Pyrehold, Day Seven
It began as a whisper.
So soft Toy thought it was the torch behind him hissing. Or maybe his own heartbeat.
But then he heard the pitch shift.
A sound, distant and slow — like wind curling through snow-covered pines.
Then it grew, quietly, steadily, curling at the edge of his hearing like frost on skin.
A hum.
No words. No rhythm. Just pure, mournful resonance.
And he knew.
She was humming.
Toy froze where he sat. One hand rested on his knee. The other drifted near the hilt of his blade—not to draw it, but because his body still remembered what fear used to feel like.
The room seemed to notice it too.
The torches burned lower.
The floor, always warm from the warded fire below, began to chill. Just slightly. But it was there.
His breath clouded in front of his face for the first time since entering the Pyrehold.
And the humming continued.
Lara Frostborn didn't move. She sat as always—cross-legged, back straight, head slightly bowed. But her lips were parted now, shaping that quiet, haunting sound like it was all she had left to give the world.
Toy glanced at the sealed door.
Fenra's voice echoed in his memory. "If she starts humming, leave. Even if she begs you not to."
But she wasn't begging.
She was just… singing. Wordless. Like remembering something only she had lived through.
He didn't move.
He didn't leave.
Instead, he closed his eyes and listened.
There was no magic in it. Not that he could sense. The meteoritum collar still pulsed faintly around her throat. Still locked. Still cold.
But there was feeling. Gods, there was so much feeling in it. That sound wasn't just beautiful — it was ancient. Tired. Deep.
It felt like mourning.
When the humming stopped, Toy opened his eyes.
Lara wasn't watching him.
She looked at the wall. Her lips still parted slightly, but no sound left them now. Just silence again. Heavy. Expectant.
"You're not running," she said, quietly.
Toy breathed out. "No."
"Why?"
He shrugged slightly. "Didn't sound like a threat."
She turned to look at him then. Not fully — just enough to meet his eyes.
"No one's ever heard it that way before," she said. "Only as a warning."
He studied her face for a moment. "You hum when you're remembering something."
She didn't deny it.
Toy leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes again. "You miss it."
She was quiet.
"Whatever it was."
"I miss nothing," she said eventually, but it sounded like a lie. A small one. One told out of habit.
Toy didn't press.
Another silence settled.
Then, after a long moment, she asked, "Why aren't you afraid of me?"
This time, he didn't answer right away. He looked down at his hand. The old curse-mark across his skin flared slightly in the cold — a dull black glow, barely visible.
"I've met things," he said. "Older than time. Things that were never meant to see the light. They tried to break me. Failed."
"And you think that makes you immune?"
"No," Toy said. "But it means I don't flinch."
She blinked slowly. The humming had stirred something in both of them — not magic, not violence. Something else.
Recognition again.
She stood. Not quickly, not aggressively. Just stood — for the first time in days. Her chains clinked softly, and frost coiled beneath her feet.
She walked — two slow steps toward him.
Toy didn't move.
She knelt down, just a few feet away now.
"If I wanted to," she said, voice like a whisper of wind on a windowpane, "I could kill you before you screamed."
Toy met her gaze.
"You wouldn't hum first."
For the first time, her expression faltered.
Then, the smallest sound escaped her lips — not a laugh. But close. Like she had almost forgotten how.
She returned to her corner.
Toy watched her the whole way.
And this time, she let him.