He had played in ruin halls before, to empty pews and sunlit dust, but never here — never inside the deep-sung sanctum of the Chroniclers.
The air tasted of parchment and candle smoke, of stone too old to remember its making. Lights glowed like fireflies in high alcoves, and figures in layered robes watched from half-shadows. There was no applause. No welcome. Only silence.
He stepped into it anyway, violin case in hand.
They had asked him to play. Not ordered — but asked. And something in their eyes said it was more than entertainment they sought.
He stood in the center of a circular platform, runes laced subtly into the stone beneath his feet. Someone had cleaned the dust away recently.
He tuned the violin by touch. The bow rested easily in his fingers. It felt right.
He didn't know what they expected.
So he played what he felt.
At first, the melody was soft — a wandering line like a memory half-remembered. Then, slowly, it deepened, the tones drawing from some unseen well inside him. He didn't understand it, not fully. But it was true.
As the notes rose, the runes beneath him flickered — faintly at first, then in slow pulses. The air thickened. Somewhere in the upper gallery, he thought he saw one of the robed figures lean forward.
A second passage built — a thread of sorrow woven into hope. The moment stretched. He felt something shift. Open.
A breath he didn't take. A thought not his own. A presence that hovered just outside understanding.
Then—
A soft gasp. A ripple in the crowd. He finished the phrase, bow trembling slightly, and let the final note fade into the stones.
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It listened.
He lowered the violin. Looked up.
The Chroniclers did not applaud. But they watched him now with new eyes — as if measuring something unseen.
And at the edge of the gathering, his friend stood still, her eyes wide. Not with fear.
With recognition.