Caleb's POV
Caleb hadn't meant to stay up all night. But the city below the tower rarely slept, and neither did the thoughts pressing against his ribs.
He sat on the window ledge of the guest chamber, knees drawn up, violin case beside him. The stars above blurred softly into the sky's deep violet — the same twilight hues he remembered from a childhood spent listening to his mother's stories.
Back when music was just comfort.
Before it became calling.
He had been young when the world began breaking. Not enough to understand the politics, the rebellion, the angelic wars — but old enough to hear the change in people's songs.
They stopped singing to remember. They started singing to survive.
It wasn't until his late teens that the melodies changed again — strange dreams, flashes of images he couldn't place. A woman with wings made of smoke and fire. A sky cracked with light. A dark star, always just at the edge of sight.
He never told anyone.
And now, here he was — a guest of the Silent Chroniclers, caught in a performance that felt more like prophecy than art. Even Serenya had looked at him differently after.
He sighed.
He hadn't seen her since the performance.
She had always been composed, a little mysterious — but there had been something in her eyes when the final note died. Not fear. Not admiration.
Recognition.
And that scared him more than the silence.
He didn't want to be part of something bigger. He just wanted to play. To make something beautiful in a world that had forgotten how.
But… the music didn't feel like it was his anymore.
It was asking something of him.
And in the silence after the song, he was starting to wonder if he'd already answered.
Unconsciously.
The case beside him clicked softly — unlatching, though he hadn't touched it.
He turned. Slowly.
Inside, the strings of the violin shimmered faintly. Just for a moment.
Not golden. Not fiery.
But like starlight reflecting on ash.