Lira's pulse thundered in her ears as she followed the captain and his two guards down the long corridor. Every torched sconce cast jittering shadows against the frescoed walls—scenes of ancient heroism that now felt mocking in their stillness. She gripped her harp-case like a shield, the polished wood cold against her palm. The words of her sister's warning echoed in her mind: "Recent anomalies in your performances…."
They emerged into the Throne Room, its vast pillars soaring into darkness above. At the center, King Pavarel sat upon his ornate chair, flanked by the ever-watchful High Warden Marek. The air was thick with incense, a low chant from the chapel priests curling through the vaulted space. Courtiers in velvet and silk pressed in from the sides, their faces masks of curiosity, dread, or—some—bare disapproval.
Lira halted before the dais. Marek's dark eyes bored into her as though measuring a fugitive's worth. The king inclined his head, an invitation to approach. Lira stepped forward, chin high, her harp-case bumping against her hip with each measured pace.
"Lira of Windvale," King Pavarel said, his voice steady but edged with something unreadable. "It has reached our attention that during this morning's ceremony, there occurred… an unauthorized deviation in your performance."
"Yes, Your Majesty." Lira's throat tightened, but she forced her voice clear. "I altered the final phrase of the anthem—though I did not intend disrespect."
Marek's lips curved into a thin line. "Intentions aside, you wove a verse not found in the royal codex."
She glanced at her harp-case, fighting the urge to clutch it tighter. The unbidden note—the wolf-queen's shard—rested somewhere deep in her memory, and she feared that if she spoke of it, the guards might seize her instrument on the spot.
"I am at your mercy, sire," she said. "I will not perform that verse again, nor any other outside the codex."
The king's gaze flicked to Marek, who inclined his head in acknowledgment. "High Warden Marek will escort you to my private chambers. There, you shall demonstrate your obedience."
"Of course," Lira replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
Marek gestured, and the guards closed in. The king stood, watching as they led her away. Lira's heart pounded so loudly she feared it would drown out the chant of the priests. Each step felt heavy—like wading through water—yet a small spark of defiance glimmered in her chest.
They arrived at a pair of double doors carved with depictions of the Wolf Queen's court—wolves and women entwined in dance. The captain knocked twice; the doors swung open. Beyond lay a private study: shelves of leather-bound volumes, star charts scattered across a heavy oak desk, and tapestries depicting moonlit forests. A single lantern burned low on a side table.
Marek followed her inside, closing the doors behind them. The guards lingered in the hallway. Lira set her harp-case on the desk, then turned to face Marek.
"You may begin," he said. His tone was mild—patronizing, almost—but his eyes glittered with authority.
Lira drew a steady breath. "Very well." She opened the case, lifted the harp onto her lap, and tuned the strings until each rang clear. The silence in the study pressed in on her; the hush inside these walls stifled her. She closed her eyes, recalling the morning's melody.
First, she played the prescribed bars: the regal procession of notes that signified the kingdom's eternal vow. Each chord resonated crisp and true. Then, she paused. Her fingers hovered over the higher strings, where a single note awaited—one that had dripped into her soul at dawn.
Marek's gaze sharpened; he perched on a low stool, arms crossed.
Lira swallowed. She could feel the pull of that extra note like a lodestone. Her heartbeat fluttered. In that moment, she knew she stood at a crossroads: obey and remain a celebrated—but hollow—court musician, or risk everything to follow that strange lure.
The strings trembled under her touch as she let her finger slip onto the half-step above the melody's standard resolution. The unbidden note sang out—a high, piercing tone that quivered with longing. The lantern's flame flickered. In the shadowed corners of the study, something shifted.
Marek's lips drained of color; his hand twitched at his side as if to draw a blade. Yet he remained still. Lira's breath caught. The note held, as though the world itself paused to listen.
Then, just as she feared her defiance might mark her undoing, she concluded the phrase, sliding back down into the codex's final chord. She opened her eyes to find Marek leaning forward, eyes narrowing.
"Explain yourself," he said softly, voice like steel on stone.
Lira set her hands on the harp's pillar, fingers splayed. "It… it was an impulse." Her voice quavered. "A melody I heard today beneath the codex's notes. It felt like… like a whisper from the past."
Marek's gaze bored into her, and for a moment, she feared she would be torn from the palace then and there. But instead, he uncrossed his arms and rose.
"Come," he said. "I have a proposition."
Lira's heart thundered as he led her across the study toward a locked cabinet. He drew a heavy key from his belt and opened the door to reveal shelves of scrolls and tomes bound in gray leather. She recognized some titles—accounts of arcane rituals, treaties with the wolf-spirits, chronicles of Queen Albael's reign. Others she had never seen.
"These are the archives of suppressed magic," Marek said. He extracted a narrow scroll, its worn seal bearing the wolf-tooth emblem. "Few have access. Until today, you were not among them." He handed her the scroll. "Read this."
Lira's fingers trembled as she unfurled it. The parchment crackled, revealing staves of music scrawled in a script that danced and looped like vines. Underneath, a single line of verse:
"When shadows weave upon the moor,
And wolves sing low at twilight's door,
Let mortal voice the chorus swell—
To wake the queen who in darkness fell."
She looked up. "This… this is part of the Wolf Queen's final song."
Marek's expression was grave. "Yes. And it is only one fragment. There are others, scattered in places known only to the old ways: shrines deep in Wildwood, crypts of the wolf clans, hidden caches in the border keeps. No one has gathered them for centuries."
Lira's pulse raced. "Why are you showing me this?"
Marek hesitated, as though weighing her fate against some greater design. "Because the king grows weak. Rumors of unrest swirl beyond these walls. The northern lords whisper of rebellion; the border tribes chafe under our control. If someone were to reassemble the Wolf Queen's song—every verse, every chorus—they could awaken power beyond our reckoning."
He paused, letting his words sink in. "You are the only one who has demonstrated the… sensitivity to that magic."
Shock and dread warred in Lira's chest. To gather the verses would be to court forces she barely understood. Yet the promise of restoring hope—and the chance to wield a voice unbound—sparked a thrill deep in her bones.
Marek's gaze softened, just a fraction. "Serve the crown, Lira, and join me in this endeavor. Help me collect the fragments before any other faction can. In return, I will protect you, teach you, and ensure no harm comes to your family."
Lira closed her eyes. The scroll trembled in her hand, the words warming her palm. Outside the study, unseen courtiers might whisper: traitor, heretic, or worse. But here, in this dimly lit chamber, the world had cracked open before her.
"If I agree," she said at last, voice quiet but resolute, "what must I do?"
Marek inclined his head. "First, you will learn to read these verses in their original tongue. Then, we will journey beyond Windvale. The first shrine lies in the Moonstone Glade, near the forest's heart. Only there will you test your gift further—and learn whether you are truly the instrument of the Queen's song."
Lira's breath caught. The Moonstone Glade lay beyond known borders, in territory said to be haunted by spirits older than any living thing. To venture there was to risk death—or madness. Yet she felt a fierce certainty ignite within her.
"I will do it," she whispered. "And I will learn every verse."
Marek's lips curved into the shadow of a smile. "Then we depart at dawn."
Lira returned to her chambers that night with the scroll tucked beneath her cloak. The moon hung low over Windvale, silver as polished steel. The corridors were quiet—empty of courtiers, empty of expectation. She found her harp waiting in its stand, as though the instrument itself sensed the journey to come.
By lantern-light, she unrolled the scroll once more and traced the looping staves with her fingertip. The tune pressed against her memory, familiar yet distant. She plucked a tentative chord, matching it to the first note on the parchment. It resonated, trembling with possibility.
Alianne slipped into the room without knocking—a habitual precaution—and regarded her sister with bright eyes. "I thought I might find you here."
Lira folded the scroll carefully. "I have news," she said, uncertain how much to reveal.
Alianne approached, hands clasped. "I know something's wrong. The guards…." She swallowed. "Are you safe?"
Lira met her gaze. In that moment, she realized the gravity of what lay ahead—and the cost it would exact on everyone she loved. Yet she also felt the spark of purpose glimmer within her.
"Soon," she said, "I may not be safe. But I will be free."
Alianne's eyes widened, concern warring with pride. "Free?"
Lira nodded. "Tomorrow, I leave the palace. I go to the Moonstone Glade."
Her sister's breath caught. "You're not going alone?"
Lira shook her head. "I have an ally in High Warden Marek."
Alianne reached out, clasping Lira's hand. "Just promise me you'll return.
Lira squeezed her sister's fingers. "I promise."
That night, Lira lay awake, listening to the hush of the palace. The unbidden chorus—wolf-song, moon-song, queen-song—called to her across the pages of the ancient scroll. Tomorrow, she would step into the unknown, chasing a melody older than memory.
And in her heart, she carried one unwavering note: she would not falter.
Her journey had begun.