Lira of Windvale had always found the hush of dawn more comforting than the clamor of court. Before sunlight spilled in apricot ribbons across the chapel's stained-glass windows, she would rise and wander the deserted corridors of the palace, seeking out empty balconies or hidden alcoves where no audience waited to judge her every note. There, she found the one stillness her heart could trust.
But this morning's silence carried a heavy weight, like the promise of a storm. As the first fluted rays touched the marble floor, Lira clasped her mother's polished silver harp to her chest and paused beneath a fresco depicting the Old Queen's crowning. Even in fresco, the monarch's face bore determination—an impossible calm that Lira longed to wear. She drew a trembling breath, placed her fingers on the strings, and began to play.
Her song rose soft as mist, a familiar melody woven from childhood memories: lullabies hummed by her minstrel father, a verse her mother had taught her in the kitchens, notes stolen from the wandering bards of the eastern marches. Every court musician knew it; every courtier knew her. It was the anthem of Windvale, meant to celebrate prosperity and unity. Yet lately, it felt hollow—an empty ritual dressed up in gilded ceremony.
So Lira twisted one phrase, shifting a cadence here, slipping in a minor chord there. She lifted the melody until it wove into something new, something bittersweet. She felt the tension coil in her chest—an ache sharpened by every false smile she'd offered at feasts, every forced curtsy before nobles who cared only that she entertained them.
Outside the palace gates, Windvale stirred. A courier's hoofbeats echoed off the walls, the distant barking of hounds mingled with the clang of smiths hammering horseshoes. Lira closed her eyes, letting the sounds of her home mingle with her music, until she heard something more: a faint, foreign undercurrent threading through her altered song. A single note that had no place in any known repertoire—a note so plaintive and strange it sent a shiver down her spine.
She paused mid-phrase, lifted a finger to the air, and listened. The ghost of the note hovered above her harp, brighter and colder than the morning light. For a heartbeat, Lira's heart stuttered: this was no simple variation of the Windvale anthem. It was something older, deeper—like an echo from some buried memory she herself had never lived.
The note trembled again, then dissolved. Lira's pulse thundered in her ears as she set down her harp and pressed her palm to her breast. The corridors remained empty, but she sensed that something had shifted. The world outside was waking, but already, her world felt unsteady.
She retraced her steps toward the grand hall, rehearsing a casual smile she would wear for the day's ceremony. Today marked the tenth anniversary of the Hundred-Year Silence—the day magic had vanished from Aedern, leaving behind hushed awe and wary respect for the powers that once shaped kingdoms. The king himself would preside, surrounded by his council and the gathered lords, to honor the memory of what had been lost and proclaim once again his commitment to keep it buried.
Lira forced her shoulders back and entered the hall. Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, gilding the banners of Windvale—blue and silver pennons that fluttered lightly despite the absence of breeze. The benches were filled: dukes in crimson cloaks, duchesses in ornate brocade, knights in polished black armor. Courtiers pressed against the walls, silent and expectant.
At the raised dais, King Pavarel stood with his council. His face was older now, lined at the temples, and his deep voice lacked the certainty it once held when Lira was first brought to court as a prodigy. His gaze lifted as she stepped forward, harp in hand.
"Lira of Windvale," he said, voice resonating through the hall, "we ask you to perform the commemorative anthem that honors our ancestors' sacrifice and renews our vow to guard this realm against the peril of magic."
Lira nodded. Her throat contracted. In that moment, she felt every eye upon her: the proud Attenbor family whose lands lay near the haunted border; Lady Edris, whose bejeweled fan she'd once used to stash secret love letters; and High Warden Marek himself, seated to the king's right, his hawkish gaze unsettling as always. He was the lifeblood of Aedern's security, the man who had risen by quashing every rumor of sorcery, every whisper of enchantment. He would not tolerate deviation from the script today.
She took a breath, stepped onto the dais, and knelt before the music stand. The polished brass markers gleamed under her fingertips as she unfolded the sheet music. Her fingers hovered over the strings for a brief moment that stretched into eternity, then she played.
The opening bars were faithful—a stately procession of notes that rose like columns of marble: "And in the time before the hush…" The assembled guests inclined their heads, artists of ritual passing through the practiced motions. Lira followed the notation with flawless precision, her hands steady, her voice pure. Yet all the while she held the note she had heard this morning at the edge of her memory, waiting.
As the melody reached its midpoint—"When wonders slept beneath a shroud…"—Lira shifted. She let her voice trail off in the final measure, then reopened with a half-step down, weaving in the shard of melody that had haunted her at dawn. The stringed accompaniment flickered at that moment, as if the harp itself were startled by the intrusion. In the hush that followed, a flicker of curiosity shone in a few eyes—but before anyone could murmur, Lira recovered, sliding back into the prescribed key. She polished off the final chord with practiced grace, her smile serene.
Polite applause rippled through the hall. Several courtiers exchanged puzzled glances, whispering beneath their fans. High Warden Marek sat motionless, hands clasped in his lap, his face an inscrutable mask. King Pavarel's lips tightened in mild disapproval.
"Thank you, Lira," the king intoned formally. "Your performance honors us all."
The next event was the lighting of the censer—incense made from crushed moonpetal blooms, meant to symbolize the lingering spark of magic, forever suppressed. As the censer's fragrant smoke curled toward the vaulted ceiling, Lira felt a tug at her wrist. The silver chain she wore—once a gift from her mother—vibrated with the same strange resonance as that morning's note.
Her breath caught. She tried to still her fingers, but they trembled against the harp's pillar. Sweat prickled at her brow, and her throat tightened. She longed to flee, to run back into the forest where no one could judge her, where no one could notice the fractures in her song.
Yet the ceremony marched on. Ministers offered oaths. Bells tolled. The court's ritual wheel turned, grinding time ahead. Lira stood frozen near the dais, her gaze fixed on the swirling smoke, each curl reminding her of the melody she must uncover. It was no random slip of the tongue. The note belonged to something vast—something older than the Hundred-Year Silence. She felt its weight in her bones, as if her own soul carried the echo of that vanished age.
Afterward, she was summoned before her chambers to practice private arias for the upcoming banquet. She obeyed mechanically, moving through the ornate corridors as if in a dream. Servants bowed; hallways swirled in pastel frescoes of heroic deeds that suddenly seemed meaningless. Her harp, once a comfort, now felt like a cage.
In her sitting room, illuminated by afternoon light through lilac curtains, Lira placed the harp on its stand and sank onto the cushioned bench. She removed the music sheets from her satchel—fragments of legends she had collected in her travels, myths of the Wolf Queen who had once ruled beyond the Wildwood, commanding both human and spirit with a single song. Tales said she had bound the wolf spirits to her will, forging peace where there had been only bloodshed. And then, at the height of her power, she had vanished—and with her, all magic slipped into silence.
Lira unfolded a delicate parchment: a hand-drawn sketch of a shrine deep within Wildwood, where, the story went, the Queen had first sung her final chorus. She traced the spiral of glyphs drawn around it: musical staves tangled with wolf-tooth symbols. These were the notes lost to time—notes that, if pieced together, could awaken the Queen's spirit.
She whispered the lines:
"Where moonlight dances on silver streams,
The wolf queen dreams in woven dreams.
Broken hearts shall find their song,
And in her melody, all shall belong."
Each word thrummed in her chest. She read and reread the verse, her lips moving as if to taste the words before they slipped into sound. She closed her eyes and hummed the first line, seeking the precise pitch. Her voice faltered. The phrase felt like half-remembered prophecy—dangerous, destined to upend her life.
"Lira?"
She spun to see her sister, Alianne, standing in the doorway. Alianne's auburn hair gleamed like embers in the waning light, her green eyes wide with concern. She clutched a small parcel to her breast—a bundle of bandages and dried poultices, supplies Lira had requested in secret.
"Alianne," Lira whispered, voice tight. "How did you—"
"I followed orders," Alianne said, stepping into the room and placing the parcel on a low table. "Mother's old apothecary recipe. You'll need it soon enough." She hesitated, gaze flicking to the parchments spread across the bench. "What is that?"
Lira's pulse quickened. She clenched her fists, forcing calm. "Notes for tonight's etude. Something I'm composing." A half-truth. "I thought I'd show it to you first."
Alianne's brow furrowed. "It's not… I've never seen you study anything like those symbols. Not in music school."
Lira's throat went dry. She realized—frightened—that her sister might sense the depth of her obsession. "I'm just exploring," she said too sharply. "I found this poem in an old codex."
Alianne crossed to the bench, gently nudging aside the parchments. Her gaze traveled over the runic staves. "Lira, these are the Wolf Queen's verses." Her tone was hushed, reverent. "I thought those were lost."
Lira inhaled. She saw too clearly in her sister's eyes the mixture of awe and dread: the same mix she felt. "Maybe they're not."
Alianne reached out, her fingers trembling. "If this is what I think it is—if you sing these… you could be branded a heretic."
"I already was once," Lira murmured, memories of her mother's disappointed frown and the palace chaplain's severed regard still raw. "But Alianne, can't you hear it? Don't you feel—"
The moment shattered as boots thundered in the corridor. A sharp rap sounded on the door. Alianne and Lira exchanged a panicked look.
"Open this door!" A voice, harsh and urgent. "Lira of Windvale, by order of the king, you are to accompany us immediately."
Lira's heart leapt. She stood, smoothing her skirts, refusing to betray her terror. "Very well," she called. "Sister, hide those." She waved toward the table. "And stay out of sight."
Alianne snatched up the parcel and spilled silently through the window alcove as two armored guards entered. Their captain, a broad-shouldered man with a lined face, looked at Lira with professional detachment. "Your majesty orders your presence in the Throne Room. Now."
"May I ask why?" Lira managed, striving for regal composure.
The captain hesitated. "Information, you might say. Recent… anomalies in your performances."
A cold flush raced across Lira's cheeks. They had heard the note. The foreign shard had not escaped the ears of those sworn to suppress magic. Her breath quickened. The risk she'd taken this morning now threatened everything.
She gathered her harp, sliding her fingers along its polished wood. The instrument felt heavy in her arms, charged with the promise of the unknown. One note—just one—had broken the Silence today. Yet as she stood in the center of that bare room, the fate awaiting her made her palms sweat.
She lifted her chin. "Lead on," she said, voice steady despite the tremor in her heart.
As the guards escorted her down the corridor, Lira's mind raced. The shards of the Wolf Queen's song were no longer secret poems in a dusty codex; they were alive, humming at the edges of her consciousness. And someone—High Warden Marek, or King Pavarel himself—had learned of her transgression. She did not know whether they intended to punish her or to harness her. Either prospect chilled her more than the pre-dawn shadows ever had.
But even as dread coiled in her gut, a spark of something else flickered alive: a fierce determination. Because in that single note, Lira had glimpsed a power that could reshape destinies—and bring hope where none remained. She inhaled the corridor's stale air, felt the weight of her harp on her shoulder, and walked forward into the breaking day.
It was the first step on a path she could never retrace—and the moment when silence, the world's greatest safeguard, cracked forever.