The Harmoniums sang.
Five colossal instruments, perched atop silver towers carved with wind-routes and chord etchings, sounded across the capital of Aevarra. Their voices—each tuned to a sacred emotion—rolled through the streets like a tide of memory: joy, sorrow, reverence, resolve, and, barely perceptible beneath the rest, warning.
No other place in The Land had such instruments. No other kingdom understood power the way Aevarra did—how it hummed beneath the skin of a song, how it could bend a ley-line or a law.
From the highest balcony of the South Tower, Rion watched as the banners of his half-sister's wedding unfurled like ribbons of surrender. He had not been invited. Bastards didn't get invites. They got assigned corners.
A parade of silks and lace flowed below, nobles gliding toward the amphitheatre where Princess Alira would soon be bound in marriage to Prince Kaelen of Surinna, one of the minor kingdoms below the Belt. Not unimportant—Surinna guarded a stretch of the Inner Spine, rich in iron and the rare star-grain used in alchemic weaving—but hardly Aevarra's equal in art or influence.
This union was not about parity. It was about politics. As always.
Rion's fingers moved over the strings of his zither, coaxing a melody only half-born. The notes didn't match the Harmoniums below, but then, they weren't meant to. His song was a lamentation in disguise.
Behind him, a door clicked open.
"You don't belong here."
The voice was cool, female, threaded with both exasperation and affection.
Rion smiled without turning. "Neither do you, Serenya."
Her boots clicked over stone as she approached. Bardguard to the royal line, sworn protector of melody and monarch alike, Serenya had the look of someone sculpted from elegance and edged in discipline. Her coat, dark sapphire, was embroidered with subtle clef-knots and fastened with brass buttons shaped like falcon talons.
"And yet I was summoned," she said, folding her arms. "You, on the other hand, are unofficially forbidden."
"Then it's fortunate I've always had a talent for unofficial things."
"Such as?"
"Being born."
She sighed and leaned against the railing beside him. Below them, the choir of Soundwrights began its slow arrangement of the Rite of Passage, and the air shifted subtly. The Harmoniums quieted, replaced now by dozens of voices layered in harmonic thirds. Auras shimmered faintly around each singer—visual echoes of their internal pitch, a side-effect of the Binding that allowed Aevarrans to wield music as more than mere art.
Serenya stared at the scene with a soldier's stillness. "You're playing the wrong key again."
"I'm always in the right key," Rion said. "It's the rest of them that refuse to modulate."
He strummed a chord in D-minor, then twisted it. The balcony railing trembled faintly. Serenya's brow twitched.
"Careful," she warned. "Even a small spell can upset the ritual."
Rion's grin faded. "It's not a spell. It's a memory."
"A dangerous one, then."
They watched in silence as Alira emerged from the Hall of Petals, her gown shimmering with sigil-thread and delicate rings of chimeglass around her sleeves. She moved like she'd been taught to—shoulders poised, each step an offering. A foreign prince waited for her, tall and carved in Surinnan steel. His ceremonial weapon was a longsword, not an instrument. That alone marked the divide.
"He doesn't even know the Rite," Rion said.
"He's not from here," Serenya replied. "They don't have a Soundcraft tradition in Surinna."
"They don't have culture in Surinna."
Serenya tilted her head, catching the edge of his bitterness. "You're angry."
"I'm not angry," Rion lied.
"She chose this. You know that, don't you?"
"I know she said she chose it. But I know Alira. I know the way her voice changes when she lies."
"So do I," Serenya said softly.
Rion looked at her. "Then you know this isn't choice. It's a song played in a key she didn't write."
A moment passed. The music below shifted again—the Rite was entering its final phase. Soon, the two royals would perform the Tuning. Each was expected to produce a tone that, when joined, resonated with the Ley—the unseen lines of energy that pulsed beneath Aevarra and, it was said, throughout all The Land. It was a symbolic gesture, yes, but one that carried risk. Harmony meant the gods were watching. Dissonance meant they had turned away.
Rion strummed a quiet counterpoint. Not enough to disrupt. Just enough to remind.
"Rion…" Serenya's tone was a warning again, but softer now. Almost pleading.
"She'll hear me," he said.
And perhaps she did. For just as Kaelen drew a breath to hum his note, Alira hesitated. Her fingers brushed the lyre's strings too quickly, and a discordant jangle rang out—barely noticeable, but there.
The Soundwrights faltered. The audience tensed.
Kaelen adjusted. He began again.
This time, the notes were correct. Polished. Predictable.
But the Ley didn't stir.
No glowing lattice of light. No blooming harp-trees. No divine resonance.
The Harmoniums remained silent.
Rion released a slow breath, one hand resting over the strings of his zither.
"She knew," he murmured.
Serenya didn't speak for a moment. Then, with a voice like unstruck bronze: "You'll be blamed."
"Of course," he said.
"And you'll deserve it."
He turned to her, finally meeting her eyes. "Do you think it would have worked? If I hadn't played?"
She didn't answer.
From the amphitheatre, formal clapping began—a delayed response, awkward and uncertain. Nobles were already whispering, questioning whether the ritual had failed. Some would blame Alira's nerves. Others would whisper of Surinnan corruption. But a few—the right few—would suspect sabotage.
Serenya's gaze hardened. "They'll send you away. North, perhaps. Above the Belt."
"Let them," Rion said. "There's no music there. Maybe I'll finally learn silence."
He walked away then, the zither silent at his back, its strings still faintly glowing from the power it had restrained.
Below, Alira turned her head ever so slightly—just enough to glance toward the South Tower.
She didn't smile.
But she didn't look away.