She had heard music before. Elegant, raw, defiant, holy.
But never this.
The notes still lingered in her bones even as the room settled into quiet. Not silence — not truly. The chamber was too old, too steeped in memory to ever be silent. It breathed with hidden things.
And now, it listened differently.
She stood with her hands folded tightly, feeling her fingernails press faint crescents into her palm. Her eyes didn't leave him — the musician, standing quietly with his violin lowered, as if uncertain what he had just done.
But she knew.
The runes had pulsed in patterns that hadn't stirred in generations. She had seen the flickers in the vault lines, the faint shimmer in the memorial stones. Even the lanterns had dimmed, then brightened, as if adjusting to a new rhythm.
One of the Elders — Scholar Varn again — tilted his head, watching her more than the musician now. He had seen the shift in her posture, no doubt. Felt the tension in her silence.
She forced a breath. Spoke the words she had practiced. "Thank you, traveler. Your offering is noted. We will speak again."
The musician gave a small nod, eyes searching the room — for approval? For understanding?
Or for someone else?
She turned before he could look at her too long.
He doesn't know yet, she reminded herself. He can't.
Back in the archive wing, behind layers of sound-dampening wards, she released the breath she'd been holding since the first note.
She unrolled the ancient fragment again — the one with the prophecy her father warned her never to speak aloud.
The verse had changed. Not visibly — but she felt it. A resonance deeper than ink. A soft hum in the weave of the parchment. It was awakening.
And with it, so was everything else.
She pressed trembling fingers to her lips.
He is the melody.She is the ash and the light.
And the world was no longer waiting. It was listening.