"They say every good legend begins with a king, a sword, or a battle. But not all do. Some are born from off-key notes and empty pockets."
The known world stretched beneath the silver skies of Aerothen, a planet wrapped in the glow of twin moons and currents of mana that snaked through the heavens like living rivers. It was a world where steel gleamed as brightly as enchanted crystals, and where whispered words in the right tone could light torches, heal wounds, or blast doors apart with thunderous force.
Amidst kingdoms and enchanted forests, dancing deserts, and floating mountains, there lay a pulsating jewel on the southern coast of the Valmyros continent: Port-Lyre, the city of eternal song.
Port-Lyre was more than a trading hub—it was a kaleidoscope of cultures and races, home to half-dwarf artisans crafting enchantment-powered automatons, draconian mages teaching alchemy to goblins, and sereians trading pearls for bottled dreams. The cobblestone streets thrummed with the beat of elven drums, orcish bagpipes, and the chimes of magical portals used by enchanted messengers. It was where worlds collided and the improbable became commonplace.
It was there, amid the scent of salt and spices, between floating vessels and magical dust markets, that young Maple began to compose his story.
Maple, with flaming red hair and brown eyes like autumn leaves, wore no shining armor or enchanted robe. He donned a worn leather coat, patched trousers, and a shirt that had seen better days. On his back hung a small, three-stringed, warped lyre, and at his waist, two short daggers he had sharpened himself on the pier stones.
He was not yet a renowned bard. Not even a formal apprentice. But he could sing—and more importantly, he knew how to observe.
Every afternoon, he set up on the steps of the "Golden Gills" tavern, a weathered three-story building by the docks, and sang of ships from Núldras, knights of Thyrenne, maidens who loved mages, and thieves who escaped in clouds of smoke.
"Another song for a silver coin!" he'd say, flashing a cheeky smile.
He didn't always get silver. Sometimes it was stale bread, other times a slap from a sailor who found the lyrics too offensive. Still, Maple was persistent. And curious. He had the odd habit of watching duels in the market, trailing rogues through alleys, and asking too many questions of wanderers. When not playing, he practiced throwing daggers at empty barrels behind the tavern—always careful not to be seen by the grumpy dwarf owner, Turgan Duorad.
One night, the Golden Gills' hall was busier than usual. Sereians sipped deep-bubble sparkling drinks, two triton sorcerers debated marine runes, and an elven warrior recounted how she beheaded a drunken wyvern atop the Mirrored Tower.
Maple played by the fireplace, strumming an improvised tune about an ogre who tried to marry a witch and ended up a toad.
That's when he noticed something: a hooded tiefling—eyes amber like embers—moved from table to table, subtle as mist, "bumping" here and there, but always leaving with something extra in his pockets. A ring, a pouch, a small grimoire.
Maple smirked. "Pickpocket. Skilled, but careless."
Then he saw it. The tiefling targeted the pouch of a sleeping old mage, and inside it glowed a rare purple hue—a gem, perhaps an arcane focus.
Maple didn't know why, but his feet moved. Maybe out of boredom. Maybe impulse. Maybe hunger—the thief was clumsy enough to get caught.
He intercepted the tiefling as he tried to slip out the back door, feigning a stumble and knocking them both into a mess of plates and shouts.
"Hey! Watch it!" the tiefling snapped.
"Sorry! My strings were out of tune!" Maple replied, already sliding the pouch from the thief's hand and tucking it into his shirt.
The thief fled as guards were called, but Maple ran too—over rooftops, through alleys and barrels—where he met his two acquaintances: Zyri, a half-elf alchemy apprentice, and Dregan, a young kobold obsessed with fireworks.
"Accidental theft? That's a term now?" Zyri said, raising an eyebrow.
"I was… protecting a magical artifact from falling into the wrong hands," Maple panted.
"Sure. Next time we'll protect a wine cellar too."
They laughed. But the joy was short-lived.
That same night, as Maple examined the gem in the pouch, a deep voice sounded behind him.
"That wasn't yours."
Maple spun, drawing his dagger by reflex. In the alley entrance, a hooded figure loomed under the moonlight. Tall, broad-shouldered, he carried a short sword in one hand and a curved dagger in the other.
"Technically, not yours either," Maple retorted.
The stranger approached with steady steps, his face hidden, but his voice heavy with authority.
"I saw you in that tavern. Your moves… improvised, but effective. You're not just a bard."
"I am. Just with varied interests."
"And raw talent."
In a swift motion, the man threw his dagger. Maple dodged by a hair, his own blade swinging in response—and for the first time, someone parried his strike with calculated precision.
"You need training," the stranger said. "And lucky for you: I need someone with nimble hands and a creative mind."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I take the gem, and you explain to the mage you 'held' it for him."
Maple thought for a moment. This… smelled like adventure. And trouble. And perhaps future songs.
"What's your name?"
The man smiled. For the first time, Maple saw the golden eyes and the scar crossing his chin.
"They call me Kael, the Shadow of Ryrn."
Maple sheathed his dagger, smiled, and replied:
"Then let's compose this ballad together."
The early morning breeze scratched at the rooftops like invisible fingers. Maple followed Kael through passages between chimneys, unnamed alleys, and silent lanes where even the stones seemed to hold secrets. The city sang by day, but at night it whispered. And Maple listened.
"Where are we going?" he asked, dodging a broken beam.
"To a place where you learn to survive without applause," Kael replied.
They descended a hidden staircase between two abandoned houses in Port-Lyre's eastern district. Below the living city lay another—a network of tunnels and stone chambers upheld by ancient magic, with inscriptions on the walls glowing a faint blue.
"This was a refuge for the Watchers of the Absent Flame," Kael explained. "An ancient guild of spies and assassins hunted by nearly every kingdom. Today, it's just… an empty hall."
Maple twirled the gem between his fingers. Its purple glow pulsed, as if it had a beating heart within.
"What exactly is this?" he asked.
Kael stared at him intently.
"It's a Heart of Silencium. An elemental mana focus of the void. Ancient mages used it for forbidden rituals—not to destroy, but to erase. Erase memories, magic, names. Even souls."
Maple swallowed hard. He'd nearly handed it to a petty thief. This was no mere magical amulet—it was a secret of ages.
"And the mage the tiefling stole it from…?"
"Likely one of the Speakers of the Void, a sect of mages who believe silence is the ultimate power. They're not exactly peaceful."
Maple glanced around. The hall was vast, with cracked pillars and forgotten weapons. An old training dummy still stood, covered in dust and moss.
"Why did you bring me here, Kael? To fight for you?"
Kael walked to a locked chest, opened it with a magical touch, and pulled out two items: a light armor set made of enchanted leather with agility runes, and a case containing three black silver daggers.
"To fight, yes. But not for me. For you. Because you'll need more than music when the shadows come for you."
The following days were grueling. Kael trained Maple not like a gentle master, but like a hunter training a wild beast. There were no long explanations—just movement, precision, and silence. Maple learned to walk unheard, to anticipate footsteps before they fell, to distinguish the sound of a dagger being drawn from that of a coin dropping.
At night, he still sang at the Golden Gills, his fingers calloused and his body bruised.
But something in him began to change.
People started listening to him differently. His music now carried tension, experience, danger. And the coins began to pile up.
Zyri and Dregan noticed his new behavior.
"You vanished for two days!" Zyri snapped. "Going to say you were rehearsing? The kobold nearly blew up the shop trying to remake your dancing light formula!"
"Musical training. Rhythmic. With… pain," he said, trying not to reveal too much.
But Zyri's eyes knew more than he let on.
On the seventh night after the theft, Kael summoned Maple for something different. Not a training session, but a mission. The gem had been traced. And the Speakers had sent an emissary to buy it back—or take it by force.
"They're meeting the tiefling at the Three Rats Restaurant, a place where poison comes as an appetizer and threats are served on the main course."
Maple brought his daggers. He hid the gem in a lyre string case—disguised among broken pieces. Together with Kael, he went to the restaurant, a foul-smelling house where only fools entered willingly.
In the dining room were four figures: the tiefling, sporting a fresh black eye; a man cloaked in purple; a brute with twin axes; and a gray-skinned woman with entirely black eyes.
Maple felt the pressure in the room, as if the walls wanted to push him out. But he entered, with light steps and the smile of a bard on tour.
"I brought what you wanted," he said.
The purple mage stood. A symbol etched on his forehead glowed—three vertical lines over a circle.
"You dare bargain with something you don't even understand?"
Maple tilted his head. "I dare sing about things no one understands. Why not negotiate too?"
That's when it all happened in a flash.
The gray woman hurled a shadow at him. Maple rolled under the table, drawing his daggers. The brute charged with his axes—but fell within two steps: Kael had intercepted him with a clean, precise strike to the throat.
Magic flew. Tables burned. Shouts of pain mingled with the smell of scorched flesh. Maple ran, using pillars as cover, until he reached the tiefling—who tried to flee to the kitchen.
There, he caught him. With a dagger in the shoulder, the tiefling fell, slipping in blood and grease.
"Why… why do you meddle in this? You're just a bard!" he cried.
Maple looked at him, breathing heavily, the dagger dripping.
"I was. Now… I'm a song still being written."
Chapter 3 — Songs in the Depths
After the fight, with the gem secure and the Speakers temporarily driven from Port-Lyre, Kael sat with Maple atop a forgotten city tower.
"You have choices. You can sell that gem. You can hide. You can run."
"And what if I don't want any of that?" Maple asked. "What if I want… more?"
Kael smiled.
"Then let's awaken your true name. The one still dormant. And sing songs no one has dared to sing."
That night, under Aerothen's twin moons, Maple played his three-stringed lyre—but it sounded like a hundred. And the city listened.
And something… very ancient… did too.
"The song of the blade is not born in tune. It strikes false notes, misses the beat, cuts where it shouldn't. And yet… it persists."
Three weeks had passed since the incident at the Three Rats Restaurant.
Three weeks of wounds that wouldn't heal properly, of aching muscles and trembling fingers. Three weeks of training—not like heroes in romances, but like flesh being honed to survive the knife.
Maple awoke at the rise of the second moon, his bones aching and his mind foggy. Kael awaited him in the underground chamber with stern eyes and curt words.
"Again."
The stance. The grip. The short step. The dagger spin. The controlled fall. Always the same sequence. Always with flaws.
Maple fell. Missed. Cut himself.
And tried again.
What irritated him most, though, wasn't the pain. It was Kael's silence.
The man watched like a living statue, corrected with sharp gestures, and offered words only when Maple's mistakes were too glaring to ignore.
"You strike like a tuneless drum."
"Don't pretend to attack. Cut. Or die trying."
"If you hesitate, the world won't."
And then, at the end of each night, when Maple stumbled back to his tavern like a broken drunk, he sang.
Not because he wanted to. But because he needed to.
The songs born from his voice now carried wounds. They had weight. They had anger. The audience listened. Wept. Threw coins. For the first time… they felt.
In the fourth week, Kael took him deeper into the tunnels. They passed sealed rooms with magical wards, where echoes of voices died before completing a sentence. One of these rooms was hexagonal, with symbols carved into the floor: Runes—ancient, worn, nearly erased by time.
Maple approached, his fingers hovering over the etchings.
"Are these… letters?"
"They're sounds," Kael said, tracing one with the back of his fingers. "The language of runic chanters. A forgotten art. Forbidden in many kingdoms."
"Why?"
"Because it respects no lineage, no blood. Anyone who grasps the rhythm, the form, the sound… can wield it. Even a bard."
Maple knelt, mesmerized.
"And what does it do?"
"Everything. If used correctly. Or nothing, if rushed. It can engrave power into a blade. Make a musical note thunder. Or… strip someone's voice forever."
Maple swallowed hard.
Kael knelt beside him, took out a piece of enchanted chalk, and drew a single rune on the floor. It glowed in pale gold—and for a moment, the air stilled. The silence became absolute.
Even Maple's heart stopped beating for a second.
"This is… terrifying."
"That's why it demands more than talent. It demands control. You'll learn. One stroke per week. Maybe less. If you err… you might die. Or go mad."
Maple stared at the chalk as if it were glass. He knew it was dangerous. But he also knew what he'd felt singing through pain.
Power. Truth. Resonance.
"I want to learn."
Kael merely nodded. But Maple saw something in his eyes—restrained expectation. Hope masked as severity.
Between the training and his rune studies (of which Maple could barely trace two lines without dizziness), his relationship with Zyri and Dregan began to crack.
"You've been training with him, haven't you?" Zyri asked one night, slamming an unstable mana essence vial onto the table.
"I have," Maple said, unreserved.
"And what's he teaching you? To become an assassin? Or a mute puppet like him?"
"He's teaching me not to die."
"You were never like this. The Maple I knew sang about drunk dragons, not hid in holes and came back bleeding."
"Maybe the Maple you knew was just waiting to choke on his own mediocrity."
Zyri fell silent. Dregan watched them with wide eyes, clutching his small belt of vials.
"He's just testing you, Maple. I know types like Kael. They shape you, but they break you too. Sometimes the pieces don't fit back together."
Maple didn't reply. Because deep down… he knew it too.