I adjust my guard uniform for the fifth time this morning, the leather strap cutting into my shoulder like it's trying to remind me I don't belong here anymore—or is it that I belong here too much? The marketplace of Harmonious buzzes around me, familiar and strange all at once, like a favorite song played in the wrong key. My fingers twitch against the spear I've carried for years, except in my mind, I've wielded it with the skill of a master for much longer. The memories—future memories, if that makes any sense—flicker behind my eyes like lightning bugs trapped in a jar, illuminating fragments of a life I haven't lived yet.

  "Morning patrol going well, Windwhisper?" calls a vegetable vendor, his weathered face creasing into a smile that pulls at the edges of my own lips.

  "All quiet," I respond, the words automatic while my thoughts scatter like startled birds. I've said this same greeting thousands of times, but now it feels like reading lines from a play I've rehearsed too many times.

  The marketplace unfolds before me in waves of color and sound—merchants hawking their wares, the sweet-sour scent of fresh bread and overripe fruit mingling in the air, children weaving between stalls with wooden swords. I know every cobblestone, every merchant's call, yet I also remember this place half-destroyed during an attack that hasn't happened yet. The dissonance makes me dizzy.

  I pass by the fletcher's stall and a memory surfaces unbidden—his son will become a masterful archer who saves dozens during the siege of Harmonious next spring. Except there is no siege. Not yet. Maybe not ever, if I can—

  "Focus, Aelia," I mutter to myself, tapping my temple with two fingers. "Present time. Present place."

  My enhanced senses pick up details I never noticed before—the slight limp in the blacksmith's gait, the faded enchantment marks on the baker's oven that sing a quiet melody only I can hear. Song magic permeates everything in Harmonious, but now I can feel its resonance in my bones, in the rhythm of my heartbeat. This new awareness is both gift and burden.

  A snippet of melody, a battle chant I shouldn't know yet, rises to my lips unbidden. I swallow it back, alarmed at how naturally it came to me. The powers of a Rhythm Knight don't belong to me—not the guard I am now, not the simple village girl I'm supposed to be.

  I scan the crowd with practiced ease, my gaze landing on an elderly merchant with a table of gleaming trinkets—brass lockets that capture a loved one's laughter, rings that warm in the presence of truth. His cloudy eyes suggest failing vision, making him an easy target. Sure enough, a thin man in a worn cloak sidles up to the stall, his fingers twitching with the telltale signs of a practiced thief.

  The pickpocket's hand darts out, quick as a sparrow, toward a jeweled pendant while the merchant turns to assist another customer. I've caught dozens of thieves in my time as a guard, but now my body responds with the training of a future I haven't lived yet.

  I move without thinking, crossing the distance in three long strides. "Excuse me," I say, reaching to tap his shoulder with what I intend to be gentle restraint.

  My fingers barely graze his cloak when the man launches skyward as if shot from a bow. His surprised yelp turns heads before he arcs across the marketplace, arms pinwheeling frantically. He crashes into a fruit stand with a spectacular explosion of apples and pears, the wooden structure collapsing beneath him in a cacophony of splintering wood and startled shouts.

  Silence descends like a heavy curtain. Every eye in the marketplace turns to me, wide with shock.

  "I just..." My voice sounds small in the stillness. "I just tapped him."

  The thief moans from the mountain of fruit, his limbs splayed at odd angles though nothing appears broken. The fruit seller stares at the ruins of his stall, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for water.

  "Lucky timing?" I offer weakly to the gathering crowd. "He must have... slipped. On a... wet patch?"

  The cobblestones beneath my feet are bone dry.

  "What in the name of the Melodic Deities just happened?" Captain Renault's voice cuts through the murmuring crowd. My stomach drops as he pushes his way through the gathering onlookers, his weathered face set in stone.

  "Captain," I straighten, trying to look like the ordinary guard I'm supposed to be. "I apprehended a thief."

  "You sent him flying across the marketplace," he says flatly, one bushy eyebrow raised so high it threatens to vanish into his hairline. "Care to explain that, Windwhisper?"

  Heat rushes to my face. "I didn't mean to. I just reached out and he... went."

  "People don't just 'go,' Aelia," he says, eyeing me with a mixture of suspicion and concern. "Not unless there's something making them go."

  Around us, the crowd has grown. I catch fragments of whispered conversations:

  "...never seen anything like it..."

  "...unnatural strength..."

  "...like the old stories of the Rhythm Knights..."

  That last one makes my heart stutter. I need to divert attention, quickly.

  "I've been training," I blurt out. "Extra sessions. With weights. Heavy ones. At night. When no one's watching." I wince at how suspicious that sounds.

  Captain Renault's expression doesn't change. "Uh-huh. And in these secret training sessions, did you also learn how to launch men through the air with a finger?"

  "I... caught him off balance?" My statement lilts upward like a question.

  "Caught him off balance," he repeats slowly. "With enough force to demolish a fruit stand."

  Two other guards drag the groaning thief to his feet. He looks at me with terror in his eyes, struggling against their grip.

  "She's not human!" he cries. "Did you see what she did? No normal guard has that kind of strength!"

  "Shut it," one of the guards growls, giving him a shake.

  I step forward to help the fruit seller who's frantically trying to salvage his wares. I reach for a crate of apples, forgetting my newfound strength, and the wooden slats crumble in my grip. Apples tumble everywhere, rolling across the cobblestones like escaping prisoners.

  "Sorry!" I drop the splintered wood, horrified. "I didn't—I'm so sorry."

  The fruit seller steps back, eyes wide. "It's fine. I'll... I'll do it myself."

  My cheeks burn hotter than the midday sun. I kneel and begin gathering fruit one by one, carefully, as if handling newborn birds. Each apple placed gently in a basket is an apology, each pear a promise to be more careful.

  "Windwhisper." Captain Renault's voice has softened, but concern lines his face. "Are you feeling well?"

  "I'm fine," I say too quickly. "Really. Never better."

  "You've been... different lately. Distracted. And now this." He gestures to the remains of the fruit stand. "If there's something going on—"

  "Nothing's going on," I interrupt, then immediately regret my sharpness. "I mean, I'm just... I've been having trouble sleeping. Strange dreams. It's nothing."

  Nothing except memories of a future that hasn't happened, of a power I shouldn't possess, of a destiny I'm not ready to face.

  "Perhaps you should take the rest of the day," he suggests, not unkindly. "Get some rest."

  "No!" The protest comes out louder than intended. If I'm alone with my thoughts, with these memories, I might drown in them. "I mean, I'd rather keep busy. I'll be more careful. I promise."

  He studies me for a long moment, then sighs. "Fine. But you're on cleanup duty here until everything's sorted. And I want to see you tomorrow morning before patrol. We need to talk."

  "Yes, sir," I nod, relief washing through me at the temporary reprieve.

  As he walks away, I return to gathering fruit, my movements deliberate and measured. A small child approaches, watching me with wide eyes.

  "Are you magic?" she whispers, voice filled with wonder.

  The question strikes deeper than she knows. "No," I lie, giving her a small smile. "Just strong."

  "Like the Rhythm Knights in the stories?" Her eyes sparkle.

  My heart skips. "Those are just tales, little one. Old legends."

  "My grandma says they were real. That they could do amazing things with their music."

  I hand her an apple, unmarked despite its fall. "Your grandma sounds wise. Now run along."

  As she skips away, I resume my task, but my mind races ahead. These powers coursing through me are real—too real. The melody of battle hums just beneath my skin, ready to emerge at the slightest provocation. I need to learn control before I give myself away completely.

  The sun climbs higher as I work, and with each piece of fruit returned to its crate, each splintered board stacked aside, I make a silent promise: I will master this. I will understand why I've been given these memories, these abilities. And somehow, I'll find the path between the guard I am and the Rhythm Knight I apparently become.

  But first, I need to make it through this day without launching anyone else across the marketplace.

  Twilight drapes itself over the forest like a dancer's veil, turning familiar trees into looming sentinels as I follow Marten and Eliza along the eastern patrol route. The weight of my spear is comforting against my palm—one of the few things that still feels right in a world gone sideways. Three days since the timeline reset, and I'm still fumbling through the simplest tasks like a puppet with tangled strings. We haven't spoken much since leaving Harmonious, which suits me fine. The fewer conversations, the fewer chances I have to reveal knowledge I shouldn't possess.

  "This clearing should do," Marten announces, dropping his pack with a theatrical sigh. Sweat glistens on his bald head despite the cool evening air. "Any longer and my feet would've filed formal complaints."

  Eliza rolls her eyes. "You said that an hour ago, and the hour before that." Her voice is sharp but her expression fond, like someone long accustomed to ignoring dramatic declarations. She's the newest addition to our patrol unit, all angles and efficiency, her dark hair pulled back so tightly it must give her a headache.

  "And I meant it every time," Marten grins, already unfurling his bedroll. "Unlike some people, I'm consistent."

  I smile at their familiar bickering while unpacking my own gear, careful to moderate my movements. Earlier today, I accidentally snapped a wooden spoon in half while stirring a pot of stew. The memory of Eliza's raised eyebrow still makes my cheeks burn.

  The clearing opens to the evening sky like cupped hands, ringed by ancient oaks that whisper secrets to the wind. In another time—a future that now exists only in my memory—this peaceful spot will become a battleground. Right where Marten stands, a Rhythm Knight will fall defending a group of fleeing villagers. I blink hard, dispelling the image before it fully forms.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Aelia?" Eliza's voice cuts through my thoughts. "You're staring at empty air again."

  "Sorry," I mumble, focusing on unfolding my bedroll with exaggerated care. "Just... thinking about patrol rotations."

  "Well, think about dinner instead," Marten says, kicking together a circle of stones for a fire pit. "I'm hungry enough to eat one of those giant forest bears, assuming you could cook it for me."

  "No bears in this part of the forest," I reply automatically, then freeze. That knowledge comes from future mapping expeditions, not current records. Fortunately, neither seems to notice my slip.

  Eliza gestures to the pit. "Since you're so fascinated by the nothing over there, why don't you make yourself useful and get a fire going? Marten and I will set up the perimeter wards."

  I nod, relieved at the simple task. This, at least, I've done hundreds of times—gather tinder, arrange kindling, strike flint against steel. Basic guard training.

  Yet as I kneel beside the stone circle, a different memory surfaces—a Rhythm Knight battle chant that coaxes flame from the merest spark. The melody rises to my lips unbidden, soft and insistent like a forgotten lullaby. Using it would be so much faster than fumbling with flint in the growing darkness.

  "Just a tiny bit," I whisper to myself, glancing over my shoulder to ensure Marten and Eliza are occupied with the wards. "The smallest possible amount of magic."

  I arrange the tinder with trembling fingers, then close my eyes and let the melody rise from somewhere deep inside me. The notes are fragile at first, barely audible even to my own ears—a humming so subtle it might be mistaken for the evening breeze.

  The song builds in my chest, warm and insistent. I feel it connect with something primal in the air around me, a resonance that makes my fingertips tingle with static. This is working! Just a gentle nudge, a whispered suggestion to the elements rather than a command.

  I open my eyes, expecting to see a modest flame flickering among the tinder.

  Instead, a column of fire erupts toward the darkening sky—a roaring inferno that shoots twenty feet upward with the voice of an angry god. Heat slams into me like a physical blow, driving me backward onto the ground. The flames twist and dance, forming shapes that almost resemble musical notes before dissolving into sparks.

  "WHAT IN THE NINE HELLS?" Marten's bellow barely registers over the fire's roar.

  "AELIA!" Eliza screams, dropping her ward stones. "WHAT DID YOU DO?"

  The fire pulses in time with my racing heart, expanding with each beat. Tree branches above begin to smoke and blacken. Horror freezes me for precious seconds before instinct takes over.

  "I'm sorry!" I scramble to my knees, fighting panic. "I didn't mean to—I was just—"

  The countermelody comes to me without conscious thought, a descending pattern that speaks of earth and stillness. I hum it frantically, trying to undo what I've started. The flames resist at first, writhing like living creatures reluctant to surrender their freedom.

  "It's going to set the whole forest ablaze!" Eliza shouts, dragging Marten away from the heat. "We need to run!"

  "No! I can fix this!" I press my palms toward the ground, channeling the countermelody through my body. Sweat pours down my face, evaporating instantly in the intense heat. "Just give me a second!"

  The fire wavers, then begins to shrink reluctantly. I pour more intent into the melody, my voice growing stronger as I find the rhythm. Down, down, down—commanding the flames to retreat to their proper size. With each note, the inferno diminishes until finally, miraculously, only a modest campfire remains within the stone circle.

  Silence follows, broken only by our ragged breathing and the now-gentle crackle of flames.

  "What," Eliza says very precisely, "was that?"

  I wipe soot from my face, buying time. My mind races for an explanation that doesn't involve time resets or Rhythm Knight abilities.

  "Must have been... an air pocket," I offer weakly. "In the ground. Natural gas, maybe?"

  "Natural gas," Marten repeats slowly, his normally jovial face unnervingly serious. "That just happened to be under our campfire spot."

  "And then disappeared when you... what? Sang to it?" Eliza adds, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

  "I wasn't singing," I protest, the lie sour on my tongue. "I was just... humming. To calm myself. While I... smothered it. With my... thoughts."

  Even to my ears, it sounds ridiculous. I give up and gesture lamely to the now-perfect campfire. "At least it's working now?"

  They exchange a look that speaks volumes—concern layered with suspicion and a dash of fear. The kind of look reserved for someone who might be losing their grip on reality.

  "Let's just eat," Marten finally says, unpacking our rations with exaggerated normalcy. "I'm still hungry, and apparently we have a perfectly good fire now."

  We settle around the flames, the silence thick enough to cut with a knife. I focus on my dried meat and hard bread, grateful for anything that keeps my mouth occupied and prevents more impossible explanations.

  "So," Eliza eventually breaks the silence, "three more days until we circle back to Harmonious."

  "Three days is good," I nod, relieved at the mundane topic. "Though we should prepare for rain on the second day. The valley path floods easily."

  Both heads turn toward me.

  "The weather's been clear for weeks," Marten says slowly. "No signs of changing."

  Too late, I realize my mistake. The storm I'm thinking of won't happen for another month in the original timeline. I bite my lip hard.

  "Just a feeling," I mutter. "My joints ache sometimes before rain."

  "Your joints," Eliza repeats flatly. "You're twenty-two."

  "Early-onset... joint prophecy," I wince at my own words. "It runs in my family."

  Marten's eyebrows climb toward his nonexistent hairline. "Right. And does your family also do whatever that was with the fire?"

  "No!" I say too quickly. "That was just a fluke. Like I said, natural gas."

  Eliza leans forward, her sharp eyes reflecting the firelight. "You've been acting strange ever since that hit you took during training last week. Saying odd things. Like earlier today, when you told me to watch out for the root that wasn't there."

  "Until I tripped over it five minutes later," Marten adds. "In exactly the spot you pointed to."

  I remember that moment—a flash of future memory that I couldn't stop from voicing. Just like now.

  "Lucky guess," I shrug, studying my bread with sudden fascination.

  "And yesterday," Eliza continues relentlessly, "you called Captain Renault by the title 'Commander' before catching yourself."

  "Slip of the tongue."

  "He won't be promoted to Commander for at least two years," Marten points out. "If ever."

  I fight the urge to correct him—it will be eighteen months, actually, after the defense of the northern passage. An event that hasn't occurred yet.

  "Well, he should be," I mutter instead. "He deserves it."

  "And then there's whatever happened in the marketplace today," Eliza presses. "Tossing a thief twenty feet with a finger tap?"

  "I told you, he slipped," I insist, heat creeping up my neck.

  "On dry cobblestones."

  "Very... slippery... dry cobblestones."

  Marten sighs heavily. "Aelia, we're your friends. If something's happening to you—something strange—you can tell us."

  The sincerity in his voice nearly breaks my resolve. How I wish I could explain that I've lived through a future where our peaceful village faces destruction, where I discover my heritage as a Rhythm Knight, where music becomes both weapon and shield. But they'd think me mad or worse.

  "I've been having dreams," I offer instead, a partial truth. "Vivid ones. Sometimes they... bleed into waking thoughts."

  "Dreams about what?" Eliza asks, her suspicion softening slightly.

  I stare into the flames, weighing my words carefully. "About Harmonious. About dangers coming. About people I've never met who somehow feel familiar."

  "Like who?" Marten leans forward, genuinely curious now.

  "A woman with blue hair and golden eyes," I say without thinking, the image of Lyra Starweaver rising unbidden. "A songstress with ice magic and secrets."

  "Sounds like something from a children's tale," Eliza scoffs, but I catch the uneasiness in her voice.

  "Maybe it is," I agree, forcing a laugh. "Maybe I've been listening to too many marketplace bards."

  "Or maybe," Marten says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, "you should talk to the village healer when we return. Dreams that vivid could be a sign of fever."

  "And the fire?" Eliza asks pointedly.

  I spread my hands helplessly. "Natural gas. Unless you think I can suddenly command the elements with my voice?"

  They both laugh at that, the tension breaking slightly. I join in, the sound hollow in my own ears.

  "When we get back," Marten says between chuckles, "remind me never to let you handle fire duties again. Stick to what you're good at—hitting things with that spear of yours."

  "Fair enough," I agree, relief washing through me at the temporary reprieve.

  The conversation turns to safer topics—Marten's latest romantic failure, Eliza's ongoing feud with the baker's son, the upcoming harvest festival. I contribute just enough to seem engaged while keeping a tight rein on my words, wary of more slips.

  Later, as they prepare for sleep, I volunteer for first watch. Alone with the night and the softly crackling fire—now behaving as an ordinary campfire should—I look up at the stars and wonder how long I can maintain this charade. The magic pulses just beneath my skin, a melody waiting to be released. The memories of a future that may never come flicker like the flames before me.

  "Control," I whisper to myself, a promise and a prayer. "I just need control."

  But as the constellations wheel slowly overhead, I can't shake the feeling that control is exactly what I'm running out of.

  The warning horn echoes through the forest, three short blasts that cut through our morning routine like a knife. I'm on my feet before the third note fades, my body responding to a signal my mind has heard countless times—both in this life and the other. Marten and Eliza scramble up beside me, hands reaching for weapons, questions in their eyes.

  "Bandit attack," I explain, already moving toward the sound. "Caravan on the north road." I don't mention that I recognized the pattern instantly, that I know exactly how many attackers we'll face, that in another timeline, this skirmish ended with two dead merchants and a wounded guard. That outcome belongs to a future I intend to prevent.

  "How can you tell it's bandits?" Marten huffs, struggling to keep pace as I weave through the trees with unexpected grace.

  "The pattern," I call over my shoulder. "Three short, urgent blasts. Border disturbance would be two long and a short. Village emergency is repeated pairs."

  "Since when do you know horn signals?" Eliza's voice is sharp with suspicion. "That's captain-level knowledge."

  I bite my tongue, cursing my slip. "I... study in my free time."

  No time for further questions as we break through the tree line onto the north road. The scene unfolds exactly as my future memory promised—a merchant caravan of three wagons surrounded by eight bandits in mismatched leather armor, their faces obscured by cloth masks. Two caravan guards lie unconscious by the roadside. The merchants huddle behind their wagons, faces pale with fear.

  The bandits haven't noticed us yet, too focused on threatening an elderly merchant for his lockbox.

  "Eight of them, three of us," Marten whispers, eyes wide. "We should fall back and signal for reinforcements."

  "No time," I murmur, assessing the situation with a tactician's eye I shouldn't possess. "They'll kill the merchants and be gone before help arrives."

  "Then what's the plan?" Eliza asks, bow already nocked with an arrow.

  A dozen strategies flash through my mind—maneuvers learned from years of Rhythm Knight training that hasn't happened yet. I push them aside, trying to think like the simple guard I'm supposed to be.

  "Standard approach," I say, forcing normalcy into my voice. "Eliza, cover from that ridge. Marten, flank left while I draw their attention from the right."

  They nod, accepting the conventional tactic. As we separate, I grip my spear tightly, reminding myself to fight like a village guard, not a Rhythm Knight. No enhanced strength. No battle melodies. No impossible maneuvers.

  I step onto the road, planting my feet in an intimidating stance. "By order of Harmonious Guard, drop your weapons!"

  Eight heads swivel toward me, momentary surprise giving way to sneering amusement.

  "Look at this," the largest bandit calls, a jagged sword hanging loosely in his grip. "A little girl playing soldier."

  "There's three of them," another warns, spotting Marten's approach. "And the girl's got a bow."

  "So there's eight of us and three of them," the leader laughs. "I like those odds."

  They spread out, confident in their numerical advantage. From the corner of my eye, I see one circling toward the merchant wagons, blade raised toward a woman clutching her child.

  Something snaps inside me. These people will die if I hold back—die because I'm too afraid to use what I've been given. The future memory shows me the bandit's blade plunging into the woman's chest while her child screams.

  Not this time.

  A melody rises within me, ancient and powerful. I don't fight it. Instead, I let it flow through my veins, a battle hymn of the Rhythm Knights that turns muscle and bone into instruments of precision.

  "Eight against one seems unfair," I call out, a smile tugging at my lips. "For you."

  The first bandit charges, axe raised high. In normal circumstances, I'd dodge or parry. Instead, I step into his attack, my body moving with fluid grace that belongs to years of training I haven't experienced yet. The melody hums in my throat as I spin beneath his swing, my spear twirling in my hands like an extension of my arm.

  The wooden shaft connects with his temple—a perfect, controlled strike that drops him unconscious without drawing blood.

  Two more rush me from opposite sides. The battle melody grows stronger, notes vibrating through my chest. My spear begins to glow faintly with a golden light as the song magic responds to my call. I leap—higher than any normal guard could—twisting in mid-air to kick one bandit squarely in the chest while sweeping my spear in an arc that takes the other's legs from under him.

  Both hit the ground hard as I land in a perfect crouch between them, the impact sending a small shockwave of dust from beneath my feet.

  From the ridge, Eliza's bow falls slack in her hands. "What the..."

  I don't pause. The melody drives me forward, each movement flowing into the next like water. A fourth bandit thrusts a spear toward my back, but I'm already turning, catching the shaft and using his momentum to flip him over my shoulder. He sails through the air, landing in an undignified heap ten feet away.

  "Is she throwing people again?" I hear Marten's distant, incredulous voice.

  The remaining bandits hesitate, exchanging nervous glances. Their leader snarls and signals them forward in a coordinated attack—a tactic that might work against an ordinary guard.

  But I am not ordinary. Not anymore.

  I plant my feet in the distinctive defensive stance of the Rhythm Knights—weight centered, spear held horizontally before me, left palm pressed against the shaft in a position known as "Harmony's Shield." The stance hasn't been seen in centuries, existing only in ancient scrolls and the memories I shouldn't have.

  The humming in my throat grows louder, becoming an audible chant that carries across the battlefield. Notes rise and fall in a pattern that speaks of strength and protection. My spear's glow intensifies, casting golden reflections across my face.

  "She's one of them witches!" a bandit cries, faltering in his charge.

  I move through their attacks like a dancer through raindrops, each dodge perfect, each counterstrike precise. One bandit swings a mace that should crush my shoulder—I bend backward at an impossible angle, the weapon passing inches above my face. As I straighten, my spear butt catches him under the chin, lifting him off his feet.

  Another rushes me with twin daggers. I spin my spear in a complex pattern that shouldn't be possible for human hands to execute, creating a shield of golden light that deflects his blades before striking him with the flat of my spearhead in three rapid taps—throat, solar plexus, knee. He collapses, gasping.

  The leader, seeing his men fall one by one, bellows in rage and charges with his jagged sword raised. My body responds without conscious thought, flowing into an advanced Rhythm Knight technique called "Autumn's Final Note." I drop to one knee, plant my spear butt in the earth, and pivot around it, using the shaft as an axis to sweep both legs into his ankles while simultaneously bringing the spear around in an arc that catches the sword and sends it spinning into the air.

  He hits the ground hard as I catch his falling sword by the hilt, the movement so smooth it looks rehearsed. With a flick of my wrist, I embed the blade in the dirt beside his head.

  "Yield," I suggest pleasantly, my glowing spear tip hovering an inch from his throat.

  The entire skirmish has lasted less than a minute.

  Silence blankets the road, broken only by the groans of fallen bandits and my own humming, which I belatedly realize I'm still doing. I clear my throat, the golden glow fading from my spear as the melody dies away.

  Eight bandits lie scattered across the road in various states of pained consciousness. None dead, none seriously injured, all thoroughly defeated. By me. Alone.

  The merchants emerge from behind their wagons, faces locked in expressions of disbelief. Marten stands frozen mid-stride, jaw hanging open. Eliza slowly lowers her bow, having never fired a single arrow.

  "What," Marten finally manages, "in all the realms was that?"

  I glance down at the bandit leader, who stares up at me with undisguised terror. "Simple combat techniques?" I offer weakly.

  "Simple?" Eliza approaches cautiously, as if I might suddenly start throwing her around too. "Aelia, you moved like... like nothing I've ever seen. And your spear was glowing."

  "Trick of the light," I mutter, quickly binding the leader's hands with rope from my belt.

  "You were humming," a merchant woman says, stepping forward with her child clutched to her side. "And the song... it did something. Made you stronger."

  "Just a focus technique," I lie, not meeting her eyes. "Helps with timing."

  "Focus technique my left boot," Marten snorts, beginning to tie up another bandit. "That was Rhythm Knight stuff, wasn't it? Like in the old stories?"

  My heart stutters. "Those are just legends."

  "Legends don't make weapons glow gold," Eliza counters, studying me with narrowed eyes. "Or let someone fight like they're dancing on air."

  I busy myself securing more bandits, desperately searching for an explanation that doesn't involve time resets or ancient powers. "I've been... practicing some experimental combat forms. Based on old scrolls in the village archive."

  "Scrolls about Rhythm Knights?" the merchant woman presses, excitement replacing her fear. "Are they returning? The old songs say they'll come back when needed most."

  "No, no," I shake my head firmly. "I'm just a guard. A regular guard who... reads a lot."

  "Regular guards don't take down eight bandits single-handedly," Eliza mutters.

  "I got lucky," I insist, standing to face them. "They were poorly trained and overconfident."

  None look convinced, but the immediate crisis of explanation is postponed as we focus on practical matters—treating the unconscious caravan guards, securing the bandits for transport to Harmonious, and ensuring the merchant family is unharmed.

  As I help the elderly merchant recover scattered goods, a prickling sensation crawls up my spine—the unmistakable feeling of being watched. I turn slowly, scanning the forest edge.

  There. A flash of blue among the green leaves.

  My breath catches in my throat. Standing half-concealed by the trees is a slender woman with hair the color of a summer sky, cascading in waves past her shoulders. Even at this distance, I can see her eyes—golden as harvest moons, intent and curious. She holds what appears to be a flute in one pale hand.

  Lyra Starweaver. The name comes to me instantly, though in this timeline, we've never met.

  Our eyes lock across the distance, and something passes between us—recognition, perhaps, or destiny recognizing itself. The melody inside me stirs in response to her presence, as if two instruments suddenly finding themselves in the same orchestra.

  She studies me for a long moment, head tilted slightly. A small smile touches her lips—knowing, questioning—before she steps backward into the deeper shadows and vanishes.

  "Aelia?" Marten's voice breaks the spell. "We're ready to move these bandits."

  I blink, turning back to the road. "Right. Yes. Let's go."

  As we begin the journey back to Harmonious, bandits in tow and grateful merchants following, I notice something troubling. The future memories that have guided me since the reset are growing fainter, like writing on a page left too long in the sun. Details blur and fade around the edges. Names slip away. Events become hazy.

  Yet the abilities remain—the combat skills, the melody magic, the physical enhancements. Whatever sent me back in time wanted me to retain the how but is gradually removing the why.

  I glance over my shoulder at the spot where Lyra appeared. Though I can't see her, I sense she's still watching, still curious about the guard who fights like a Rhythm Knight.

  A silent vow forms in my heart as we march toward home. I will master these abilities, control this power that surges through me. And somehow, I'll discover why I've been given this second chance—even as the memories that could explain it slip through my fingers like water.

  The path ahead is uncertain, but for the first time since the reset, uncertainty feels less like a burden and more like possibility.