The morning after the Crustfallen Choir's defeat wasn't filled with celebration—it was filled with… baking.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
The Loaflings had gathered near the village's heart, where an oven the size of a carriage rested—its brick surface cracked but glowing faintly with ancient warmth. The villagers called it the Hearthearth, and today it wasn't just for pastries.
It was for memories.
Ren stood at the edge of the gathering, arms crossed, watching as the Loaflings placed small, doughy effigies into the oven, each one shaped like a musical note. There was no fire inside, only soft light—like a warm breath humming an eternal lullaby.
"What are they doing?" he asked quietly.
Balladbrand, leaning against a jamfruit stump, hummed a low chord.
A remembrance bake. The Choir weren't just guardians—they were mentors. Singers of the Dough Canticle. This is how the Loaflings mourn. Softly. Sweetly.
A chubby Loafling wearing a flour-dusted monocle waddled over. His name, Ren had learned, was Maestro Crimpet, the village's baker-bard and unofficial lorekeeper.
"We do not weep in silence here," Crimpet said, offering Ren a palm-sized croissant. "We honor with butter. We remember with crust."
Ren raised an eyebrow but accepted the snack. "It's… poetic. In a very edible way."
Crimpet chuckled. "The Dough Canticle tells us that all music begins in the belly. Harmony starts with hunger."
That much, Ren could get behind.
But his gaze drifted toward the far end of the village—toward a path leading south, paved in broken biscuits and slowly being reclaimed by creeping mold. It was silent in that direction. Unnaturally so.
Crimpet followed his gaze. "You're thinking of going there."
"The Silent Oven," Ren replied. "Whatever corrupted the Choir came from that place."
Crimpet sighed, then nodded. "It used to be sacred. A proving ground for aspiring Crustbinders. Now… even the wind avoids it."
Ren looked down at the croissant in his hand, then took a bite. Flaky. Warm. A little tangy, like cheese and cinnamon had struck a forbidden truce.
"Then I'll walk into the silence," he said, brushing crumbs from his sleeve. "And make it sing again."
◇
The path to the Silent Oven was like stepping into a world stuck between breath and heartbeat.
The trees here no longer hummed. Their bark was twisted, greyed like day-old ash. The usual warbles and trills of Cravendough's fauna had gone mute. Even Balladbrand's glow dimmed, as though trying not to disturb the quiet.
Ren walked carefully, each step making a sound that felt too loud.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Every broken branch sounded like a scream in a library.
Halfway up the path, he saw signs—littered notes, cracked music scrolls, rusted tuning forks. Relics of the past. And beneath one collapsed metronome, a plaque: "To Sing is to Live."
He felt it before he saw it.
The Silent Oven sat embedded in a hill of crumbled cinnamonstone. Its entrance was a yawning arch of black crust and rusted pipes. The air around it was heavy with unspoken tension, like a stage waiting for the conductor's baton.
Ren stepped forward.
Then he heard it.
A single note.
Not from the sword. Not from the trees.
From below.
It was faint—like a memory trying to find its way home.
Ren paused. His mana flared slightly. Balladbrand's edge gleamed, as though affirming the sound.
He descended into the oven's entrance, stepping into a chamber that had once been grand. Murals of dancing flames and singing chefs lined the walls, now cracked and flaking. Ancient sheet music floated through the air like ghostly feathers.
But at the center of the vast room stood something… unnatural.
A figure—tall, lean, wrapped in burnt parchment and trailing ash. Its head was a cracked oven mitt, face stretched into a permanent snarl. Where a heart might be, there was a tuning fork embedded in its chest, thrumming faintly.
It turned.
It had no eyes. No mouth. But its presence was deafening.
"Unbaked… incomplete… You dare bring song to silence?"
The words weren't spoken—they pressed into Ren's thoughts like an overbearing chorus note.
He stepped forward.
"Sorry, buddy. I'm not here to duet. I'm here to end the silence."
The creature's form quivered, and suddenly, dozens of corrupted notes blasted from its body, sour melodies slicing through the air.
Ren dodged left, rolled under a spiraling crescendo of shrill mana, and retaliated with a diagonal slash. Balladbrand sang as it struck, releasing a melodic counterwave that carved through two of the notes, purifying them into bright sparks.
The battle began.
Not with power.
But with music.
Every move Ren made had to match the rhythm of the room. Attack out of sync, and the notes would backfire. Move in tune, and his mana would harmonize with the space, amplifying his strikes.
He realized something as he moved:
This wasn't just a cursed monster.
It was a broken conductor.
Someone—something—had taken the soul of a maestro and turned it into this dissonant guardian.
But it wasn't entirely lost.
The tuning fork in its chest began to resonate with his movements.
For a moment, Ren saw a flicker in its form—an echo of a being in robes, baton raised, conducting symphonies of fire and dough.
He had a choice.
Strike it down and end the silence.
Or synchronize.
So he did the unexpected.
He dropped his stance.
And began to hum.
The same tune he'd heard beneath the crust. The note that had guided him here. A simple melody. Repetitive. Gentle.
The creature staggered.
It trembled.
And with a burst of light, the tuning fork exploded in a harmonic wave, sending Ren flying back—but not with pain.
With warmth.
When he opened his eyes, the creature was gone.
In its place stood a single loaf of bread—freshly baked, golden brown, and pulsing with quiet song.
He picked it up.
Quest complete.
◇
Back at the village, when Ren returned with the Singing Loaf, the Hearthearth burst into full flame.
The Loaflings wept—not with sadness, but with joy.
The silence had been broken.
And Ren?
He had a new tune in his heart, and a new destination on his map.
Because beyond the forests of Cravendough, past the Melodough Mountains, was a portal—and beyond that, a sky made of shifting oil paints and dreaming clouds.
Miralune awaited.
But that would be a song for another day.