My fingers trace the jagged edge of a broken cobblestone, feeling each crack and fissure like they're wounds on my own skin. The village square of Harmonious spreads before me—half-rebuilt, half-broken—a physical manifestation of our collective spirit. We are damaged but not defeated. The Songblade at my hip pulses with a gentle hum, as if agreeing with my unspoken thoughts, its warmth spreading through the leather scabbard and into my thigh.

  Dawn light spills across the square, painting long shadows across the fragments of our lives. Villagers move with purpose, their determined faces set against the memory of the attack three nights ago. A woman with salt-streaked hair carefully resets stones in the square's center, her weathered hands moving with the precision of someone who has rebuilt many times before. Nearby, a cluster of men hang fresh lanterns from poles that still bear scorch marks, the metal fixtures gleaming defiantly in the morning light.

  The sounds create a symphony of recovery—hammer strikes on fresh wooden posts, the scrape of stone against stone, quiet instructions passed between neighbors. It's a music I've grown too familiar with, though not one I'd choose to hear again.

  "Steady there," I call to a young boy struggling with a bucket of mortar. His thin arms strain under the weight, but his eyes flash with the same stubborn pride I often see in my own reflection. "Remember, we rebuild together."

  The attack came without warning—shadowy figures that moved like liquid darkness, extinguishing our lights one by one. They weren't after our goods or gold, but something else. The strange symbols they left burned into our central fountain still make no sense, but they pulse with a malevolence that sets my teeth on edge. The Songblade found its way to my hand that night, its ancient metal singing a furious melody I somehow knew how to follow, driving back the shadows when nothing else could.

  A small crowd has gathered near our makeshift assembly stand—a flat wagon bed draped with the village's faded ceremonial cloth. They look to me with expressions ranging from hope to hesitation. The mantle of leadership sits uncomfortably on my shoulders, heavy as chainmail and twice as restrictive. Before that night, I was just Aelia, a village guard with dreams larger than my courage. Now, they call me Lia with a reverence that makes my cheeks burn.

  I step onto the platform, the wood creaking beneath my boots. The Songblade's hum intensifies, as if eager to be acknowledged. My hand drops to its hilt—a habit I've developed in days that feel like years.

  "We must unite our strengths to face this unknown threat," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Each of us has something to contribute—whether it's stone-setting or sword-wielding, cooking or crafting. Harmonious wasn't built by heroes alone, and it won't be saved by them either."

  The blade pulses against my palm, sending a ripple of warmth up my arm. It's strange how quickly I've grown accustomed to its presence, this ancient weapon that supposedly belonged to the Rhythm Knights of old. The stories claim they defended our lands centuries ago, using blades that sang in harmony with the wielder's soul. Children's tales, I'd thought—until I heard the Songblade's melody in my mind, guiding my movements against the shadow creatures.

  "What if they return in greater numbers?" asks a thin man with a bandaged arm. His eyes dart nervously to the treeline beyond our village borders.

  My free hand clenches, fingernails digging into my palm. "Then we'll be ready. The defenses are stronger now. Sariel's light wards surround the perimeter, and we've sent word to neighboring villages."

  "And the Holy Capital?" a woman inquires, bouncing a fretful infant against her shoulder. "Surely they'll send aid."

  The question hangs in the air like morning mist. I want to offer certainty, but falsehoods won't protect them. "We've dispatched messengers, but until they arrive, we stand on our own—as we always have."

  Movement catches my eye—a flash of blue like a winter stream flowing between autumn trees. Lyra stands at the square's edge, her slender fingers tracing a weathered royal crest embedded in the old stone wall. Her presence still causes a flutter in my chest, inconvenient as summer rain on harvest day.

  "Continue the repairs," I tell the gathered villagers. "Elder Morain will distribute the day's tasks. Those with combat training, meet with Darren at midday for drills."

  As they disperse, I step down from the platform and make my way toward Lyra. The morning light catches in her blue hair, transforming it into cascading water frozen in time. She stands with that otherworldly poise that first caught my attention—back straight, chin tilted just so, as if she's posing for a portrait that will hang in some grand hall. But it's the intensity in her golden eyes as she studies the crest that reveals the fire beneath her icy exterior.

  "Find anything interesting?" I ask, stopping beside her.

  Lyra's fingers linger on the worn stone, tracing the outline of what might once have been a crown surrounded by musical notes. "This crest is older than the village itself," she says, her voice carrying that melodic quality that makes even simple observations sound like poetry. "The inscription mentions the 'harmony of crown and song'—a reference to the old alliance, I believe."

  "The one from the legend? Between the royal family and the Rhythm Knights?"

  Her golden eyes meet mine, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Legends often bear seeds of truth, Aelia. Especially those we're living through now."

  I feel a familiar warmth bloom in my chest—part admiration, part something deeper I'm not ready to name. When Lyra first arrived in Harmonious months ago, I mistook her for a lost noblewoman, with her refined manners and uncallused hands. Learning she was a musician seeking ancient musical magics seemed to explain her presence, yet sometimes I catch glimpses of someone else behind her careful composure—someone with secrets as deep as my own.

  "Do you think—" I begin, but childish laughter interrupts my question.

  Across the square, a circle of children sits cross-legged around Sariel, their faces upturned like flowers following the sun. Her blonde hair catches the light, forming a halo that enhances her saintly appearance. With delicate gestures of her fingers, she summons tiny orbs of light that dance and swirl above the children's heads.

  "And this," Sariel explains, her voice carrying the enthusiasm that makes her instantly beloved by every child in the village, "is how the First Light blessed the world with stars."

  The dancing lights multiply, spinning faster until they form a miniature constellation that hovers momentarily before bursting into gentle sparkles that rain down around the delighted children. They reach up with small hands, trying to catch the fading motes of light.

  "She's good with them," Lyra observes. "The church taught her well."

  I nod. "Light magic may have diminished since the old days, but Sariel makes it feel like wonder rather than mere utility."

  "Like your Songblade," Lyra says, nodding toward the weapon at my hip. "Song magic and light—two forces meant to work in harmony, now separated by time and circumstance."

  The blade gives a soft pulse, as if acknowledging itself in our conversation. I resist the urge to draw it, to let its gentle melody fill the air. Each time I've wielded it, the music has grown stronger, more complex—as has my unexpected ability to follow its rhythm in combat.

  A child breaks from Sariel's group, running toward us with the boundless energy of youth. She skids to a stop before me, her eyes wide with admiration.

  "Miss Lia, Miss Lia! Saintess Sariel says you're gonna fight the bad shadows with your singing sword! Can we see it? Please?"

  I kneel to meet her gaze. "The Songblade isn't for showing off, little one. It sings only when there's need."

  "Aww," she pouts, then brightens. "Mama says you're gonna leave to find help. Will you bring back more singing swords for all of us?"

  The question catches me off guard. Our plans to seek answers at the Holy Capital aren't common knowledge yet, especially among the children. I glance at Lyra, whose expression reveals nothing.

  "I'll bring back whatever Harmonious needs," I promise, gently turning the girl back toward Sariel's group. "Now go learn about the stars. That knowledge will serve you better than swords."

  As she skips away, I stand and brush dust from my knees. "Word travels faster than I'd hoped."

  "People need hope," Lyra says softly. "The journey to the Holy Capital gives them something to focus on beyond rebuilding walls."

  "Walls that may fall again if we don't discover what these shadow creatures want." I sigh, watching the rhythmic movement of hammers and hands throughout the square. "We leave tomorrow at dawn. Galaena says she'll have the talismans ready by evening."

  Lyra nods, her fingers finding her flute—an instrument of apparent silver that seems to absorb rather than reflect light. "I've prepared some new melodies that may complement your blade's song. If my research is correct, the combination could reveal pathways we can't currently see."

  In the distance, Sariel concludes her impromptu lesson, sending the children back to their parents with simple charms of blessed light. Her brown eyes find mine across the square, and she gives a cheerful wave that belies the seriousness of our situation. That's Sariel's gift—finding joy in darkness, keeping faith when logic suggests otherwise.

  The three of us—a village guard with an ancient blade, a mysterious musician with golden eyes, and a traveling saintess with unshakable faith—hardly seem the heroes of legend. Yet as I look around at the village pulling itself together stone by stone, I feel the weight of their expectations pressing down like a physical force.

  The Songblade hums a soft, encouraging note against my hip. Whatever waits beyond Harmonious—whatever sent those shadows and seeks something within our village—will find us ready. Not because we're fearless or powerful, but because we have no choice but to be.

  I place my hand over the blade, feeling its steady pulse sync with my heartbeat. "Tonight we prepare," I tell Lyra. "Tomorrow, we find answers."

  Heat slaps my face as I push open the heavy oak door to Galaena's workshop. The air inside shimmers with it, making the hanging tools on the wall dance like mirages. The blacksmith herself stands silhouetted against her forge—a mountain of muscle and focus, hammering a glowing piece of metal with rhythmic precision. Each strike sends a shower of golden sparks arcing through the air, and beneath the dominant clang of metal on metal, I swear I can hear a faint melody, as if the ore itself is singing.

  I step inside, letting the door swing shut behind me. The temperature difference is immediate and overwhelming—like walking into a dragon's mouth. Sweat beads on my forehead and upper lip within seconds. How Galaena works in this inferno daily is beyond my comprehension.

  The workshop itself is a testament to generations of craftwork. Stone walls blackened by decades of smoke rise to meet heavy wooden beams that support the ceiling. Tools of every imaginable shape and purpose line the walls—hammers with heads ranging from delicate chisels to massive sledges, tongs that could grasp a pebble or hold a broadsword, and punches, drifts, and swages whose functions I can only guess at. Interspersed among these familiar implements are objects clearly ancient and mysterious: a pair of tongs with runes that glow faintly blue when the forge flares; a hammer whose head seems to shift shape depending on the angle of view; a series of small anvils with strange indentations that match no blade I've ever seen.

  Galaena doesn't acknowledge my presence immediately. Her attention remains fixed on the glowing material before her—a small ingot that pulses with an inner light unlike typical heated metal. Her arms, corded with muscle earned through years of labor, move with surprising grace as she works. Each hammer fall is precisely placed, neither wasted nor rushed. The leather apron she wears bears countless small burn marks, like a constellation mapping her career at the forge.

  Silver streaks through her dark hair catch the forge light as she turns the ingot with practiced efficiency. The scars on her face—tiny marks from decades of flying sparks—seem to shift with her expressions, telling stories I can't quite read. Her concentration is absolute, almost reverent.

  "Melodic ore doesn't tolerate distraction," she says without looking up, somehow sensing my gaze. Her voice has the quality of stone grinding against stone—rough but strangely comforting. "One false strike and the resonance patterns collapse. You'd have nothing but expensive, useless metal."

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  I approach carefully, mindful not to disrupt her rhythm. "I've never seen it worked before."

  "Few have. Few can." She rotates the ingot again, revealing a surface that shimmers with colors that shouldn't exist in heated metal—blues and purples dancing across the gold. "Melodic ore responds to intention as much as technique. The hammer is just a conduit for the smith's will."

  The Songblade at my hip pulses gently, as if recognizing a distant cousin in the glowing material. "Is it... aware?"

  Galaena's lip quirks—the closest she comes to smiling. "Not like you and me. But it remembers. Ore pulled from the ancient meteor fields absorbs echoes of the songs that fell from the heavens. Part of why your blade sings." She sets down her hammer and, with tongs, submerges the hot metal in a basin whose liquid seems too thick and iridescent to be water. Steam hisses upward, carrying an aroma like rain-soaked wildflowers.

  "What is that solution?" I ask, fascinated by the swirling colors rising with the steam.

  "Essence of harmony. Water from our spring mixed with crushed crystals from the caves beneath the Elder Tree." She lifts the metal, now cooled to a dull orange. "The final quench will be in sacred oil blessed by your saintess friend."

  I watch as she returns the talisman-in-progress to the forge, building up the heat again. "You believe this will enhance the Songblade's power?"

  "Not enhance. Complement." She reaches for a smaller hammer, this one inlaid with silver wire forming intricate patterns along the handle. "The blade speaks through music. The talisman will help you listen—translate the melody into meaning you can understand."

  The notion sends an odd shiver through me despite the workshop's heat. I've been following the Songblade's guidance instinctively, letting my body respond to its musical promptings without fully understanding what each note signifies. The thought of comprehending its language more clearly is both exciting and unnerving.

  "Does the talisman have limitations?" I ask, watching as she begins a series of lighter, more precise strikes that sound almost like a complicated drumbeat.

  Galaena works silently for a moment, her focus absolute. Then: "Everything has limitations. The talisman will clarify the blade's voice, not amplify it. Distance matters—wear it close to the blade. And intent matters most of all." She glances up, fixing me with eyes as dark and impenetrable as cooling iron. "What you seek affects what you hear. Ask the wrong questions, you'll misinterpret the answers."

  The melodic ore begins to take form beneath her skilled hands—a disc about the size of my palm, with intricate spiral patterns emerging from the center. With each strike, the metal seems to flow rather than bend, as if the hammer is coaxing it into its true shape rather than forcing it.

  "How did you learn to work with it?" I ask, genuinely curious. Melodic ore is rare, and those who can shape it rarer still.

  A complex expression crosses her face—pride mingled with something like reverence. "My grandmother taught me. She learned from hers. The knowledge passes down, mother to daughter, sometimes skipping generations until it finds hands ready to receive it." She sets down the hammer and examines the disc, turning it carefully. "The first smiths learned from the ore itself, they say. Listened to the songs trapped inside and followed their guidance."

  I notice how her normally practical speech patterns shift when she discusses her craft, becoming almost poetic. It's a side of Galaena I've rarely glimpsed—this connection to something mystical beneath her gruff exterior.

  She reaches for a small wooden box on a nearby shelf and extracts a tiny chisel that gleams with an unnatural blue light. "Final touches now. The runes must be precise."

  I watch in fascination as she carefully inscribes minute symbols around the talisman's edge, each touch of the strange chisel releasing a note that hangs in the air like perfume. The symbols themselves seem familiar somehow, reminiscent of the markings on the Songblade's hilt.

  "Ancient script," she explains, noting my interest. "The language of the First Songs. Each symbol represents both a note and a concept—like 'journey' or 'revelation' or 'protection.'" She points to one particularly complex marking. "This one means 'truth-in-harmony.' It's the central binding rune that connects all others."

  As she works, I find myself mesmerized by the process. The workshop's oppressive heat fades from my awareness, replaced by appreciation for the ritual unfolding before me. This is craft elevated to art, functional objects imbued with meaning beyond their physical form.

  With a final, delicate strike, Galaena completes the last rune. She lifts the talisman with her tongs and moves to a small stone basin filled with amber liquid that gives off a subtle glow.

  "Sariel's blessed oil," she explains. "Infused with her light magic. The final quench will set the magical properties."

  She lowers the talisman into the oil, which immediately begins to bubble and emit a soft golden light. The liquid seems to be absorbed into the metal itself, the talisman drinking it in until the basin is empty. When Galaena finally removes it, the metal has transformed—no longer gold or silver but something in between, with an iridescent sheen that shifts as it moves.

  "It's beautiful," I breathe, genuinely awed.

  Galaena gives a curt nod, the closest she comes to accepting praise. Her calloused fingers lift the talisman from the tongs and examine it with critical eyes before extending it toward me on her open palm.

  "It will need to be worn against skin, preferably near your heart. The closer to the Songblade, the clearer its translations will be."

  I reach for it hesitantly, expecting heat, but the metal feels pleasantly cool against my fingers. The moment I touch it, the Songblade at my hip gives a clear, bell-like tone, as if greeting an old friend.

  "They recognize each other," Galaena observes, a hint of satisfaction in her rough voice. "Good sign."

  I turn the talisman over in my palm, admiring the craftsmanship. A thin channel runs around its edge, clearly meant for a cord or chain. "Thank you, Galaena. This is... I don't have words for what this means."

  She grunts, already turning back to her tools, methodically wiping and replacing them. "Words aren't needed. Use it well. That's thanks enough."

  I slip the talisman into a small leather pouch at my belt, its weight somehow reassuring against my hip. "The village is fortunate to have you."

  "Harmony needs all its pieces," she says simply, her back to me as she arranges her implements. It's dismissal and philosophy wrapped in the same breath.

  I take my leave, stepping out of the forge's oppressive heat into the relative cool of the late afternoon. My eyes take a moment to adjust from the forge's fierce glow to the softer light outside. When my vision clears, I spot Sariel across the way, surrounded by a small group of villagers beneath the spreading branches of an old oak tree.

  She moves among them with characteristic energy, her blonde hair catching sunlight like spun gold. In her hands, small objects gleam—protective charms, each pulsing with gentle light. Unlike the complex process I just witnessed with Galaena, Sariel's craft seems effortless, almost playful. She speaks as she works, her animated expressions drawing smiles even from the most worried faces.

  I approach quietly, not wanting to interrupt her work. Sariel kneels before an elderly man whose gnarled hands shake slightly as he receives a charm shaped like a teardrop. As she places it in his palm, she closes his fingers around it and covers his hand with both of hers.

  "Keep faith in the light," she tells him, her voice carrying that special warmth that makes her such an effective healer. "This charm will alert you to shadows that don't belong, giving you time to reach the meeting hall."

  The old man nods, gratitude softening the worry lines around his eyes. "Bless you, Saintess."

  "The blessing flows both ways," she responds with a smile that could melt winter ice. She rises and turns, spotting me. Her face brightens further. "Lia! Perfect timing. How goes the forge work?"

  "Galaena has finished the talisman," I say, patting the pouch at my side. "It's... quite something."

  "I'd expect nothing less. Her craftsmanship is legendary, even among the light priests at the Capital." Sariel turns to address the small gathering. "We will protect these lands with both healing light and steadfast determination. Wear these charms close, keep your families together, and remember—darkness cannot overcome light unless we let fear extinguish our flame."

  Her words carry a rhythmic cadence that seems to sparkle in the air, much like the gentle glow emanating from the charms she's distributed. It's not quite magic—or at least, not the showy kind—but something more subtle and perhaps more powerful: faith made tangible.

  As the villagers disperse with murmured thanks and blessings, Sariel turns her full attention to me. Despite her childlike enthusiasm, her brown eyes hold wisdom that betrays her true maturity.

  "You look thoughtful, Lia. Did the forging process illuminate something?"

  I consider my response carefully. "It made the journey ahead feel more real. More... consequential."

  She nods, understanding the weight behind my words. "Preparation often does that—transforms abstract plans into tangible reality." She gestures to the remaining charms in her satchel. "These aren't just symbols. They're commitments we make to those we protect."

  "Will they be enough?" I ask, voicing the doubt that's been gnawing at me since we decided on this journey. "If those shadow creatures return in force while we're gone..."

  Sariel's expression grows serious, though her voice maintains its gentle tone. "The charms will provide warning and some protection. The light wards around the village perimeter will slow any incursion. And the volunteers I've trained in basic light spells can maintain the defenses." She places a hand on my arm, her touch surprisingly solid for someone who often seems as insubstantial as her light magic. "We must believe it will be enough until we return with answers."

  I nod, trying to absorb some of her certainty. "Lyra's finishing her preparations as well. We leave at first light tomorrow."

  "Then we should rest while we can," Sariel suggests. "The road to the Holy Capital is long, and I suspect our journey may take unexpected turns."

  As we walk back toward the village center, the shadows lengthening as evening approaches, I feel the weight of the talisman at my side balancing the constant presence of the Songblade. Paired artifacts of music and craft, meant to reveal truths I'm not certain I'm ready to hear.

  Behind us, smoke continues to rise from Galaena's forge—a steady plume against the darkening sky. The blacksmith will work into the night, I know, crafting whatever protection she can for the village we're about to leave behind. Her dedication is another kind of faith, expressed through hammer and fire rather than prayer and light.

  I touch the pouch containing the talisman, feeling its subtle warmth through the leather. Tomorrow we set out in search of answers about the shadow creatures, the Songblade's origins, and my unexpected connection to both. The path ahead remains unclear, but at least now we have tools to help illuminate it—if we can learn to hear what they're trying to tell us.

  The stone archway that marks Harmonious's eastern boundary stands silhouetted against the burning orange sky, its weathered gray surface catching the last desperate fingers of daylight. I arrive early, adjusting the pack on my shoulders and feeling the reassuring weight of the Songblade against my hip. The talisman Galaena crafted hangs from a leather cord around my neck, pressed against my skin beneath my tunic, its metal neither warm nor cool but somehow both at once. Behind me, the sounds of the village grow muted as evening approaches—a mother calling her child home, the distant ring of the communal dinner bell, the soft bleat of goats being led to their pens. Familiar sounds I've taken for granted all my life, now carrying the poignant edge of a temporary farewell.

  I shift my weight from one foot to the other, mentally reviewing our preparations. My pack contains essential provisions—dried meat, hard cheese, flatbread wrapped in cloth, a waterskin filled from our village spring. Practical items line the bottom: flint and steel, a small cooking pot, bandages, and herbs Sariel insisted I take for common ailments. The waterskin sloshes against my lower back with each movement, a constant reminder of the journey ahead.

  The Songblade remains unusually quiet, as if gathering its strength. Since that night when it first sang to me during the shadow attack, it's become an extension of myself—sometimes speaking through melody, sometimes silent but vigilant. Now, as I stand at the threshold between the known and unknown, I find its silence unnerving.

  "Speak to me," I whisper, fingers brushing its hilt. "Give me some sign we're doing the right thing."

  No response comes—no reassuring hum, no guiding melody. Just cool metal against my fingertips and the weight of responsibility on my shoulders.

  Leaving Harmonious feels like abandoning a wounded friend. Though Sariel's wards encircle the village and her charms protect its people, the memory of those shadow creatures slipping through our defenses like water through cupped hands haunts my thoughts. What if they return while we're gone? What if our journey to the Holy Capital yields no answers, only more questions?

  The sky darkens by increments, stars appearing one by one like hesitant dancers taking their places. A breeze rustles through the newly planted saplings that line the road—replacements for trees that withered mysteriously in the days before the attack. Their leaves whisper secrets I can't quite decipher.

  Movement catches my eye—a figure approaching from the village, silhouetted against the lanterns now being lit along Harmonious's main street. Even before I can make out her features, I recognize Lyra by her graceful gait, each step placed with deliberate precision as if the ground beneath her feet deserves her respect.

  As she draws closer, the fading light captures the blue of her hair—not the bright azure of midday sky but the deep, mysterious blue of twilight waters. She's dressed practically for travel in leather boots and fitted trousers, but something in her bearing transforms these common garments into things of elegance. Her pack seems lighter than mine, though I know it contains essentials no less important: her mysterious scrolls of musical notation, ink and parchment for recording discoveries, and of course, her silver flute in its velvet-lined case.

  "You're early," she says by way of greeting, her golden eyes reflecting the last fragments of sunset.

  "So are you," I counter, feeling the familiar warmth her presence always brings—like standing near a hearth after hours in winter cold.

  Her lips curve in that barely-there smile that suggests amusement without quite committing to it. "Eager to be away, or anxious about leaving?"

  "Both," I admit, appreciating her directness. "Sariel will join us shortly. She's finishing a blessing for the village well."

  Lyra nods, understanding the importance of such rituals beyond their practical magic. She adjusts her cloak—a deep indigo affair that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. Her fingers linger on a small section near the collar, where I catch a glimpse of intricate embroidery partially concealed by a fold of fabric. The design resembles the royal crest she was examining yesterday, though subtly altered. Her movements seem purposeful, ensuring the emblem remains visible enough to be recognized by those who know what to look for, yet hidden from casual observation.

  "The journey to the Holy Capital should take five days if the weather holds," she says, her attention returning to me. "Though I suggest we take the forest path rather than the main road after we pass the trading post."

  I raise an eyebrow. "The forest path adds a day at least, and the locals say parts have become overgrown since the war."

  "Yes, but it also takes us past the Whispering Pools." Her voice drops slightly, taking on that quality that always makes me lean closer. "The ancient texts I've studied suggest they may have been a gathering place for the Rhythm Knights. If your Songblade truly belonged to their order..."

  She lets the implication hang in the air between us, tantalizing as the scent of fresh bread just out of reach.

  "The Holy Capital awaits; let us find the answers we need," she continues, her gaze drifting toward the horizon. "Whatever secrets the cathedral archives hold about these shadow creatures, we must uncover them before the next attack."

  I study her profile against the darkening sky, noting the tension in her jaw despite her composed exterior. Lyra rarely reveals her thoughts directly, preferring to let her music speak the emotions she keeps carefully controlled. Her investment in this journey runs deeper than mere scholarly interest, though she guards her motivations as closely as she guards the crest beneath her cloak.

  "Do you truly believe the archives will have what we seek?" I ask, voicing the doubt that's been gnawing at me. "These shadows seemed ancient, primal. Beyond the scope of written history."

  "The Capital's archives date back to the Founding Era," she replies. "And the church has preserved records others thought lost during the Dissolation. If answers exist anywhere, they exist there." A pause, then softer: "And if not in their public archives, perhaps in their sealed collections."

  There's something in her tone—a certainty that makes me wonder how she knows of collections that, by definition, should be unknown to most. Another mystery in the collection of mysteries that is Lyra Starweaver.

  We stand in momentary silence, the weight of our undertaking settling around us like evening mist. Then, without preamble, Lyra extends her hand toward me—a formal gesture that catches me by surprise. I take it, feeling the unexpected strength in her slender fingers as they close around mine. Her skin is cool but not cold, smooth where mine is calloused from years of sword practice and guard duty.

  "To the truth," she says simply.

  "To Harmonious," I respond, completing what feels like a ritual neither of us planned.

  Our hands remain clasped a moment longer than necessary, a connection that speaks volumes in its silence. Then we separate, each returning to final preparations. Lyra secures her flute at her side, its silver length catching the last remnants of light. I fasten the pouch of small enchanted artifacts Galaena provided—fire starters imbued with lasting flame, stones that glow in darkness, metal shavings that will supposedly point toward sources of melodic ore.

  "Sariel should have been here by now," I murmur, glancing back toward the village.

  As if summoned by my concern, a folded piece of parchment flutters down from above, landing at my feet. I look up to see Sariel waving from the bell tower, her silhouette unmistakable against the evening sky. I retrieve the note and unfold it, recognizing her flowing script:

  *Friends—urgent message from northern villages. Shadow sightings reported. Must investigate. Will rejoin you at Crossroads Inn in three days. Safe journey until then. Faith guides us all. —S*

  I pass the note to Lyra, who reads it quickly, her expression unreadable in the gathering dusk.

  "Well," I say, trying to mask my disappointment, "it seems we begin this journey as two instead of three."

  Lyra folds the note carefully and hands it back to me. "Sariel follows her calling as we follow ours. Our paths will reconverge." She adjusts her pack with a decisive movement. "Shall we?"

  With a last glance at Harmonious—its windows now glowing with lamplight, smoke rising from chimneys in lazy spirals—I nod. We step through the archway together, our boots raising small clouds of dust from the dirt road. The path stretches before us, flanked by newly planted saplings whose leaves rustle with promises or warnings, I can't tell which.

  The Songblade chooses this moment to awaken, humming a soft, questioning melody against my hip. The talisman at my chest responds with a gentle warmth, as if the two are conversing in a language I'm only beginning to comprehend. I place my hand on the hilt, drawing comfort from its solid presence.

  "I hear it," Lyra says quietly. "G minor—the key of questioning and seeking."

  I glance at her, surprised. "You understand its music?"

  A small smile plays at her lips. "Music is a language I've studied all my life. Your blade speaks clearly to those who know how to listen."

  We walk side by side as full darkness claims the sky, the dirt beneath our feet gradually transitioning from the well-packed earth of village outskirts to the looser soil of less-traveled ways. Behind us, the sounds of Harmonious fade with each step; ahead, the whispers of the open world grow louder—night creatures beginning their chorus, wind playing through fields of tall grass, the distant murmur of a stream we'll reach before midnight.

  Overhead, a solitary raven circles, its wings cutting sharp lines against the indigo sky. It watches our progress with an intelligence that seems more than animal, then banks sharply eastward—the direction we travel. Coincidence, perhaps, or something more deliberate. In a world where blades sing and metal holds memory, few things can be dismissed as mere chance.

  The talisman presses against my chest with each step, its weight a reminder of Galaena's warning: *What you seek affects what you hear. Ask the wrong questions, you'll misinterpret the answers.*

  As twilight surrenders fully to night and Harmonious disappears from view behind us, I wonder what questions await us—and whether we'll recognize the answers when they come.