it for destruction rather than harmony, is the gravest sacrilege I can imagine.

  Yet as a traveling saintess who has ventured beyond the borders of Aurora's Crest, I've encountered enough darkness to know that sacred things are often the first to be profaned by those seeking power. The Silent Circle—a name I've heard whispered among the wounded—views discord as liberation rather than corruption. They believe harmony is a chain, a limitation to be broken.

  I shudder at the thought. Such philosophy runs counter to everything I believe, everything I've dedicated my life to preserving.

  The elderly woman's breathing eases as my light magic soothes her burns. The twisted patterns begin to straighten, corruption purged by clean radiance. But even as I work, I feel my own strength faltering. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision, and my hands tremble noticeably now.

  "Saintess?" One of the volunteers—a young man with his arm in a sling—approaches with concern. "You should rest. You've been at this since dawn."

  "Just a little longer," I insist, though my voice sounds distant even to my own ears. "There are still those who need healing."

  "You can't help anyone if you collapse," he says firmly, showing me a small measure of the respect I've earned these past days. "At least eat something. Please."

  Reluctantly, I nod, accepting the piece of bread and dried fruit he offers. Our supplies are dwindling rapidly. If help doesn't come soon from neighboring villages or the Holy Capital itself, we'll face starvation alongside our other hardships.

  As I chew the stale bread, a strange sensation washes over me—a warmth that has nothing to do with my light magic or the meager food. It's a presence, a resonance I recognize immediately. Two distinct harmonies approaching our sanctuary, one fiery and dynamic, the other cool and flowing. Aelia and Lyra.

  They're alive.

  The relief that floods through me nearly brings me to my knees. I've prayed for their safety, hoped against hope, but until this moment, I couldn't be certain. My connection to the light sometimes grants me awareness beyond ordinary senses—a gift that has served me well as both healer and friend.

  "They're coming," I announce, my voice stronger now. "Prepare more water and what food we can spare."

  The volunteers look at me quizzically, but they've learned not to question my certainties. One moves to the barrel of clean water we've carefully rationed, while another checks our dwindling food stores.

  I move to the door, brushing dust from my robes and attempting to smooth my disheveled appearance. It's vanity, perhaps, but I want to project strength when they arrive. They'll have questions, need guidance, and despite my exhaustion, I must be the steady light they can rely on.

  Outside, I hear approaching footsteps and voices—Lyra's higher tones and Aelia's deeper timbre engaged in urgent conversation. Their familiar cadence soothes something raw inside me, a wound of worry that's been festering since the attack began.

  The wooden door swings open, sending dust motes dancing in the shaft of late afternoon light that spills into our dim sanctuary. Silhouetted against the glare stand two figures—one with hair like flame, the other with locks the color of winter ice. Behind them, I glimpse more shapes, other survivors drawn to our haven.

  "Sariel," Aelia breathes, relief evident in her voice. "You're alive."

  I smile, summoning just enough light to my fingertips to illuminate the room, showing them what I've managed to preserve amid so much destruction.

  "As are you," I reply. "Both of you. The light has answered my prayers."

  For all the horrors we've endured, for all the challenges that surely lie ahead, this moment of reunion feels like the first note of a new song—one of resilience, of hope reclaimed from the ashes of devastation.

  Dusk paints the ruined town square in hues of amber and shadow, the fading light catching on fragments of stained glass embedded in the cracked pavement. They glitter like fallen stars around our feet—blue, red, and gold shards from the great window of the meeting hall that once depicted the Melodic Deities in their glory. I stand between Lyra and Sariel, the three of us forming a triangle amid the devastation, our breathing gradually synchronizing as we survey what remains of Harmonious. The silence between us feels both heavy and fragile, like a held note that might either swell into harmony or collapse into discord.

  "The Harmonic Sphere is still here," I say finally, breaking the stillness. "I saw someone—something—attempting to drain its power, but they didn't take it."

  Lyra's golden eyes narrow, frost forming briefly at her fingertips. "That makes no sense. Why leave behind the very artifact they destroyed an entire village to find?"

  "Perhaps they couldn't move it," Sariel suggests, her voice hoarse from days of singing healing hymns. Despite her exhaustion, she stands tall, the faint glow of her light magic creating a nimbus around her blonde hair. "If its power was awakened but not fully within their control..."

  I nod, remembering the pulsing blue light. "It's changed. The resonance feels... wrong somehow."

  The three of us had come to the square after comparing what we'd witnessed during and after the attack. Sariel's makeshift infirmary had become a gathering point for survivors, but with night approaching, we needed to secure the village against potential return of the Silent Circle. The town square—once the heart of Harmonious—seemed the natural place to begin.

  A cold wind sweeps across the open space, carrying the scent of ash and something else—a sour note that doesn't belong, like a string tuned just slightly off-key. The hairs on my arms rise in warning.

  "Something's coming," I murmur, my hand instinctively reaching for the small bells at my wrist.

  Lyra moves closer to me, her shoulder brushing mine. "I feel it too. Like static before a storm."

  Sariel turns slowly, her eyes scanning the deepening shadows between collapsed buildings. "Not human," she whispers. "Or at least, not entirely."

  The dissonance increases, a pressure against my eardrums that makes me wince. Whatever approaches isn't bothering to mask its presence—or perhaps it can't. The corruption in its song is too fundamental to hide.

  "We should run," Lyra says, but her tone makes it clear she doesn't believe retreat is an option. "Find somewhere defensible."

  "This is as good as anywhere," I reply, shifting my stance. "And I won't abandon the sphere to them again."

  Sariel nods, moving to complete our triangle so we face outward in three directions. "The light is with us," she says simply.

  The pressure builds, and with it comes a creeping darkness that seems to swallow the last rays of sunset. Not natural nightfall, but something hungrier, more deliberate. I feel a familiar stirring in my chest—the power I've only recently discovered, the legacy of the Rhythm Knights that has somehow awakened in me despite centuries of dormancy.

  I raise my hand and begin to sing.

  The first notes leave my lips hesitantly, like birds testing their wings after a storm. Simple tones that gradually find their confidence, building into a melody that feels ancient yet somehow mine. The song rises from somewhere deeper than my throat—it comes from my bones, my blood, the very core of me where music and magic have always been inseparable.

  As I sing, the air around us begins to shimmer, sound made visible as ripples of golden light that expand outward from where I stand. Each note adds to the pattern, weaving a barrier of pure resonance that pushes back against the encroaching darkness. I can feel the connection to those who came before me—Rhythm Knights who channeled the power of song into protection and strength.

  My voice grows stronger, the melody more complex. The bells at my wrists begin to ring in harmony with my song, though I haven't moved to shake them. They respond to the magic building within and around me, their pure tones reinforcing the barrier I'm creating. The golden ripples solidify, forming a translucent wall that encompasses our triangle.

  Lyra steps forward, her movements fluid as flowing water. Her hands trace intricate patterns in the air, fingers splayed as if playing an invisible instrument. Though she has no flute, music seems to emanate from her very being—a countermelody to my song, cool and crystalline where mine is warm and resonant.

  From the ground at her feet, ice erupts in a perfect spiral, climbing upward like a living thing seeking the last light of day. It doesn't spread randomly but forms precise geometric patterns that pulse with blue energy. As the ice reaches waist height, it suddenly shoots outward, forming a spear that pierces through my barrier—not breaking it, but merging with it, reinforcing it with frozen strength.

  More ice formations follow, each one synchronized perfectly with my song, creating a harmony of elements that feels both natural and miraculous. Where our magics meet, the golden glow takes on a bluish tinge, ice and song becoming something greater than either alone.

  "The duet," Sariel whispers in awe, witnessing what few in living memory have seen—the legendary pairing of Rhythm Knight and Songstress, their complementary magics creating effects once thought lost to the ages.

  Sariel doesn't hesitate to add her own power to ours. She steps forward, palms raised toward the darkening sky. Light blooms between her hands, not the gentle glow of her healing magic but something more concentrated, more purposeful. Rays of pure white radiance stream from her fingers, arcing overhead to form a dome that covers our barrier like a second skin.

  The three magics weave together—my song creating structure and rhythm, Lyra's ice providing substance and form, Sariel's light infusing the whole with protection and purification. Together, we've created a sanctuary in the midst of ruin, a space where the corrupted song that destroyed our village cannot reach.

  The pressure against my ears subsides slightly, the darkness receding from the edges of our barrier. Whatever approached has paused, perhaps reconsidering its attack in the face of our combined strength.

  Heavy footsteps sound from behind us, breaking my concentration momentarily. I turn, maintaining my song but letting my eyes seek the source of the new arrival. Galaena Earthshaper strides across the broken cobblestones, her powerful frame silhouetted against the last embers of sunset. The blacksmith's leather apron is scorched and torn, her dark hair streaked with ash, but her stride is purposeful as ever.

  "Don't stop what you're doing," she calls, her deep voice resonating pleasantly with my ongoing melody. "But I thought you should know—they've been here again. My forge was ransacked not an hour ago."

  Lyra's ice formations pulse with her concern, but she maintains her focus, fingers still weaving their intricate dance. "What did they take?" she asks, her voice tight with effort.

  Galaena reaches us, stepping carefully through a gap in our barrier that opens at her approach, recognizing her as friend rather than foe. In her calloused hands, she carries the remains of a broken sword hilt—ancient metal wrapped in leather that has been preserved through magical means. Though damaged, I recognize it immediately as one of the artifacts from our small museum, supposedly once wielded by the nameless Rhythm Knight who founded our village.

  "They took nothing," the blacksmith says grimly. "They left this for you to find."

  The hilt is placed on the ground at the center of our triangle. Immediately, my song shifts in response, the notes bending toward the artifact as if drawn by magnetic force. The leather wrapping unwrls slightly, revealing symbols etched into the metal beneath—the same corrupted markings I saw earlier on the fallen wall.

  "It's a message," Sariel says, light flickering between her palms as she struggles to maintain her dome. "Or a challenge."

  Galaena nods, her weathered face grave in the mixed light of our magics. "There's more. The Harmonic Sphere isn't gone—it's been moved to the old temple ruins on the hill. I saw its light when I was coming here."

  "A trap," Lyra says immediately, ice crackling with her agitation.

  "Obviously," I agree, yet I can't deny the pull I feel toward the artifact. My song wants to reach it, to cleanse whatever corruption has tainted its harmonies. "But also an opportunity."

  The darkness beyond our barrier shifts, becoming less uniform, more focused—as if gathering itself for another attempt. We don't have much time to debate.

  "The Silent Circle doesn't just want to destroy Harmonious," Galaena continues, kneeling to examine the sword hilt more closely. "They're looking for something specific—something they believe is connected to the Rhythm Knights. These markings..." She traces the corrupted symbols with a cautious finger. "They're perverted versions of ancient musical notations. A song they want to silence forever."

  A movement high above catches my eye—a raven perched on a shattered column, its feathers unnaturally black against the deepening twilight. Its eyes reflect our magical light, twin points of intelligence that seem to absorb every detail of our defensive stand. Not a natural bird, I'm certain. A spy for someone—perhaps the mysterious figure I glimpsed earlier with the Harmonic Sphere.

  "We're being watched," I murmur, nodding toward the raven without breaking my song.

  Lyra follows my gaze, her fingers twitching as if tempted to launch an ice shard at the creature. "Let them watch," she says instead, her voice carrying a hint of royal authority that she rarely allows to surface. "Let them see what they're facing."

  The raven tilts its head, its beak opening in what almost seems like a smile before it launches itself into the air, wings beating silently as it disappears into the gathering night.

  "We can't stay here," Sariel says practically. "The wounded need protection, and maintaining this barrier is draining our strength too quickly."

  She's right. Already I can feel the strain in my throat, my song requiring more effort with each passing moment. Lyra's fingers tremble slightly, frost forming more slowly around her hands. Even Sariel's light seems to dim incrementally, her dome thinning despite her best efforts.

  "We need to recover the sphere," I say between verses, my resolve hardening. "Cleanse it if we can, destroy it if we must. We can't leave its power in their hands."

  "That's exactly what they want you to do," Galaena warns, rising to her feet with a weariness that speaks of her own battles these past days.

  "I know," I acknowledge. "But some traps must be sprung, especially when avoiding them means abandoning something precious."

  Lyra's eyes meet mine, gold against green, understanding passing between us. "We'll need supplies," she says. "And information. The Silent Circle has existed for centuries—there must be records of their weaknesses, their goals."

  "The Holy Capital would have such records," Sariel suggests, though her expression shows reluctance at the thought of traveling there. "Their libraries contain histories dating back to the Fall."

  The darkness presses against our barrier again, testing for weaknesses. We can't maintain this defense indefinitely, and night is truly falling now, bringing with it greater danger.

  "We leave at dawn," I decide, pouring renewed determination into my song. "Gather the survivors who can travel, bring what supplies we can carry. Galaena, will you come with us?"

  The blacksmith considers for a moment, then nods. "My forge is destroyed, and my skills might serve you better than they would rebuilding here. Besides," she adds with a grim smile, "I have a particular interest in ancient weapons and those who would corrupt them."

  As if in response to our decision, the pressure against our barrier suddenly recedes. The darkness doesn't vanish but withdraws, slinking back into the shadows between ruined buildings, biding its time. It knows we're coming. It's counting on it.

  "Tonight, we rest and prepare," I say, gradually easing my song to a conclusion that leaves a residual hum in the air, a protection that will last at least until morning. "Tomorrow, we begin hunting those who destroyed our home."

  Lyra's ice formations remain, glittering like crystallized music in the last magical light. Sariel's dome fades more slowly, motes of radiance drifting down around us like gentle snow. As our magics settle, I feel a strange certainty growing within me—that the three of us standing here represent something older and more powerful than we understand, a pattern repeating itself after centuries of dormancy.

  Rhythm Knight, Ice Witch, Light Saintess—separate traditions that somehow form a perfect triad when united. Perhaps this is what the Silent Circle truly fears. Not just the power of song magic reawakened, but the harmony that comes from different melodies finding their perfect counterpoint in each other.

  As we turn to leave the square, I glance back at the fragments of stained glass scattered across the cobblestones. In the last light of our fading magic, they seem to arrange themselves into a new pattern—not the Melodic Deities of old, but three figures standing together against encroaching darkness.

  A prophecy written in broken glass, spelling out a future we're only beginning to understand.

  The forge's embers cast long shadows across my workshop, painting the walls with dancing figures that seem almost alive in their fluid movements. I run calloused fingers over the ancient sword hilt, feeling the corrupted engravings beneath my touch. Even damaged, it speaks to me in ways others cannot hear—the metal remembers its original form, yearns for completion. Three centuries of working with enchanted metals has taught me to listen to what artifacts want to become.

  "You're a stubborn one," I murmur, placing the hilt carefully on my portable anvil.

  The makeshift workshop I've established in what remains of the village storehouse is a poor substitute for my forge, but it will serve for tonight's work. Tomorrow we leave for the Holy Capital, and I refuse to depart with this corruption still clinging to one of our relics.

  Outside, I hear the soft murmur of voices as survivors prepare for sleep. Sariel moves among them, her gentle light magic soothing fears and easing pain. Lyra and Aelia stand guard at opposite ends of our sanctuary, their unique magics creating a perimeter that should warn us of any approach. Their power together is... remarkable. I've studied the ancient texts that speak of Rhythm Knight and Songstress pairs, but seeing that legend reborn before my eyes stirs something I'd thought long buried—hope.

  I reach for my tools, selecting a fine silver brush designed for cleansing ritual objects. The bristles gleam with faint luminescence, enchanted decades ago by a traveling light priest who paid for shelter with magic rather than coin. As I begin to brush away the tarnish from the hilt, I hum a working song—not magic like Aelia's, but rhythm that helps focus my mind and steady my hands.

  Beneath my ministrations, the corrupted markings begin to shift. Not disappearing, but changing—as if my touch reminds them of their original purpose. The metal warms slightly, resonating with my humming in a way that confirms my suspicions.

  "You're not just any sword," I whisper, pausing to examine a symbol that has reverted to its true form—an ancient musical notation indicating a sustained note followed by a quick descent. "You're a conductor's blade."

  The realization sends a thrill through me. Conductor's blades were incredibly rare, even during the height of Song Magic—weapons that could direct and amplify the musical power of others. A Rhythm Knight wielding such a blade could coordinate an entire orchestra of magical practitioners, their combined songs becoming a symphony of devastating potential.

  No wonder the Silent Circle defaced it. No wonder they left it for us to find.

  A soft knock interrupts my thoughts. I look up to find Aelia standing in the doorway, her red hair catching the ember-light like a living flame.

  "May I come in?" she asks, her voice carrying that melodic quality that marks her as different from ordinary singers.

  I nod, gesturing to a stool across from my workbench. "Couldn't sleep?"

  "Too much in my head." She sits, her eyes immediately drawn to the sword hilt. "Galaena, what exactly are we facing here? You know more about ancient artifacts than anyone in Harmonious."

  I set down my brush, considering how much to share. Knowledge is power, but it can also be a burden—especially for someone already carrying so much responsibility.

  "The Silent Circle isn't just some group of anarchists or power-hungry mages," I begin, choosing my words carefully. "They're believers in a philosophy that's as old as Song Magic itself—that harmony is a form of control, that true freedom comes from discord."

  "That makes no sense," Aelia frowns. "Music without harmony is just noise."

  "To them, that's precisely the point. They see the structured nature of Song Magic—its reliance on rules, patterns, harmonics—as a prison imposed by the Melodic Deities. They believe that before the deities taught humans to sing with purpose, we had a more primal, chaotic magic." I pick up the hilt again, turning it so the newly revealed symbols catch the light. "And they're not entirely wrong."

  Aelia's green eyes widen. "What do you mean?"

  "History is written by the victorious," I sigh. "The ancient texts speak of a great conflict before the Fall—not just between humans, but between different approaches to magic itself. The Melodic Deities didn't just teach humanity Song Magic; they imposed it as the dominant system, suppressing other forms of power that weren't based on harmony."

  I can see her struggling with this information, her fingers unconsciously tapping a rhythm against her knee—a Rhythm Knight seeking comfort in beat and measure.

  "So the Silent Circle wants to restore these... chaotic magics?" she asks.

  "They want to shatter the foundations of our world," I correct her. "The harmony that underpins not just our magic but our very reality. And the Harmonic Sphere is key to their plan—not to use it, but to corrupt it."

  Understanding dawns in her eyes. "That's why they didn't take it. They're transforming it into something else."

  I nod grimly. "A Dissonant Sphere—an artifact that doesn't amplify harmony but unravels it. And this," I hold up the sword hilt, "would be the perfect tool to direct that power once fully corrupted."

  "But it's just a broken hilt," she objects. "The blade is missing."

  A smile tugs at my lips despite the gravity of our situation. "Is it? Look closer."

  Aelia takes the hilt, examining it with newfound curiosity. Her fingers trace the end where metal meets empty air, and I see the moment of discovery in her face. "There's... something here. Not physical, but..."

  "A blade of pure resonance," I confirm. "Invisible until activated by the right song. The metal remembers its purpose, even if we've forgotten how to awaken it."

  She hands the hilt back with reverent care. "Can you restore it completely?"

  "Not alone," I admit. "And not quickly. This kind of work requires specific materials, knowledge that may only exist in the archives of the Holy Capital now." I resume brushing the corrupted markings, revealing more of the original engravings. "But I can cleanse it enough that the Silent Circle can't use it against us before we reach the city."

  Aelia watches me work for a while, the rhythmic sound of brush against metal filling the comfortable silence between us. Finally, she speaks again, her voice softer.

  "Lyra thinks I should learn more about the Rhythm Knights—that my abilities are more than just coincidence." She glances toward the door, though Lyra is presumably still at her post. "She believes there's a reason we found each other, that our magics complement each other so perfectly."

  "The princess has good instincts," I observe, not missing the slight widening of Aelia's eyes at my casual reference to Lyra's royal status. "Yes, I know who she is. I've forged enough royal commissions to recognize the bearing of Holy Capital nobility, even when they're trying to hide it."

  "Why didn't you say anything?"

  I shrug. "Not my secret to reveal. Besides, she seemed happier here as just Lyra than whatever title they forced upon her there."

  Aelia nods, a small smile playing across her lips. "She is. Was." The smile fades as reality reasserts itself. "Do you think we're making a mistake, going to the Holy Capital? Won't they try to reclaim her?"

  "Undoubtedly," I say, setting down my brush and reaching for a vial of purifying oil. "But we need what's in their archives, and sometimes the safest place to hide is in plain sight. The Silent Circle has agents everywhere, but they're less likely to move against us in the heart of the capital."

  As I apply the oil to the cleansed metal, it begins to sing—a barely audible tone that resonates with something deep inside the workshop. Dust motes in the air begin to dance in geometric patterns around the hilt, responding to its awakening power.

  "It remembers," I whisper, more to myself than to Aelia. "After all these centuries, it remembers its purpose."

  Aelia leans forward, entranced by the phenomenon. Without seeming to realize what she's doing, she begins to hum—a counterpoint to the hilt's tone that causes the geometric patterns to expand and become more complex. The metal gleams brighter, as if her song is polishing it from within.

  Suddenly, a flash of silver light erupts from the end of the hilt—just for an instant, but unmistakable. The ghostly outline of a blade, composed of pure musical energy, visible for a heartbeat before fading back into potentiality.

  We both stare at the space where the blade momentarily existed, then at each other.

  "That wasn't supposed to happen," I say, unable to keep the wonder from my voice.

  Aelia looks at her hands as if they belong to someone else. "I didn't mean to—"

  "No, this is good," I assure her, carefully placing the hilt in a leather wrap designed to contain magical emanations. "It means the corruption hasn't reached the core of the artifact. It can be fully restored."

  She stands, clearly shaken by the unexpected manifestation of power. "I should get back to my post. Dawn isn't far off, and we need to be ready to move."

  I nod, recognizing her need for space to process what just happened. "Aelia," I call as she reaches the door. "The Rhythm Knights weren't just warriors or musicians. They were bridges—connections between different kinds of magic that allowed them to work in harmony. What you and Lyra are rediscovering... it matters more than you know."

  Her expression softens slightly, though the weight of responsibility still shows in the tension around her eyes. "Thank you, Galaena. For everything you're doing."

  After she leaves, I turn back to my workbench, gathering the tools I'll need for tomorrow's journey. The sword hilt, now wrapped securely, still emits a faint humming that only those attuned to metal can hear. It's asking a question that I don't have the answer to—not yet.

  Who will wield me when I am whole again?

  I can only hope that by the time we discover the answer, we'll be ready for what follows.

  The eastern sky lightens to a pale gray as our small procession moves through the remains of Harmonious. I walk beside Sariel, supporting an elderly man with a bandaged leg while she guides three children whose parents didn't survive the attack. Behind us, twenty-three other villagers capable of travel form a ragged line, carrying what few possessions they managed to salvage. Aelia and Lyra lead our group, their heads bent close in conversation, while Galaena brings up the rear, her vigilant eyes scanning for any sign of pursuit.

  "The children are afraid," I murmur to Sariel, noticing how the smallest girl clutches a singed doll with white-knuckled intensity.

  The saintess nods, her face drawn with exhaustion despite the rejuvenating light magic she cast on herself at dawn. "They've lost everything familiar. Fear is natural." She squeezes the girl's shoulder gently. "But they're stronger than they appear. Children often are."

  As we reach the village boundary, marked by a stone arch now cracked down the middle, Aelia raises her hand for us to halt. She turns to address the group, her voice carrying clearly in the still morning air.

  "Friends," Aelia begins, her voice steady despite the shadows under her eyes. "Look back one last time at what was our home."

  We turn as one, taking in the devastated landscape of broken buildings and scattered debris. The rising sun casts long shadows across the ruins, painting everything in harsh relief.

  "Remember this moment," she continues, her hand unconsciously moving to the sword hilt tucked into her belt—the ancient, broken relic Galaena had partially cleansed. "Not just the destruction, but what we carry forward."

  The wind catches her fiery hair, lifting it like a banner as she steps onto a fallen column, elevating herself so everyone can see her. Something in her bearing has changed since I first met her—the village guard becoming something more.

  "They believe they've silenced us," Aelia says, her voice gaining strength. "That by breaking our homes, our instruments, even this ancient blade, they've broken our spirit." She draws the hilt from her belt, holding it up so the rising sun catches the partially restored engravings. "But they don't understand what we are—what Harmonious has always been."

  The hilt catches the light oddly, seeming to bend it around its edges. I notice the children watching with wide eyes, their fear momentarily forgotten.

  "This Songblade may be broken, but like us, it remembers its purpose." Her fingers trace the end where the physical blade should be. "And I promise you this—it will sing again, stronger than before. Just as we will."

  A subtle vibration fills the air as she speaks, her words carrying a resonance beyond ordinary speech. Not yet song magic, but something approaching it—the natural authority of a Rhythm Knight awakening to her power.

  "The Silent Circle believes harmony is a chain to be broken," she continues, her eyes moving across our gathered faces. "But we know better. Harmony isn't imprisonment—it's strength. It's many voices finding purpose together, many notes creating something greater than themselves alone."

  She gestures to Galaena, who steps forward. "Our blacksmith tells me this blade can be reforged, not just restored to what it was, but made anew—stronger, more resilient, because it has known breaking." Aelia's green eyes blaze with conviction. "Like this blade, we will be reforged. What the Silent Circle intended as our end will become our beginning."

  Lyra moves to stand beside her, frost glittering at her fingertips in the morning light. Their proximity creates a visible shimmer in the air between them, magic recognizing magic.

  "The path ahead is long," Aelia acknowledges, looking toward the distant mountains we must cross to reach the Holy Capital. "And I cannot promise it will be easy. But I can promise this—what was broken can be remade. What was silenced can learn to sing again."

  Her fingers close around the hilt, and for a moment—just a heartbeat—I see it again: the ghost of a blade formed of pure musical energy, shimmering into existence before fading back to potential.

  Several of the villagers gasp, children pointing with expressions of wonder rather than fear. Even Sariel, accustomed to light magic's miracles, looks startled by the manifestation.

  "We carry Harmonious with us," Aelia concludes, returning the hilt to her belt. "Its songs, its traditions, its spirit. And we will return, when the time is right, to rebuild what was lost." She steps down from the column, her expression softening as she looks at the children. "But first, we have a blade to reforge and a circle to silence."

  The effect of her words is immediate and palpable. Backs straighten, chins lift. The elderly man I'm supporting stands a little taller, less weight on my shoulder. Even the smallest child clutches her doll with purpose rather than fear.

  Sariel catches my eye, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "The light works in mysterious ways," she murmurs. "Sometimes it forges leaders when we least expect it."

  Galaena adjusts the heavy pack on her shoulders, tools clanking softly within. "Fine words," she says gruffly, though approval shines in her eyes. "Now we need to see if the Holy Capital's archives contain the knowledge to make them reality."

  Aelia and Lyra resume their position at the front of our procession. As we pass beneath the cracked stone arch, leaving the boundaries of Harmonious behind, I notice something unexpected—small green shoots pushing up through the ash-covered ground, the first signs of renewal already taking root.

  The road stretches before us, winding through hills that will gradually rise into the mountain passes separating us from the Holy Capital. Three days of hard travel, if the weather holds and no further threats emerge. Three days for us to plan, to recover our strength, to prepare for whatever awaits us in the floating city of light and song.

  As we walk, the children begin to hum—tentatively at first, then with growing confidence. It's one of Harmonious's oldest folk songs, a simple melody about finding one's way home after a long journey. One by one, other villagers join in, their voices blending in the harmony that gives our village its name.

  Aelia doesn't sing with them, but I see her steps falling into rhythm with the melody, her hand resting on the hilt at her belt. The metal seems to warm beneath her touch, resonating with the impromptu chorus surrounding us.

  The Silent Circle sought to silence us, to corrupt our artifacts and break our spirits. Instead, they've awakened something that slumbered for centuries—a power they may soon wish had remained dormant.

  As we crest the first hill, I look back at the ruins of Harmonious. In the full light of morning, something catches my eye—a pattern in the destruction that wasn't visible before. The collapsed buildings, viewed from this vantage point, form the unmistakable shape of a musical note.

  Not an ending, then, but the first mark on a score that has only begun to be written.